Through the Dragon's Eyes
A story in four parts
ANTI-LAWYER HEX: I solemnly swear that I do not own the Harry Potter characters, that I am only borrowing them from J.K. Rowling for my own heinous experiments and that I fully intend to return them to her, more or less intact, when I have finished. Lawyerus explodi!
FOUR
"From that point on, Lucius Malfoy was basically my enemy," Malfoy told me with a heavy sigh. Though he said it matter-of-factly, his eyes held in them a haunted appearance that indicated he was feeling more than he was letting on.
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the scratching sound of the pen scribbling of its own accord on the notepad. I had bewitched it to record our conversation, so that I might devote my full attention to the interview. Malfoy sat rigidly, his back to the headboard, resting his arm on one raised knee and staring into the distance. There was nothing in his attitude to suggest the arrogance of his youth, only great weariness and quiet suffering. Although I didn't want to force him to relive painful memories, my story required it, and I consoled myself with the thought that we were almost through, and that he would be able to resume imbibing of the forgetfulness he found at the tavern.
Finally, as the pen paused, hovering expectantly over the notepad, I broke the silence. "What about your mother?"
He shook his head. "She sided with him," he responded, a trace of bitterness in his voice. "Only later did I find out why. At the time, though, it didn't matter; I knew only that my parents had turned against me and my home suddenly wasn't one anymore."
"What did you do?"
"I packed my bags. My father may not have wanted to use that Portkey, but I meant to."
I stared at him, amazed. "You ran away to Iceland?"
"Never had the chance," he replied, shaking his head again. "The Aurors showed up in force that night, about ten of them, and they brought Alastor Moody with them."
"Get out of there!" the mirror image of Blaise urged. After regaining his composure, Draco had contacted his friend and recounted, in a reasonably steady voice, the events of the afternoon. His friend was gratifyingly outraged and sympathetic. "The man's mad," he fumed, "and you don't want to be there when the Aurors come for him."
"I know," Draco said with a nod at the mirror as he dragged his trunk from its place in the closet, dropping it with a thud at the foot of his bed. "I'll take the Portkey in Ravenglass." He felt a twinge of anxiety at the thought of traveling all the way to Iceland on his own, but he brushed it aside; he was not going to remain here.
"You could stay here," Blaise said. "I don't think my parents will mind."
"Thanks," Draco said shortly, opening the trunk and piling clothes inside of it. "But first I have to get there. And as the only Portkey close by leads to Iceland--"
"What about the Knight Bus?" his friend pointed out.
"Oh, right," said Draco. He'd completely forgotten about the bus, so focused was he on the subject of Portkeys. Suddenly, Iceland no longer had to be an alternative; he could travel by bus to Blaise's house and wait for the Daily Prophet to triumphantly declare the capture--or death--of his father. The problem was money; Draco had never before been conscious of it, but he only had a little and he could not ask his parents for more. "What does it cost, d'you reckon?"
Blaise opened his mouth to reply, but no sound came out. Instead, the surface of the mirror began to ripple outward from the center, as if a large rock had been tossed into a silver pool, subsiding afer a few moments. The image of his friend was gone, replaced by the usual reflection of his room.
"What happened?" Draco demanded of the mirror, scrambling over to it.
"Someone's severed the connection," his reflection replied, looking worried. At that moment, there was a loud bang from outside, as if a small bomb had gone off, accompanied by a muffled shout.
"Aurors!" Draco breathed, abandoning the mirror, flinging open the bedroom door and rushing to the landing. The front door stood open, and through it he could see his father on the porch outside, wand burning brightly in the swiftly-gathering darkness. The rain continued to fall heavily on the grounds beyond, occasionally blown through the open doorway by a sudden gust of wind. It looked as though his father had attacked someone--but no, for his father's stance was cool, almost relaxed, rather than defiant.
Over the pounding of his heart, Draco heard his father shout, "Let that be a lesson to you, Dawlish! No one may enter the grounds without an invitation."
"Surrender, Malfoy!" came the answering cry in a gruff voice that could only be Mad-Eye Moody's. Draco winced unconsciously as he heard it; the sound still recalled the unpleasant memory of helplessly bouncing on a hard stone floor while a crowd of students looked on and laughed. "We'll break through eventually!"
"By all means, try," his father drawled. "In the time it will take you to disable every defense, I will have had a clear shot at each and every one of you." The elder Malfoy emphasized these last words with several jabs of his wand.
