Rating: R
Warnings: If you're under 15 years old, you shouldn't be here unless you've got an amazing level of maturity. The chapter contains: slash, het, and coarse language. If you don't like any of that, run away!
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters and The Story So Far are property of J. K. Rowling and Warner Brothers, and I have no intent of contesting that right, especially since both have done extremely well in creating and maintaining the spirit of said characters and story. In case either one happens upon this story one day: congratulations and please don't sue me! I mean no harm.
Pleas: Reviews would be nice; flames are also welcome. I will make a spirited attempt to reply to every single one, but I can't guarantee it. Flamers be warned: I will be very logical, pedantic and probably curious in my response. It can be a nuisance, but you'll have to learn to live with it.
Thanks To: ?, Draco Malfoy_N_Harry Potter, Prongs, Exis, Rilar Cray, Kimagure, electricbluecat, SilverScales, Darth Maligna, Andry (It's not stopping, I promise. There's far more to come yet.), Britt, Jessica (I'm not much of a Cho fan myself.), snowwy, Penelope-Z, Kcarke (I had to give Cho a major character flaw, and I don't think Harry could possibly voluntarily hook up with someone so involved with Divination—although that's not what he's telling me at the moment. I'm glad you liked the Quidditch game; those can be difficult to work out. As to Draco's attempt to catch Cho—I think he's becoming a bit nicer, but he is also aware that Harry likes her. He's refusing to tell me specifically why he tried.), twilights death, SoulSister, Karmastaya, chasati (I'm not certain, but I think the idea of the Order of the Phoenix as a resistance group is based at least partly in fact. I believe it's been confirmed in an interview with J. K. Rowling. Of course, this is just from my crazy memory. .;;;), Myr, Angel, S. Maldiva (Thank you for pointing out that Cho was a year ahead of Harry; I'd forgotten that. However, I think it's still possible that she and Hermione are in the same Arithmancy class: being mathematically-based and an optional subject, I don't think it would attract many students, so the two years may be amalgamated. I'm sure Hermione would have mentioned something if she'd gone up a year.), and Thalia.
All Torn Down: The Dragon's Lair
They're gathered in circles,
the lamps light their faces;
The crescent moon rocks in the sky
The poets of drumming
Keep heartbeats suspended:
The smoke swirls up and then it dies
Would you like my mask?
Would you like my mirror?
Cries the man in the shadowing hood:
you can look at yourself,
You can look at each other—
Or you can look at the face of your god.
...
The lessons are written
on parchments of paper;
They're carried by horse from the river Nile,
Says the shadowy voice.
In the firelight, the cobra
Is casting the flame a winsome smile.
Would you like my mask?
Would you like my mirror?
Cries the man in the shadowing hood:
you can look at yourself,
You can look at each other—
Or you can look at the face of your god.
—Marrakesh Night Market, Loreena McKennitt
It was the elation at having won. That must have been it. Nothing else could possibly explain why he was so stupid.
On landing, Draco had turned to see Harry walking onto the field with Weasley and Granger in tow. For the briefest moment, he had thought Potter was heading towards him, and had walked forward to meet with him. Harry brushed past without a second glance.
Draco stared after him, watching Harry speak to the Ravenclaw girl, Chang. She smiled at Potter as she spoke, and Draco could tell he was smiling back.
I tried to save her...
...But not even a thank you, he thought bitterly, watching them with a lonely pain catching in his chest. He was completely unaware of Pansy standing a few feet away, her eyes slits of suspicion as she transferred her gaze from Draco to the small group and back again.
Chang winced, muttered something he couldn't hear. She looked beyond Harry and her gaze locked with Draco's, shaking him out of his daze. He glared at her. She raised her eyebrows slightly and he swivelled on the ball of his foot and walked to the castle, taking long strides to carry himself away as quickly as possible.
Inside, Draco made a beeline for the Slytherin common room. He hardly ever ventured in there any more except to collect his books, but it should be safe now, with the rest of the House still outside.
Nevertheless, he wasted no time. Draco headed up to the dormitory and threw open his trunk. He fished out an inkpot, a quill, his wand and a piece of parchment. Clutching these items, he exited the common room.
Draco wandered down the corridors, letting his feet do the thinking. It didn't really matter where he ended up, as long as it was somewhere he wouldn't be disturbed. He descended a stairway. Halfway down, he turned and stepped through a yawning hole in the wall. It was dark down there; Draco found that he didn't really care. There was no one else here, that was the important thing. For a place so large, Hogwarts often seemed very crowded. Or perhaps that was just him.
Draco paused, looking around in the gloom. He couldn't tell very well in the light, but he didn't think he'd been in this part of the castle before.
'Lumos.'
His wand illuminated a tunnel that stretched like a gaping, toothless mouth ahead of him. Draco looked over his shoulder and saw the same, darkening stretch behind. He stood very still for a moment. This place was new. It smelled old and unused. It waited silently for him to choose his way.
Draco stepped forward, holding his wand over his head as he moved down the tunnel. He felt a very small stir of excitement, and his pace quickened. There was something down here; he could feel it. Almost as though it were waiting for him, calling to him.
It was a dead end. Draco stared at the wall before him, and sagged.
Typical.
Draco wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but the stone wall in front of him was like a slap in the face.
Nevertheless, the place was deserted. Draco sat against one of the walls to the side of the dead end and placed his wand on the ground. He uncapped the inkpot and set it down beside him. He lifted his quill and stared at the blank parchment for a second before dipping the quill's tip in the ink and beginning to trace soft lines over the page.
Draco was by no means an artist, but he knew this image very well. More than that, he knew it by heart. The features haunted him in his dreams and tortured him by day. Dark, unruly hair falling softly over a jagged scar; glasses shielding eyes that would be green if he had any colour. Lips that seemed to curve eternally into a smile, at least in his eyes.
Eventually Draco laid the quill down beside the inkpot. He reached for his wand and pressed its tip against the still-drying image.
'Cogito animo,' he whispered.
It was a charm he'd picked up from a few notes scribbled in the margin of a library book by some past student. The charm allowed the sketch to move, echoing Draco's thoughts as he'd drawn it. The inked image of Harry Potter smiled at him, whispered something that neither of them would ever hear. It lifted a hand and moved as though to reach out and touch Draco. But the lines of the drawing couldn't rise away from the parchment.
Draco watched the image's efforts to reach him impassively for a few minutes. Then his face grew hard.
'That's just cruel,' he muttered, and tore the page up. Draco covered his face with his hands, breathing deeply, fighting the lump that rose in his throat. It was pitiable, and he hated pitying himself. He hated himself for being so weak.
Draco got to his feet, his hands clenching into fists. His nails bit viciously into the flesh of his hands as he stared at the nearest physical obstruction in his life: the dead end. His fists slammed against the stone; the pain shooting up his arms was a relief. Draco punched the wall again and again, until he thought the bones in his hands would splinter. He didn't care. He realised that tears were streaming down his face, but at least he could tell himself it was because of the pain, not because he was weak. He slammed his body against the wall; kicked it, screamed at the unforgiving stones. It didn't matter. There was no one to hear.
Draco continued in this way until his body screamed for him to stop. He would be a mass of bruises, and worse, tomorrow. He should probably go to the Hospital Wing, say he fell down a flight of stairs...Draco caught his breath and turned. He leaned back—
—and fell to the ground. Draco gasped as the back of his head impacted with the floor and his vision wobbled wildly for an instant. He sat up, wincing, and stared at the extremely solid wall in front of him. His ankles disappeared into the stones.
Retracting his legs, Draco knelt and gingerly reached out. His fingertips slipped past the surface of the stone effortlessly. He pulled his hand back and turned it about, placing the back of his palm against the wall. It was cold and abrasive under his touch.
Backward one way, forward the other...
Draco's knees cracked as he stood. Turning slowly, he realised he was in, of all things, a bedroom. This was evidenced by the bunk in the far corner, covered with faded blankets. There was a wooden cabinet pushed against a wall beside the bed. A couple of very old, worn books and a bowl of tepid water were on top of it. A moth-eaten rug lay on the floor, embroidered with a pattern of entwining serpents. There was a desk on the opposite side of the room, adjacent to a blackened fireplace that had obviously fallen into disuse long ago.
The room was dimly illuminated by the dull glow of a red orb hovering over the desk. Draco recognised it as the manifestation of a perpetual lighting spell, and sucked in a breath. Those spells lasted for years; when they were first cast, the orb was incandescent. As its energy dropped, the orb's colour changed to yellow, to orange, and finally to red, before it was extinguished completely. How long had the spell been sitting there, uselessly burning away?
Draco crossed to the cabinet. He lifted one of the books: The Dark Ages--A History of the Rise and Fall of Dark Magic. He opened the book; the signature T. M. Riddle was inscribed on the inside cover. Draco thumbed through the pages, glancing at passages here and there. Someone, presumably the book's owner, had scribbled spidery notes in the margins; now so faded they were barely visible. Draco paused as his eye fell upon an inked sketch of a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth. He lifted his left hand and stared at the remnant of the Dark Mark on his wrist. The two images were almost exactly the same.
As he watched, the snake in the book flickered its tongue at him and curled backwards, slithering through the socket of the skull's left eye. As its tail disappeared into the socket, its head re-emerged at the skull's jaw.
'Cogito animatum,' Draco murmured to himself. He shuddered to think what the artist had been envisaging when he drew that. His gaze moved to a series of notes Riddle had made beside the picture, and strained to read the faint marks. He gave up after a moment and read the much clearer passage printed below the picture.