There was no response. Draco imagined the Aurors huddled together in the rain, hurriedly discussing their best course of action; it certainly seemed as if Lucius Malfoy had them outmatched. After a moment, his father turned and reentered the house, a look of disdain on his face, shutting out the wind and rain as he closed the front door. Draco retreated into the hall so as to remain unseen.
"Well?" he heard his mother ask.
"They have surrounded the manor," his father said scornfully. "They cannot enter, so they wait for me to come out."
It's a siege, Draco realized, a sense of foreboding growing in the pit of his stomach as he returned to his room. They mean to starve us out. Would the elder Malfoy try to fight through the waiting Aurors when their supplies started to run low? Or would he simply allow them all to starve rather than surrender? The last thought made Draco's insides cold, for it seemed like the course his father would choose, especially after their earlier dispute.
He threw himself onto the bed, resting his head on a pillow and watching the raindrops trickle down the window. The Aurors wouldn't just wait, he told himself; it wasn't in their natures. They would find a way in sooner or later.
By the seventh day, Draco was less certain. Only once, on the second day, had their captors tried anything, and that was to send an Auror on a broomstick over the walls. A sudden stiff breeze had sprung up, sending the Auror flying backward, across the road, and into the field beyond. After that, the Ministry wizards seemed content to let his father make the first move, stationing themselves at intervals around the perimiter of the wall and changing positions every hour.
Draco's stomach growled fitfully as he watched the Aurors from his window; he had not eaten since midnight, when he snuck into the kitchen to find the larder depressingly bare, save for a few jars of Odham's Olde Fashioned Eel Soup (A Family Favourite Since 1490) and a tin of biscuits. He'd passed on the soup and devoured the biscuits, but they were hardly satisfying and he longed for something more substantial, anything that would quell the ache in his stomach. Even the eel soup was starting to sound appealing.
So this is what it's like to be poor and hungry, he thought miserably, staring out at the gathering dusk. Through the glass, he could see the guards changing position; the Auror beyond the wall below walking off as one bearing a torch took up her place, leaning idly against a tree facing the side of the house, apparently settling in for a long night.
Quite suddenly, and seemingly from nowhere, a jet of red light struck the replacement Auror directly in the back, momentarily bathing him with a crimson aura. Draco could see the shock and surprise register on his face even as he crumpled to the ground, revealing a shadowy figure who was already sprinting away toward the front of the house, wand outstretched. Draco tore out of his room and down the stairs, even as he heard shouts and cries from the gate, followed by the occasional sizzle of a wand blast as it cut through the air. He threw open the front door and stopped cold, every muscle in his body paralyzed with surprise and fear as he came face-to-face with the last person he expected to come to their rescue.
"Fetch your father," Lord Voldemort said, his high, chilling voice seeming to freeze Draco's very blood. His scarlet eyes bored straight into Draco as if seeing directly into the depths of his soul, his piercing gaze summoning all of Draco's terror from the darkest recesses of his mind and making it pale in comparison. "Now."
Nodding dumbly, Draco backed away, afraid to turn around lest something more horrible than the pale, gaunt figure now standing in the doorway manifest itself when he looked again. He had not gone far when his parents, robed in black, strode into the entrance hall, stopping a respectful distance from the Dark Lord, who had crossed the threshold into the house, and bowing low.
"We are honored by your presence, Master," his father intoned.
"I wondered why you did come directly to me after you escaped Azkaban, Lucius," Lord Voldemort said softly. "I see now the reason."
His father straightened. "Forgive me, master; I would have come had I been able."
"No matter," Lord Voldemort said dismissively. "Your escape kept the Ministry occupied long enough to effect the liberation of my remaining Death Eaters. You have unwittingly done a service to your fellows."
"Thank you, my lord," his father murmured.
"Narcissa," Voldemort said, turning his baleful gaze on Draco's mother, who also straightened. "What business have you with Lord Voldemort tonight?"
"I have heard, my lord, that tonight you intend to capture and finally destroy the boy, Harry Potter. I request permission to bear witness to this momentous event."
"I see," Voldemort replied slowly. "The boy's death will not be a public event, Narcissa, nor one that any but a Death Eater may witness." He eyed her unblinkingly. "Would you, then, be counted among my servants? Would you be willing to die if I require it?"
"I would, my lord," said his mother, bowing again.
Draco, who had been edging slowly toward the stairs, now stopped, stunned. His father was one thing, but his mother--his mother could not cross over to Lord Voldemort--she was all he had left! Swallowing his fear, he stepped forward, intending to interfere, wanting to put a stop to the madness, but Voldemort, as if aware of Draco's thoughts, fixed him with his horrible gaze and Draco's muscles seized with renewed terror.