'Insignia Ater: Signifies the constancy of the dark side. The snake is never completely consumed by the skull; but is merely hidden. Its cycle represents that which dark risings are believed to follow: in evidence for a period of years and then hidden. Its movement indicates the rise and fall of dark rulers, and the spread of dark magic in the minds of men—during the hiding years the serpent contaminates the psyche, then is set free in the next uprising as it emerges through the jaw. Interestingly, serpents have been used as symbols of dark magic for centuries, even further back than Salazaar Slytherin himself. There was a time when children found to be Parselmouths were routinely killed, so fearful were people of the serpentine connection. Even now, the ability to speak Parseltongue places one under immediate and generalised suspicion...'
The rest of the page had been torn away. Draco put the book aside thoughtfully and looked at the second one. The title said it all: Parselmouths Through the Ages. It, too, was signed by T. M. Riddle.
Draco bent down and examined the cabinet. It was locked. He shrugged, crossed over to the desk, and yanked one of its drawers open. There was nothing of particular interest within; a few sheets of yellowed parchment, quills, inkpots; a couple of old textbooks. He opened the second drawer. There was only one thing in this one: a small, flat box covered with a deep red material, wedged in the corner. Draco retrieved the box and lifted the lid.
It was a music box. A tiny, haunting melody filled the silence as it opened. Like a Muggle music box, one of which Draco had seen in a London shop window when he was a small child, there was a dancer inside. Unlike a Muggle version, the dancer wasn't a mechanised doll: it was a beautifully detailed, if slightly transparent, image of an Arabian dancer, moving her body sensuously on a stage of soft burgundy satin. Her arms wove complex patterns in the air; her hips swayed rhythmically. She smiled up at Draco. He almost dropped the box. Her only teeth were a pair of incisors, and they began to lengthen as he continued to watch. The rest of her body, too, changed. The warm tones of her skin shifted to shades of green; her arms disappeared, her legs became an extension of her back...her hair became a scaled hood...and swaying before Draco's eyes was an impossible emerald cobra.
Its tongue flickered at him. It seemed to wink with green, sharp eyes. Suddenly the snake stiffened. Its image faded away and, lying vertically over the satin, was a small brass key. Unlike the dancer and the cobra, the key looked solid.
Draco's fingers closed over it hesitantly; he wasn't sure whether it would change again, or what to. The brass was reassuringly firm and cold beneath his touch and he took the key away, closing the box with a snap. With a smile he returned to the cabinet. The key slid easily into the lock, and when Draco turned it, there was a satisfying click and the doors swung open, creaking slightly.
The inside of the cabinet was a clutter of potions and elixirs. Some bottles were empty, others broken; their contents having seeped into the wooden bottom of the cupboard long ago. Draco's hand roved over the chaos, selecting jars at random. Love potions, Polyjuice, a few oddly named elixirs Draco didn't recognise, even some mild poisons. His hand stopped over a bottle labelled simply, 'Healing'. He unstoppered the bottle and allowed a few drops to fall on his knuckles, which were grazed and cut from hitting the wall.
Draco bit down sharply on his tongue to keep himself from crying out. His hand stung; it burned. He closed his eyes, feeling his skin writhe at the potion's touch. After a very long while the sensation stopped, and when Draco ventured to look at his hand again, the pale skin was unbroken. He tried a little of the potion on one of the bruises forming on his arm—the reaction was less extreme, and the injury vanished quickly. Soon Draco was rubbing the potion over his battered body, wincing as his skin writhed beneath the liquid but grimacing in triumph as the marks disappeared. There was a large area of his back where the Bludger had hit that cried out for the elixir, but Draco recapped the bottle and set it back in its place. He would worry about that later.
There was only one shelf in the cabinet, and apparently it was reserved for a single, large jar obscured by a square of black cloth. Curious, Draco pulled the cloth away. He hissed in fright.
Suspended in the jar was an emerald snake. Draco realised quickly that it was dead, but it hadn't seemed so as the cloth slipped away. There was an almost sentient gleam in its spiteful eyes; it looked poised to strike. Its mouth was wide open and its forked tongue leaped obscenely at him between the white fangs. Draco replaced the cloth quickly.
He glanced around the room. The dim red light of the orb struck the stones with shades of blood, and it struck him suddenly how sinister the place was. The books...the potions...the snakes...he would have to tell Dumbledore about them. And yet—
Draco hesitated over the next thought. He never slept in the Slytherin dormitory any more, but he'd found nowhere else to settle either. Snape had tried to convince him to return to the dormitory on several occasions, to no avail. It was better to sleep on cold stone than to wake to those memories, those faces. This room, if he kept it a secret, could be his...
Draco closed his eyes, thinking. Dumbledore should know. The snakes, the book on the Dark Arts—Draco was sure it was important. They shouldn't be here. Perhaps he could make a deal.
And perhaps not...