"My lord, if I may," his father spoke up, "I can vouch for her devotion to our cause."
"Devotion is not enough, Lucius," the Dark Lord replied. "Lord Voldemort requires actions, not merely sentiments. If you desire to be my servant," he continued, turning again to Draco's mother, "you must prove such a desire with both thought and deed. You can no longer be a passive spectator of your husband's exploits but must join with him, and others, in carrying out my orders."
"I understand, master," she answered softly.
"No!" Draco shouted, darting forward, his fear of losing his mother overpowering his fear of Voldemort. In one swift motion, Lucius Malfoy grabbed hold of his left arm, twisting it sharply behind his back and forcing him to the ground.
Voldemort's eyes glinted as he approached Draco, a cold, cruel smile on his face. "Do you think to save your mother from me?" he asked. "She is already mine."
"He is a fool and a coward, master," his father snapped, twisting Draco's arm further and causing his son to gasp in pain. "Nothing more."
"Perhaps." Voldemort reached out a long, bony finger and rested it underneath Draco's chin, studying his face for a moment. Draco flinched at the contact; Voldemort's finger was abnormally cold to the touch. "There is still something of you in him, Lucius, that may yet emerge," the Dark Lord remarked. "He may yet prove worthy."
"As you say, master," his father murmured, but his hold on Draco's arm did not relax.
Voldemort held Draco's face a moment longer before releasing it, turning back to his mother. "Hold out your arm," he instructed. She obediently stretched her arm toward the Dark Lord, who took it at the wrist, sliding back the sleeve of her robe to expose her forearm. He then touched a skeletal forefinger to her bare skin, and there was a bright flash of light accompanied by a sizzling sound and a puff of smoke. His mother winced, but did not cry out. Draco struggled desperately against his father's unyielding grip on his arm, succeeding only in causing another stabbing pain to shoot through it.
"You are now bound to me by the Dark Mark," Voldemort told her. "The rewards for faithful service are many. The punishment for failure is pain. The price of treachery," he added in a dangerous whisper, "is death."
"I understand, master."
Voldemort nodded once. "Come, then," he said. "We have spent enough time here, and there is another matter that I must attend to this night." He turned with a swish of his dark robes, walking toward the door.
"What of the boy, my lord?"
"Leave him," Voldemort called over his shoulder. "Well done, Bella," he said to someone as he passed outside. Lucius Malfoy released his iron grip on his son, stepping over him and holding out one gloved hand to his wife. She took it and together they exited into the night, sealing the door behind them.
Clutching his throbbing left arm, his vision blurred, Draco stumbled over to the door and attempted to wrench it open, but it would not budge. He hammered against the wood with his good arm, letting out a cry of mingled frustration and despair. Everything had gone horrifyingly wrong, he'd lost everything and been unable to stop it--no, he corrected himself, turning his back on the recalcitrant door and sinking to the floor, he had been too terrified to stop it, paralyzed by fear. Even Potter had been able to face Lord Voldemort--not just once, but several times--whereas he, a Malfoy, had quailed under the Dark Lord's terrible gaze. His father was right: he was a coward, unworthy of the Malfoy name.
Maybe that's why he's never paid attention to me, Draco thought, hot tears stinging the corners of his eyes, maybe he could always see the taint of fear. And Harry, who never showed any fear, no matter what rumors Draco had started about him, who time after time faced down danger and emerged victorious--wasn't Harry the focus of Lucius Malfoy's every thought since his reemergence some seven years ago?
"I have heard rumors," Lucius Malfoy had said over Draco's first holiday from Hogwarts, "that Harry Potter has come out of hiding."
"Yes," Draco sneered, "but he's just a common boy, if you ask me. There's nothing special about him."
"Don't be so certain," the elder Malfoy had replied. "If he's anything like his misguided father, he will undoubtedly prove to be a nuisance before the end. He bears watching, Draco."
Even then, his father's attention was already focused on Harry Potter. Jealous, Draco had attempted to bring Potter down, to rob him of whatever qualities his father found interesting, to shift Lucius Malfoy's focus to his own son, but all in vain. With every victory, Harry Potter consumed more and more of his father's time, particularly after he tricked Lucius Malfoy out of his house elf and again when he made a near-miraculous escape from Lord Voldemort in the graveyard. Now, at the end, his mother had also taken an interest in Harry; the hungry look on her pale face as she asked Voldemort for permission to witness Harry's death had not escaped Draco.
Draco brushed away the tears, which had begun to overflow his eyes, and chuckled bitterly. It was ironic: Harry Potter, who had no parents, no family, had unintentionally claimed his. In his younger days, Draco supposed he might feel jealous, but after recent events, Harry was welcome to them. He sighed heavily, resignedly, a kind of numbness descending slowly upon him, smothering his emotions. Whatever happened, his parents were lost to him. If Harry prevailed, the Death Eaters would be rounded up and cast into Azkaban; if Voldemort was the victor, they would be too busy in the Death Eaters' subsequent campaign of terror to notice him. The thought was both freeing and frightening; on the one hand, he no longer had to worry about their approval or disapproval, but on the other, he would now have to look after himself.
Pushing himself to his feet, the blanket over his emotions sapping his energy, Draco wearily began to climb the stairs, intending to finish packing and find a way out of the manor house. He would take the Knight Bus into London, or maybe to Blaise's house, if Blaise's parents would let him stay for a few days. He had only made it halfway upstairs before there was a sudden brilliant blue flash, a whooshing noise like the sound of air being suddenly forced out of place, and Blaise Zabini himself materialized in the entryway below, accompanied by an older man who looked around warily, wand at the ready.
"Blaise!" Draco called, leaping down the stairs, nearly stumbling as he missed a step, and rushing over to his friend, ready to hug him, he was so relieved. Blaise looked alarmed and Draco hastily checked himself, forcing himself into a walk and letting his arms fall to his sides. What had he been thinking?
"Um, glad you're okay," Blaise said awkwardly. "This is my dad, Julian Zabini," he added, indicating the older man with a nod.
Mr. Zabini was slightly shorter than his son, and somewhat stockier, with silver-gray hair and a goatee. He was dressed in casual Muggle clothing and was surveying the entrance hall carefully, as if expecting danger. "Where are your parents?" he asked warily, wand still outstretched.
"They left," Draco told him, "with Lord--with You-Know-Who."
Blaise's father looked at him sharply. "He was here? Did he give any indication of where he was going?"
"To kill Harry Potter. But I don't know where."
Mr. Zabini swore softly. "We need to find out."
"Both your parents are Death Eaters?" Blaise asked curiously.
Draco nodded, forcing his expression to remain neutral. "My mother just became one," he said, his voice shaking slightly despite his efforts to control it.
"Oh," Blaise murmured softly, looking sympathetic.
"Right," Mr. Zabini said, lowering his wand, apparently satisfied that there was no immediate danger. "We'll need to catch up with them." He turned to the two boys. "By 'we' I mean the Aurors, of course; there's about twenty of 'em waiting back at the Ministry. I wish Dumbledore wasn't out of commission; he's worth the whole lot." He sighed and reached into the back pocket of his pants, withdrawing a golden spoon. "Always useful to have one or two implements handy, just in case," he said to Draco, laying the spoon on the marble floor and pointing at it with his wand. "Portus."
A blue glow surrounded the spoon, which clattered noisily against the stone for a moment before falling silent as the glow faded. "On three," Mr. Zabini said, retrieving it from the floor. "Just a finger will do. One...two...three!"
Draco felt himself yanked sideways with the others as their fingers came into contact with the spoon, their surroundings vanishing with a rush of sound and whirling colors, as if they were caught in the center of a maelstrom. Just as Draco began to get dizzy, he felt his feet unexpectedly hit solid ground, and the spell released them. He blinked a few times, waiting for the room to come into focus, and found himself in a large, cluttered office space that had been divided into several cubicles. A row of windows on one wall showed the night sky. Various witches and wizards, who had been leaning against the sides of the cubicles, biding their time or talking quietly now gathered expectantly about the newcomers.
"I had to tell my father everything," Blaise whispered to him apprehensively. "This is what happened. Sorry."
"It's okay," Draco whispered back.
"Well, what's the story, Julian?" said a young witch with short, dark spiky hair. "Where's You-Know-Who going?"
"I'm afraid we don't know where the Dark Lord is headed," said Blaise's father, "only that he means to kill the Potter boy tonight." The Aurors stirred excitedly at this news.
"Maybe we should question the Malfoy boy," the spiky-haired witch suggested, eyeing Draco suspiciously.
"Why?" Blaise demanded angrily before Draco could respond. "He doesn't know what the Dark Lord's up to."
"He says he doesn't," the witch retorted, "but his Father's a Death Eater. Bet you know all the family secrets, eh, Malfoy?"