He ground his teeth together. Well, if not, why not? Why shouldn't he stay here? What could the old man do to stop him, anyway? He could come back, even without Dumbledore's permission. He needed the approval of no one to justify what he did. He was a—
Draco stopped. The word that normally would have slotted easily in at the end of that train of thought was 'Malfoy', or perhaps 'pureblood'. Those words now seemed as foul to him as 'Mudblood' was to Granger and her Weasel.
He reached out again to the clutter of potions, randomly choosing bottles. Love potions, poisons...Draco deliberately left the healing potion where it was. That could be useful to him later on. He left one or two of the poisons, too. He wasn't a fool; they could be as important as the healer one day. It occurred briefly to Draco that he could slip Harry a love potion, but only briefly. He'd eat his own right hand before stooping to that.
He needed something to carry it all in. He went back to the desk and pulled out the second drawer, leaving the music box on the desktop. Draco put the books in first, then the collection of potions. Finally he hefted the jar containing the preserved serpent on top, and lifted the drawer from the ground. He walked out through the wall.
'Accio wand,' he murmured, delving into the latent magic within him. His wand, still glowing from the luminescence spell, flew to his outstretched hand and Draco navigated his way back through the castle by its light. He hadn't realised how long he'd spent in the tunnel: night had fallen and most of the corridors were deserted. The few students Draco did see gave him odd looks, but must have concluded he was on some kind of errand for Snape. After several wrong turnings, Draco relocated the gargoyle blocking the way to the Headmaster's office. He stopped and realised that he had no idea what the new password was.
'Er...' Snape said 'Fizzing Whizzbee'. A sweet. Doesn't really surprise me... .'Chocolate frogs.' The gargoyle remained where it was. 'Sugar quills.' Nothing. 'Cockroach Clusters. Chocoballs. Pepper imps.' The gargoyle was resolutely still. 'Just as well, I always hated those. Every Flavour Beans—'
'Draco, I would never afflict my gargoyle with that particular password.'
Draco turned around as quickly as was possible without dropping anything. Dumbledore stood behind him, a look of mild amusement on his face. One of the old wizard's silvery brows rose as he looked at the objects Draco held.
'An interesting collection,' he noted.
'I found them,' Draco said. 'I found a room, hidden away. Where were you?'
'In the Great Hall, having dinner. Congratulations on your victory in Quidditch. The rest of your House was rather boisterous in their celebrations.'
'I'm glad I missed it, then.'
Dumbledore's beard twitched. 'I assume you came here to tell me about this room?'
'Yes.'
'Then follow me. Ice Mice.' The gargoyle bowed to Dumbledore before jumping aside.
'Why did it do that?' Draco asked as they headed up the stairway.
'I never really knew myself. I think that a past Headmaster must have taught it to bow when he entered, and it just became a habit.' Dumbledore opened the door and ushered Draco into his office. He pointed his wand at the fireplace. 'Incendio. Put the drawer on my desk over there.'
Draco did so. 'It must be a monotonous job,' he remarked.
'For the gargoyle? On the contrary, I believe it enjoys it. Most of the guardians in Hogwarts do; they wouldn't leave for all the galleons in Gringotts. Here, they can see the changing wizarding generations grow up. You would be amazed at some of the gossip I hear, particularly from the paintings.'
Draco was impressed. A spy network in his own castle...
'Now,' Dumbledore said, sitting at his desk and clasping his hands in front of him. 'About this room.'
'It's in the West Wing, near the Chimaera Hall. I found a tunnel, and the room is at the end of it—a bedroom.'
'And these things were inside it.'
'Yes, sir.'
Dumbledore lifted a hand to gesture for Draco to remove the cloth hiding the embalmed snake. Draco did so, slowly, watching the Headmaster's expression carefully. Dumbledore regarded the rigid snarl blandly for a lengthy few minutes before murmuring, 'It appears that Rubeus wasn't the only one who liked to keep dangerous pets. How interesting. Show me the other jars, please.'
Draco set the bottles out before Dumbledore. The Headmaster sorted through them, pushing some to the side as he muttered, 'Confiscated...project...confiscated...' to himself.
The result was two groups, one consisting prominently of love potions, minor hexing ointments and class experiments. The remaining bottles in front of Dumbledore were for the most part poisons and curse potions; there was one containing Polyjuice.
'Fascinating,' Dumbledore said. 'Is there anything else?'
Draco showed him the two books. Dumbledore opened The Dark Ages and noted the signature on the inside cover. 'Ah. As I suspected. Young Mr Riddle appears again.'
'Someone you know, sir?'
Dumbledore looked up. 'Tom Marvolo Riddle was a student at Hogwarts a little over fifty years ago.'
'Fifty years...' Draco's expression shifted to one of intense concentration. He drew a sharp breath. 'You mean the first time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, don't you...'
'Quite so. At the time, Tom Riddle was recognised as the student who caught the Heir of Slytherin. However, it later became apparent that he—'
'—was the Heir himself,' Draco concluded. 'And he set someone up to take the fall for him.'
'Yes.'
Draco's face became haggard. 'I remember the second time it was opened. Since the first attacks I wanted to know who was behind it—so I could help them. I would write to my father every week asking who it was, and every week he failed to give me a straight answer. But I was certain he knew.' He laughed bitterly. 'Voldemort should have tried to recruit me then. I was such a pureblood fanatic. This Riddle person sounds like someone he would love, too.'
'Draco,' Dumbledore said quite calmly. 'Riddle is Voldemort.'
All expression bar the shocked 'o' of his mouth vanished from Draco's face. Eventually his jaw, noting the absence of any cerebral input, closed of its own accord. It opened again a second later to release a strangled sound from his throat.
Dumbledore didn't seem at all perturbed by Draco's reaction. 'Tom was an excellent student. Prefect, Head Boy...the attacks occurred in his fifth year. Even when I found out that he was behind them, I believed he was being controlled by an outside force. I never thought the Dark Arts corrupted him until after his graduation. It would seem I was wrong.' The Headmaster stroked his beard thoughtfully. 'Tom tried very hard to be allowed to spend the Christmas holidays here that year. The Headmaster at the time forbade him to stay, but I don't recall seeing him on the train when the holidays came. Or for the holidays during the two years afterward, in fact.' He sighed. 'If I didn't know what he's become, I might pity the boy. He spent the holidays hiding in that room rather than return to the orphanage...'
'Orphanage?'
Dumbledore nodded. 'Tom Riddle was raised in a Muggle orphanage. His mother died giving birth to him, you see.'
'What about his father?'
'He threw Tom's mother out when she told him she was a witch.'
'Voldemort is a Muggle-born?'
'He was never proud of the fact, even as a child. He hated his father with a passion.'
'So all of this—the uprisings—are just his personal vendetta?'
'To a certain extent.'
Draco leaned against the desk for support. 'While we're being so talkative, is there anything else I've missed in the past four years? Anything I might need to know?'
Dumbledore seemed to consider this. 'I don't think so, no. I'll let you know if I recall something, though.'
'Wonderful.'
'Thank you for showing me this. It may help us greatly.'
Draco nodded. 'There was something else...I've forgotten...' He thought for a few seconds and snapped his fingers. 'The room! Professor, can I have it?'
Dumbledore's face was blank. 'I beg your pardon?'
'The room—Riddle's room—you know I don't sleep in the Slytherin common room any more, don't you?'
The twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes was ironic. 'I had asked Severus to speak to you about that.'
'He did. Several times, but I'm not spending a night in there again. Will you let me use this room instead?'
Dumbledore considered him gravely. Eventually he said, 'Very well. Collect your trunk from the common room tonight.'
Draco smiled. 'Thank you, Professor.'
'You are more than welcome. I think you should hurry, though. Most of the tables were full when I left and the Slytherins looked ready to stay up all night, but it is getting late...'
Draco needed no further impetus. He virtually flew from the room. He didn't notice the shadows stir behind him as he raced through the corridors, or the figure who followed.
Draco hummed the tune from the music box as he dragged his trunk from the dormitory. He paused when he reached the still-empty common room, resting the box on the floor.
'Hello, Draco.'
He spun about, hitting his heel against the trunk. 'Pansy.'
She stood at the common room's entrance, staring at him and then down at his trunk. 'What are you doing?'
'I have somewhere else to go.'
Pansy's eyes narrowed. 'What's going on?'
'What are you talking about?'
'Don't try to avoid me,' she snapped. 'What's happened? You're not yourself any more.' The suspicion in Pansy's eyes deepened. 'You've been spending a lot of time around Potter and his friends lately.'
Draco sighed. 'Pansy, my mission is to watch him—'
'I don't believe you. You're hiding something. What, Draco? I saw you staring at their little group after the match today. You were staring at the Ravenclaw, that Chinese girl—'
'Cho Chang,' Draco said quietly.
'Hah! Been taking notice of her, have you? Don't tell me she's got you to switch sides with her little smiles. For God's sake, Draco, I'm not much but at least keep some respect for tradition!'
Draco stared at her, unbelieving. 'Pansy,' he said firmly. 'I wouldn't touch Chang with a ten foot staff.'
'Then who is it? Have you got your eye on Granger? That's even worse, she's a mudblood, and she's taken!'
'I'm not slavering after any Gryffindor girl!' Draco yelled. Pansy jumped at his vehemence and he lowered his voice. 'And I haven't changed sides, either.'
'I still don't believe you,' she said, more subdued now. 'There's something wrong. I want to know what it is.'
'Pansy—'
'Do you realise that I could tell your father? One owl, Draco, that's all it takes.'