Mr. Zabini held up a hand. "We haven't the time to argue, Blaise, Eris," he said, casting a quelling look at his son, who had opened his mouth to do just that. "The only way we're going to find the Dark Lord is if we cooperate."
"You don't need to tell us how to do our jobs, Zabini," one of the other Aurors, an older man, said gruffly. "We'll find the Dark Lord. You just get us all there when we do."
"I know, Everard," Mr. Zabini replied patiently. "That has always been my intent." He pulled a second, silver-colored spoon from his back pocket. "Everyone have their spoons?"
The Aurors nodded and some of them held up identical spoons.
"Right, well I've affixed a Protean charm to them all, with this one"--he held the spoon high--"as the master copy. As soon as we discover the Dark Lord's whereabouts, I'll turn the master spoon into a Portkey to his location, and the others should change as well."
"Should?" the spiky-haired witch named Eris asked dubiously.
"I've never mixed a Protean charm with a Portkey before," Mr. Zabini admitted. "But it's our only chance. The Dark Lord's bound to seal the area off to Apparation, and I doubt he'll be anywhere near a fireplace. The spoon will burn for a moment when it changes, so you'll know when we've found him. And...try to get there as soon as possible," he finished lamely.
"Right," Mr. Zabini said to the two boys as the small group began to disperse. "Now we wait." He led them over to a cubicle where a young wizard whose hair had been pulled back into a very long ponytail sat, paging through what appeared to be maps of various parts of London and the surrounding countryside. A small mirror lay face up on one corner of his desk, reflecting the ceiling.
"All right, Chris?" Mr Zambini asked as they approached. "How's the wand arm?"
"Not well enough for me to be out there tonight," the young wizard replied, looking up and ruefully rubbing his right arm, which Draco could see had been set in a cast. "It itches something crazy, though."
"That's a good sign," Mr. Zabini told him encouragingly. "Can you move your fingers yet?"
"A little," Chris said, looking over at Blaise and Draco. "Splinched," he said by way of explanation. "I was in too much of a hurry to track down a Death Eater, wasn't paying enough attention."
Draco nodded, trying to look sympathetic rather than queasy at the thought of leaving one arm behind in the middle of Apparating.
"I'll stick to Portkeys, myself," Mr. Zabini commented. "Safer. You've met Blaise?"
"Yes," Chris said, shaking hands awkwardly with Blaise and staring at Draco curiously, "and it seems like I should know you, too."
"Draco...Malfoy," Draco replied. It was the first time he'd been uncomfortable using his surname. He was beginning to realize how other people, regular people, perceived his father, recalling the scorn in Eris's voice when she referred to him as "the Malfoy boy." It had never occurred to him how many people disliked Lucius Malfoy, and they would naturally assume that Lucius Malfoy's son would tread closely in his father's footsteps. He suddenly felt very dirty, very small, and very alone.
But rather than look disgusted, Chris merely nodded. "Ah. Your father's been through here once before. There's a striking resemblance. I know that's probably not what you want to hear right now," he added, as Draco looked away, ashamed.
"I don't care what anyone else thinks," Blaise told him quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You're not your father. He's out there, and you're here."
"That's very true," Mr. Zabini affirmed. "So, how do we look?" he asked, clapping his hands together and rubbing them vigorously.
"Well, Eris is going to scour London proper, McGinnis has Lewisham, Emily is checking up on the group at the Malfoy manor, and Everard's searching Hounslow," Chris replied, rifling through various maps. "Ah. Everard's just arrived," he remarked, tapping one. Draco leaned in and saw a small, red dot labeled "Everard, P.D." moving through the streets of Hounslow. "The problem is, we don't know where Harry or You-Know-Who is going to turn up tonight. Dumbledore might've known, but..." He trailed off.
"But what?" Draco asked, glancing up in time to see a sad look cross Mr. Zabini's face. He had been meaning to ask about the man's curious statement earlier.
"But, as Dumbledore's unavailable," said Mr. Zabini quickly, "we'll just have to guess." Draco could tell that the elder Zabini was hiding something, but he didn't have the chance to ask as Blaise's father plunged on. "So, we can assume that it will occur somewhere in the Greater London area, as that was Harry's last known location. But we can't rule out the whole of the surrounding area, either."
"That's still an awfully large area to try and cover in one night," Blaise remarked, looking at Everard's dot on the map. "Won't he show up on here?"