Draco tried to keep a calm face through the stab of panic he felt. 'Don't bother, Pansy. All you'd be telling him is hysterical nonsense.'
'Wait a second,' she hissed. 'You slit your wrists, didn't you? They saw the Mark. Did they coerce you into this?'
'Pansy, stop it. You sound like some deranged Muggle.' That pulled her up. 'I'm still with Voldemort. Understand? Yes, they've seen the Mark. Dumbledore interrogated me. They think I'm spying for them now.' He smirked. This was a lie he could work with. 'Actually, it's all turned out rather well. I can get as close to Potter as I like—' A bitter voice in his mind jeered at him; '—and they don't suspect a thing. Of course, there are other perks.'
He picked up his trunk and headed for the entrance.
'Such as?'
'No longer having to put up with inane, hysterical nuisances every time I want to get near a fire.'
He left her staring after him in wounded shock.
Draco didn't pause again until he reached the end of the tunnel. Smiling to himself, he turned and heaved the trunk backwards through the wall. He pushed the chest alongside the cabinet and threw it open. Finally, a place of his own.
He began to sort through the items in the trunk, placing them haphazardly in the cabinet. Parchment, quills, inkpots and books found themselves deposited on the desk. His robes could stay in the trunk. Draco's hand hovered briefly over a black wooden box his father had given him at the end of the holidays. It was full of tools for the Dark Arts; instruments to help him in whatever missions Voldemort chose to give him. It was sorely tempting to throw the box in the fireplace and let it burn. But if he needed them later...
Draco shoved the box carelessly in the back of the cabinet, hiding it behind the rest of his belongings. If he needed it, the box was there. However, he didn't want to know about it until then.
Finished, Draco sat back on his haunches, stretching. A sudden spasm of pain coursed over his back, reminding Draco that there was one injury he hadn't yet taken care of. He reached once more for the Healing bottle.
After a couple of minutes spent gritting his teeth against the pain of the potion's touch, Draco stoppered the bottle and reached for his wand. He pointed it at the fireplace. 'Incendio.' In a second the room was painted with the light of leaping flames. Draco turned to the orb on the desk. 'Finite Incantatem.' The orb dissipated with a thankful hiss.
Draco sat on the rug, idly watching the fire dance. He smiled again. It didn't matter that this had once been Voldemort's hiding place. It was his now, and it was secret. No one knew he was here. He could do anything, and no one would know, or try to stop him. No one could find him...or hurt him...
Draco stopped that thought right there. There were too many journeys that train could make, none of which he wanted to explore. This good mood was too rare and precious a thing to be destroyed so quickly. Draco watched the fire burn and dwindle away, until the spell wore out. In the dark, he felt his way around until he located the bed, and collapsed between the sheets.
Much later, Draco's eyes flickered open and he stared into the thick black of the night. There was some niggling thought, something important he'd nearly forgotten...
...One week until the Death Eater gathering...
Damn.
That thought managed to cloud the rest of Draco's week. He would drift into troubled daydreams at his desk, staring blankly around the room as countless scenarios played themselves out in his mind. Invariably he ended up staring at Harry, and would shake himself and look back at the teacher until the next scene took hold. Between classes, Draco paced aimlessly through the castle, his thoughts chasing each other around his head. What could the Dark Lord want? Were meetings like this going to become a normal occurrence? Perhaps he'd been stupid to think he could avoid the Death Eaters here at school; there were enough of them there. If secret meetings were what Voldemort had planned to keep his young adherents in line, though, why wait until now to call one? Term was almost over. So why...?
It was in this frame of mind that Draco bumped into Cho Chang on Sunday morning. He flinched back as though she'd stung him. The tarot pack she was carrying slipped from her hand and hit the floor. Cards spilled over Draco's feet and he bent down, gathering them up and shoving them roughly back into the box. He handed it back to her, his fingers slipping hurriedly from the box as her hand closed over it, too near for comfort. Chang smiled.
'Thank you,' she said.
Draco glared at her and walked on. He saw Pansy glaring at him further up the corridor, and he stared back, shaking his head slightly. She turned, her cheeks flushing an angry crimson, and prowled away.
At half-past eleven that night, Draco met with Snape outside the Potions classroom. Without exchanging a word, they made their way out of the castle and down to Hogsmeade. Neither caught sight of another soul until they made out a cluster of masked and hooded figures just outside of the village, illuminated by the light emanating from the tips of their wands.
As Draco drew closer, he found he could identify some of the figures by their posture. His father was there, but his eyes were impassive when his gaze rested on Draco, moving quickly on as though he weren't really there. Draco felt a brief chill. He remembered the letter: '...I won't be there to save you any more. You're a man now...'
Well, fine. If that was the way it was going to be, so be it. It didn't matter anyway; he didn't need his father's acknowledgment any more. He never should have.