"Harry might," Chris answered. "But You-Know-Who definitely won't. If it had been as simple as finding him on a map, we'd've caught him a long time ago."
"What if neither of them is in the London area anymore?" Draco inquired.
"Let's just hope they are," Mr. Zabini said grimly.
They looked on in silence for a few hours as Chris shuffled through the maps on his desk, keeping track of the various Aurors as they searched the numerous boroughs in the greater London area, with no results, reporting in at intervals.
"Nothing happening here," Everard growled, scowling up at them from the mirror on the desk. "No one else has had much luck, either, I gather."
"No," Chris said. "Keep an eye out."
"I'll keep two out," the gruff old Auror replied as his reflection vanished.
By midnight, both Blaise and Draco had begun to feel drowsy and had retreated to two chairs in an empty cubicle across from where Chris and Blaise's father kept up their vigil. Mr. Zabini had fetched a large mug of steaming coffee, which he refilled ocasionally with a flick of his wand, all the while peering intently at the maps.
"Nothing," Blaise murmured, stifling a yawn. "You'd think we'd hear something by now."
Draco nodded absently, replaying the previous day's events in his mind. It already felt like ages had passed since his parents had disappeared with Lord Voldemort, effectively abandoning him while they plotted to kill Harry Potter. Once, Draco had felt nothing but enmity for Potter, he now fervently hoped Harry would survive, if only to spite his parents. Of anyone, Harry stood the most chance of victory; no one else had escaped Voldemort and certain death so consistently. Maybe, when this was all over, he would apologize to Harry, try to make it up to him. Who knew? Maybe they would even turn out to be the best of friends. Maybe...
It seemed like only an instant had passed. He wasn't even aware that he had dozed off until he felt Blaise nudge him hard in the arm. "Something's happening," his friend whispered urgently.
"--some kind of a racket," someone, an old woman by the sound of her, was saying. Draco opened his eyes and saw both Chris and Mr. Zabini bent over the small mirror, frowns on their faces. "Bright lights and loud noises rousing half the neighborhood." Draco sat up, suddenly awake.
"I have half a mind to go and jinx the lot of them," the old witch continued angrily, "teach them some respect, waking a body in the middle of the night. Probably some kids, Merlin knows what their parents are up to, letting them run around this late at night--"
Chris flipped the mirror over, muffling the old woman's ranting.
"Find out where she is," Mr. Zabini said.
Chris nodded and turned the mirror back over. "That's not necessary, ma'am," he said soothingly. "We'll look into it. May I ask where you are located?"
"What?" the old woman asked, breaking off her tirade. She had apparently not even noticed the momentary lack of an audience. "Oh. Gertrude Tattersall. Number Seven, Lions Way. In Godric's Hollow."
"Of course!" Mr. Zabini practically shouted, pounding the desk with one fist. "Why didn't I think of that?"
An electric thrill went through Draco. Godric's Hollow! It was so obvious! Mr. Zabini was right, they should have seen it earlier; the final confrontation between Harry and Voldemort had to take place where it all began.
"What's that?" Ms. Tattersall asked, sounding quite alarmed.
Chris thanked her quickly. "We'll send someone straightaway." As her image vanished, he turned to the excited man next to him. "Think that's them, then?"
"We'll soon find out," Mr. Zabini replied, pulling the silver spoon once more from his back pocket. "You two are going to have stay here," he told Blaise and Draco as they walked over.
"But my parents..." Draco began. He couldn't just sit by and wait for news, he had to be there, to see Harry triumph.
Mr. Zabini cut him off with a stern look. "No," he said firmly. "We're talking about a battle with the most powerful Dark wizard in a century and Merlin knows how many of his supporters. If I let you come, I would be remiss in my responsibilities as a Ministry wizard, and as a father," he added, directing a similarly severe look at Blaise, who had also opened his mouth to protest. "Godric's Hollow will not be a safe place tonight."
"If You-Know-Who wins, there won't be any safe places," Draco pointed out.
"Then I hope we can stop him," Mr. Zabini replied with a note of finality in his voice as he placed the spoon on top of the maps. "No. That's all I'm saying on the subject. Portus. I hope this works," he remarked, more to Chris than to the boys, retrieving the spoon after it stopped quivering. "Otherwise, I'm about to be in serious trouble."
Draco, who had already made up his mind about what he was going to do, counted to three in his head and then lunged forward, grabbing hold of Mr. Zabini's arm as the Portkey took effect.