Not all of the younger Death Eaters had made it, and Draco felt a small stir of triumph. Crabbe, Goyle and Bulstrode were all missing, as were several Hufflepuffs. Most of the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor recruits had made it past the Hogwarts staff, but there were fewer of them.
Voldemort was an icy presence glaring at them all. He regarded most of the gathering with contempt, and was obviously displeased with the turnout.
'Snape,' he snapped, his voice cracking with the frost it carried. 'Where are the rest?'
Snape bowed to him. 'Dumbledore's cohorts watch the students closely, my lord. Most likely they were intercepted trying to make their way out here. It cannot be helped. Rest assured that I will pass your messages on to them.'
'See that you do.' The Dark Lord's eyes narrowed. 'How is it that you failed to help them?'
'I cannot afford to come under suspicion in the castle, lord. McGonagall already keeps close watch on me with those damn cat's eyes of hers.'
Voldemort's mouth curved into a tight smile that gave up halfway to his eyes. 'Very well. Your reports of late have been most informative...unlike those first few you sent me at the beginning of the year.'
'There was precious little to report initially. I had to work to regain Dumbledore's trust, as well. As I told you, I couldn't rejoin you immediately on your resurrection without being caught. However, my absence shortly afterward didn't go unnoticed by the Muggle-lover.'
Voldemort waved a thin hand, dismissing him. 'I am not interested in tedious explanations, Snape. I called this meeting for a reason, and it was not to hear the sound of your voice.'
Voldemort looked around at the students gathered. 'Holidays soon, isn't it?' he purred. 'You must all be so glad to be going home for Christmas, to finally be getting away from the Squibs, the mudbloods and Muggle-lovers in that forsaken school.' There was fervent nodding among the younger group. Draco joined in for the look of the thing. 'Yet, as in all great struggles, there must always be sacrifice. Some of you will have to remain at Hogwarts to watch over the Boy and his friends.' Faces fell. Voldemort laughed. 'Not all of you, of course. Only a few, carefully selected...'
Voldemort pointed at a Gryffindor, Berald, and then at Draco. 'You three must stay behind. Keep your eyes open. Remember, one slip and you will be no more. I was lenient once and now know the price. I have no desire to pay it again.' He turned to Snape. 'Follow Dumbledore's every move from now on. I want to know exactly what he is doing, why and when. Your correspondence is going to become extremely important.'
Snape bowed again. 'I am honoured.'
'Don't be. If information isn't correct, it's your head on my platter. Lucius?'
'Yes, lord?'
'What is the situation at the Ministry?'
'Tense. Dumbledore is drawing the lines as well, and that fool Fudge refuses to believe that you have returned. I haven't pressed the issue as Dumbledore tried to, and Fudge now believes him to be insane--this could work to our advantage later—'
'I know all this, Malfoy,' Voldemort said irritably. 'Get on with it.'
'Largely we are relying on informants and sympathisers who were with us last time, but weren't caught. I think that some are double dealing for Dumbledore as well, however.'
'Any names? Proof?'
'Not as yet.'
'Then let them be. I suppose that no one can be rallied to our side?'
'After what happened thirteen years ago? It will take time, my lord. I know of some Ministers who hold back only because they have not yet seen evidence that you can win this time.'
'Cowards and fools!' the Dark Lord hissed in fury.
'But useful allies nevertheless.'
'A fact of which I am extremely aware,' Voldemort snapped.
'Forgive me, lord.'
Voldemort drew in a breath, the air rattling down his throat. His burning eyes glinted. 'Azkaban is going to be more difficult to take than I had hoped. It may take several months more.' His face broke into a depraved smile. 'When we have it, however...' He left the sentence hanging in the minds of the Death Eaters, who added their own twisted endings. 'The giants look as though they are going to side with the Muggle-lover this time. That's all right. They aren't necessary; merely a convenience.'
Draco went cold at the clinical tone in his voice. He thought of Hagrid. Draco disliked the half-giant, but he never considered him simply an obstacle; a...thing without mind or heart. He shivered.
'These coming weeks, the rebellion shall begin in earnest. I have sent agents to Azkaban who are trying to break in as we speak. Two days after Christmas, we will strike at the London Underground. The Muggles will believe it to be nothing more than a train accident. Aside from the four of you remaining at the Hogwarts, you are all to be there. I trust you know the spells required?' Hoods bobbed in acknowledgment. 'Good, good.' There was a maniacal gleam in the Dark Lord's eye. 'Then we shall begin well. And this time, we will succeed. The world shall be purged of Muggle scum!'
A murmur of excitement rippled through the group. The older Death Eaters straightened proudly; the younger ones whispered to one another. Draco noticed that a couple of figures, including a few he assumed to be Gryffindor, remained silent. Voldemort allowed the murmuring to grow for a moment before he quelled it.