"Draco!" Blaise shouted, his cry swallowed up by the rush of sound and the light that accompanied Portkey travel. The next instant, Draco's feet found solid ground and he was standing with Mr. Zabini in the middle of a darkened street. Houses lined either side of the paved road, their windows dark and vacant, the occupants inside asleep.
"What do you think you're doing?" Mr. Zabini demanded, furious, his voice barely above a whisper.
"My parents are out here," Draco replied, also in a whisper, his ears straining to hear any sound. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked sharply but no other sounds reached his ears, save the rustle of leaves in the treetops as the night breeze passed through them.
"I'm sending you back," Mr. Zabini told him, brandishing the spoon.
"You can't," Draco said grimly. "The Protean charm, remember?"
Before Mr. Zabini could reply, there was a sound like thunder that rattled the windows of the surrounding houses, accompanied by a bright green flash from the other end of town. "Stay close," the older man ordered, pocketing the spoon and breaking into a trot, wand grasped firmly in one hand.
Draco followed him, keeping pace as they darted down one street after another, trying to make their way toward the source of the disturbance. Draco felt his dread mounting with every passing moment, every wrong turn, every dead end. What if they didn't arrive in time? What if Voldemort won? Who would stop him then? Dumbledore could do it, couldn't he? But where was Dumbledore? Why did it sound like Harry was going to have face Voldemort alone? His mind stumbled across an ominious possibility: what if Dumbledore had already fallen and the Ministry was trying to keep it secret? But how? How could Voldemort defeat Dumbledore, arguably the greatest wizard since Merlin himself? It was unthinkable! And yet, there was the uncomfortable way Mr. Zabini had tried to change the subject when Draco asked...
Panting heavily, Draco slowed, feeling more and more certain by the second that he had discovered the truth. His mind, driven into high speed by his anxiety, flitted from one certainty to another: without Dumbledore, Harry was their last hope. Mr. Zabini's footfalls resounded on the pavement ahead, but Draco paid little attention to the older man, staring hard at the night sky. Please let Harry win, he implored whatever presence inhabited the vast starry expanse. For all our sakes.
He was startled out of his reverie by a voice shouting, "Avada kedavra!" There was an enormous roar, like the sound of something huge slicing its way through the air, followed by a sizzling sound and a thump of a body crumpling to the ground.
Draco looked up, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, stomach knotting horribly as he realized, he knew what he was going to see. Mr. Zabini's body lay facedown in the intersection, only a few yards away. He was dead. The Death Eater who had felled him now turned on Draco, wand pointed directly at his chest.
"Well, well," the figure drawled in a familiar voice.
Draco's blood ran cold as he recognized the voice of his father, but he forced himself to stand up straight. He was finished with cowering before the man.
"I never imagined, when the Dark Lord commanded me to keep watch, that I would come upon you, son," Lucius Malfoy said, a hint of cruel amusement in his voice as he advanced upon his son. "I believed we had left you cowering at home."
Draco clenched his fists, but did not reply as his father took up a position a mere foot away, wand tip pressing painfully into his chest.
"I see you have some fire, after all," his father noted. "The Dark Lord always knows. You may yet prove to be a Malfoy after all."
"No, I won't," Draco replied firmly, fighting the wrenching sadness that welled up in him as he made his decision. "I won't follow in your footsteps. I'll change my name if I have to, and live with Muggles if I have to, but I won't end up like you."
"You disappoint me," his father said, his tone icy.
"No, you disappoint me!" Draco exploded, unable to contain his anger and his sorrow any longer. "Do you know how long I've waited, dad, for you to notice me! Do you even care how hard I tried to be like you, to win your approval...your love!" he shouted in a quavering voice, tears streaming freely down his face. "I was never good enough for you, no matter how hard I tried! I kept telling myself that it was something wrong with me, but it was you, you all along! All you ever cared about was Harry Potter and your precious Lord Voldemort!"
His father struck him hard across the face with the back of one gloved hand, causing Draco to reel backwards and fall to the ground. "You dare speak the Dark Lord's name?" he seethed, towering over his son.
"What of it?" Draco demanded, wiping away the blood that had begun to trickle from his mouth where his father's fist had struck.
"You are not worthy to speak it," his father hissed. "Did you never stop to think that everything I've ever done has been for you? Do you think I want my son to grow up with no choice but to disgrace the noble house of Malfoy by marrying some half-blooded hag--or worse, a Muggle? Our world, the wizarding world is dying," his father continued furiously. "The only way to save it is by conserving the pure wizarding bloodlines, reinforcing them through careful breeding until wizards once again become a force to be with reckoned with, one that even Muggles cannot deny! Do you want your children, and your children's children, to have to hide, as we do now? We are gifted, Draco; we are born to be their rulers, their masters! One day, we will crush the Muggles beneath our feet and take this world--which they have nearly destroyed several times over--back from them."