'We will meet on the day at King's Cross Station. If you all do your jobs properly, Platform Nine and Three Quarters will be destroyed—leaving the mudbloods stranded outside of the protection of their dear saviour Dumbledore.' A stifling hush settled, speaking more than words could. Draco could feel the emotions teeming in the air—anticipation, awe and respect, fear... 'Until that day, continue your lives and your tasks. Let no one, no one, know that you were out of the castle tonight. Do not speak of this meeting at all. So, until we meet again—' There was a decidedly cruel twist to the Dark Lord's smile, '—Merry Christmas to one and all. Except for the Muggles.'
Voldemort drew himself up to his full height and Disapparated with a faint pop. Slowly, the older Death Eaters began to follow suit. A few turned to their children and spoke quietly with them before disappearing.
It was almost surreal to watch, Draco thought: the sinister men in shadowy, hooded robes and bearing the Dark Mark, asking their sons and daughters how school was going; were they doing well in their exams; how were their friends? Their mothers missed them, they were all looking forward to going back home for the holidays.
Lucius didn't even bother to glance at his son before he Disapparated. Draco stared at the spot where he had been standing.
Thanks, Father. Does Mother miss me?
The other students began to head back to Hogwarts in small groups, some in heavy silence and others chattering quietly to each other; heedless of Voldemort's words. Draco saw that Snape hadn't moved since the Dark Lord left, and waited for him. Snape remained still until the rest were out of sight. Then his mouth opened, and he began to swear. He began quietly at first, building slowly to a violent crescendo that would have given any wizard awake in Hogsmeade a heart attack. Draco was certain that some of the words he used were foreign.
'I understand.'
Snape let fly with a few more choice phrases. 'No, I don't think you do. This is sooner, much sooner than we had expected. No one dreamed that he would attack until he'd either gained or lost Azkaban. And he's not even worried about the giants...!' Snape laughed sardonically. 'Oh, this is perfect. Just brilliant. He must still suspect something.'
'What makes you say that?'
Snape glared fiercely at the ground. 'When we tell Dumbledore about this, he will have two options. He can do nothing—which will result in the deaths of hundreds of wizards and Muggles. Or he can defend against the attack, which will let Voldemort know that someone who was here tonight is spying for Dumbledore. It will only be a matter of time before he works out who.'
Draco's mouth went dry. 'What happens then?'
'Exactly what you're thinking. And when we're gone, Dumbledore will have no way to anticipate Voldemort's movements. But Voldemort will still have his spies.'
'Would we lose the war?'
'I don't know. It would be difficult. Longer, maybe. More people would die, that's certain.'
'Are we really so important?'
Snape caught the wistful note in Draco's voice. 'At the moment, while everything is still cloak-and-dagger, we are. When it comes down to open fighting, who knows?' He sighed. 'We had better get back to the castle. Dumbledore will have to call another meeting of the Order.'
They took the route the rest of the group had followed in silence, but now the quiet was laced with worry. Snape was scowling grimly. Draco kept thinking of the way Lucius had looked at him. His father had barely seemed to recognise him. Draco's mouth became filled with a bitter taste. What was expected of him? What more did he have to go through for his father to acknowledge him as an equal?
Draco blinked. What did it matter any more, anyway? He didn't care what Lucius thought of him.
'Professor...' he murmured as they entered the castle. His voice was exceeding soft, but it was enough to jerk Snape from his sour reverie. 'When you first came to Hogwarts...when you were a student here...'
'Yes, Draco?'
'Why did the Hat choose you for Slytherin? What was your ambition?'
Snape smiled, a little sadly, Draco thought. 'I wanted to be great. I didn't very much care what I was great at.'
Draco stared along the torch-lit passage ahead of him, one foot scuffing absently against the floor. He bit his lip. 'I wanted to be just like my father.' He laughed; a coarse chuckle that held very little humour. 'I really don't belong in that common room any more, do I? I don't belong anywhere.'
Snape stared at him, eyes unreadable. He shook his head slightly. 'Don't say that. You just haven't worked out where you do belong yet.' Snape began to walk up the passage. 'Goodnight, Draco.'
'Good night, Professor.'
Draco remained staring after his teacher a moment, wondering what that odd gleam in his eye had meant. Peeves drifted through the wall, making him jump.
'Aw,' the poltergeist nattered at him maniacally. 'Ickle Ferret up all late? Should call Filch, I should.' Peeves levitated a suit of armour into the air and began to dance with it, jangling the metal arms so loudly Filch probably would hear and come running. Draco began to back away, aware of Peeves's fear of the Bloody Baron. He would probably have some exceptionally nasty tricks up his silvery sleeve for a lone Slytherin out at night.
'Been having secret midnight meetings, have you?' the ghost said in a singsong voice. He began to chant, 'Who'sda girl, who'sda girl, who'sda girl...?' as he waltzed.
'No girl,' Draco muttered, and ran for the safety of his lair.