"You're mad," Draco whispered, stunned at his father's words. "Mad as Voldemort himself."
"Do not speak his name!" his father snarled, leveling his wand at Draco. "You would betray twelve hundred years of family heritage, and for what? Muggles? Half-breeds? Tell me, what is so important that you'd be willing to die for it?"
"Are you going to kill me, then?" Draco asked, staring defiantly up at him. "It won't matter. Either way, the Malfoy line will end with me."
"If it must," his father said coldly. "I will not let the house of Malfoy pass into the hands of a traitor to all wizardkind. Avada--"
Suddenly, there was a blinding flash of blue light from behind him. Draco rolled out from under his father's wand and scrambled to his feet as Chris and Blaise appeared.
"Do it!" Blaise cried, seeing the murderous look on Lucius Malfoy's face, and Draco noticed he was holding Chris's wand arm steady, the fingers of which were clutching a wand.
"Avada kedavra!" With a roar like the winds of a thousand hurricanes bottled up and released all at once, a fountain of green light erupted from the end of the Auror's wand, striking Draco's father square in the midsection, diffusing over his body. Lucius Malfoy fell, a look of shock on his face, wand clattering to the ground beside him. Draco felt a momentary pang of sorrow at the loss of his father, but he felt even greater sorrow for Blaise, who had discovered his father's limp form lying on the pavement. Blaise, at least, had a decent father. He watched as his friend crouched low over his father's body, sobbing disconsolately as the wind kicked up around them and the trees groaned and creaked in protest. The noise and rushing wind from the curse that killed Lucius Malfoy had not abated, but had grown in intensity. Feeling nothing but pity for his friend, Draco glanced over the tops of the houses around them, searching for the source of the building breeze. It took but a moment to find.
A blinding, pure white glow shone from behind the houses in front of them, bathing everything in a warm radiance that seemed to grow more powerful by the second. A snatch of unearthly song reached Draco's ears, lasting only a moment before it was carried away on the wind, but in that moment his heart lifted and all his worries, his sorrow, his exhaustion seemed a thousand miles away. He stood, arms outstretched, surrendering to the light that burned brighter and brighter all around them until it blotted out the night, the trees, the houses, and their surroundings, until Draco had to squeeze his eyes shut, and even then he could still see it, and he knew he would go blind...
And then, imperceptibly at first, the blazing radiance began to fade, faster and faster until it was gone and all was silent once more.
"What was that?" Chris asked breathlessly.
"The end," Draco murmured, as lights flicked on in the various houses, their occupants now obviously awake.
"Who won? Did you see?"
Draco shook his head. "No," he said, "but I don't need to. I already know who won." He walked over to Blaise and knelt down next to him, laying a tentative hand on his shoulder.
"You know the rest," my companion told me, finally falling silent.
"That can't be the end," I said plaintively. "What happened to Blaise? Why did your mother join with Voldemort? Did the Protean charm work? How did you end up here? You've left a lot of loose ends."
Malfoy chuckled dryly and looked around at the dingy apartment. "Obviously. But those are other stories." He yawned. "And it's late. Or rather," he said, eyeing the clock on the small stove in the kitchenette, "early."
"What? Oh," I said, glancing at the clock. It was six-fifteen in the morning. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep you up all night."
"That's all right," Malfoy said, waving a dismissive hand. "I told you I could go on and on."
"Have you ever thought about putting your life story down in a book?" I asked, gathering up wand, voice recorder, notepad and spent pen. "Writing your memoirs?"
"No," he responded almost immediately. "I'm not a wonderful writer." He paused, seeming to consider something. "Unless you were to help me."
I straightened, surprised. "What, seriously?"
He nodded.
"Me?"
He nodded again. "Somehow I think you, at least, would strive to maintain accuracy."
"Oh," I said, suddenly uncomfortable. If he was going to take me on as a partner because of my journalistic integrity, he needed to know one thing about me. "I have a small confession to make."
Malfoy looked at me curiously.
"Erm, well, I don't quite know how to say this, but...Rita Skeeter is my stepmother."
"Really? Well, I won't hold it against you. Think about it," he told me, rising from the bed and opening the door for me.
"I will," I promised. "And thank you."
"No," he said, "thank you."