MAYHEM AT MALFOY MANOR; MANY CONFIRMED DEAD
The Ministry of Magic has confirmed early this morning the rumors that Malfoy Manor, one of the most ancient residences in Britain, has burned to the ground, and that fourteen people, including, our sources tell us, the patriarchs of several well-known pureblooded wizarding families, were found dead at the scene.
Lucius Malfoy, the owner of the manor, whose remains were the only ones to be recovered from within the smoldering building itself, has been conformed dead. The identities of the other persons, who perished in an apparent bloody confrontation outside the manor as it burned, are being withheld from the press pending the notifications of next-of-kin.
The Malfoys owned ten house elves, all of which are also presumed dead in the blaze.
According to our sources, virtually all of the deceased had been rumored to be one-time supporters of the Dark Lord Voldemort, and current speculation has it that Lucius Malfoy had stepped forth among them to take the place of their fallen master. Arriving at the manor for a ceremony in which, it is presumed, Lucius Malfoy was to become their new Lord, they found the building in flames and Malfoy deceased, and a deadly conflict then erupted amongst them as to who should be chosen as their next leader.
There is no evidence, at this time, however, of the cause of the fire. One theory is house elf arson, as the Malfoys, claims one neighbor who wishes to remain anonymous, treated their servants with notorious cruelty.
Though no body has been recovered at this time, it is presumed that Narcissa Malfoy, wife of Lucius and lady of the manor, is also dead, perished in the flames. Missing from the scene was Draco Malfoy, Lucius and Narcissa's only child. It has lately been confirmed that Draco is safe at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he is a seventh- year student and the school's Head Boy. He is not thought to have had any part in the conflict that has destroyed his ancestral home and rendered him an orphan.
Draco Malfoy was one of the four heroes who defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort over a year ago. Rumors abound that his parents, who were reputed to be staunch allies of Voldemort, were in the process of disowning Draco for his part in bringing about the Dark Lord's fall, and for his subsequent Resorting from Slytherin House, which had previously seen twelve generations of Malfoys sorted into it while at Hogwarts, to Gryffindor House, which had already boasted the affiliation of the other three youths responsible for Voldemort's demise; Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger.
The Malfoy family solicitors, when contacted for comment, refused to confirm or deny such rumors that Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy had expressed an interest in, or even begun the process of, disowning their son, but they did state firmly that as of yesterday, when the tragedy occurred, Draco had not been officially disowned, and so he stands to inherit whatever Malfoy wealth was not destroyed by the fire.
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Sirius sighed and closed the paper. No mention of Ron's death could be found anywhere in its pages. It would have to be made public knowledge soon, though. He wondered what cover story Dumbledore would come up with, to offer the wizarding world as an explanation for the loss of Arthur and Molly Weasley's youngest son... but of one thing he was sure; Ron's name would not be besmirched by any association with the goings on at Malfoy Manor. It was likely to be reported as a freak accident in the Forbidden Forest, or some sort of Quidditch tragedy; something of that nature. This would serve to protect his memory, and also his surviving relatives and friends, from any untoward attention.
On the other hand, it would also prevent the world at large from ever knowing what a hero Ron had been. His death would be seen as stupid, senseless, without meaning. Ron, who had been one of a family of seven children, who had gone on to become the faithful best friend of the most famous young wizard of the age, and who had craved recognition of his own all his life, would be denied it, one final time, in death.
It was almost too cruel to contemplate.
Standing, Sirius walked restlessly over to the room's one small window, careful not to disturb Harry, who was slumbering peacefully, still under the effects of the spell.
"Ron," he murmured aloud, addressing the red haired boy as though he were standing in front of him. He saw in his mind's eye a picture of Ron the way he had been that night in the Shrieking Shack; over four years ago it had been. Harry had been only thirteen years old. Ron had had a broken leg, yet despite the agony he'd been in, he had still attempted to shield Harry from Sirius, whom he had though a murderer out to harm his best friend.
"You were, and are, to Harry as James was, and is to me. And know this, Ron Weasley; your heroic act will never be forgotten. Not by Harry, nor by me. You saved the only precious thing in my life, at the cost of your own. I will be grateful unto my grave."
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Snape, who had been sleeping the dead, black sleep of the truly exhausted, and thus had failed to hear Draco's increasingly agitated attempts to Accio himself a glass of water, nevertheless came fully awake an instant later, with a powerful sense that something was wrong- and that intuition was confirmed as he met Draco's eyes across the room.
The first thing Snape registered that the blond boy was sitting up- which should have been a good thing, but the expression on Draco's face- hurt and confusion and shock and panic all rolled into one- quickly told him otherwise. Then Snape saw Draco's wand where it lay atop the covers- his sharp eyes darting down to it and then back up to Draco in a fraction of a second- and he understood.
Draco was, he saw now, breathing very quickly- too quickly- his chest rising and falling with hitching rapidness beneath the soft white fabric of his shirt.
"Draco," Snape said, getting to his feet-
"No," Draco rasped, in a dry, gravelly voice, and pressed himself back, as far into the pillows as he could, as if actually trying to escape from his mentor- or, more likely, from what he could tell his mentor was about to say to him.
Snape moved towards him. "Draco, it's-"
"Don't!" Draco yelled, his voice cracking, "don't say it!" Hermione was stirring now, beginning to wake up as well. Draco edged away from her; in fact, he edged right off the bed, and proceeded to press himself against the wall, looking completely panicked now; a trapped, desperate animal.
This was worse than Snape had even feared it would be- and Snape was a pessimist by nature.
He stopped moving then, and ran a hand distractedly through his jet black hair. "Draco," he said, slowly, carefully, "you have to calm-"
"FUCK THAT!" Draco shouted, and now Hermione sat straight up, pushing back the masses of dark hair that fell across her face, her expression groggy for only a second- then she too caught on to what was happening.
And what was happening was that Draco knew. And he was not taking it well.
He continued backing away from Snape, keeping his back against the wall, until he found himself wedged in a corner, at which point his legs finally gave way, spilling him to his knees (Snape was amazed that he had lasted even as long as he had on his feet, as hurt and weak as he was), one arm bracing himself against the floor, the other held pressed to his side, his head bowed, silver-white hair spilling down over his eyes, obscuring them from view.
Snape was at his side in an instant, but when he reached for him, Draco wrenched himself away. "Don't... touch... me," he gasped, his breath still coming far too shallow and rapid for Snape's comfort- "don't touch me, don't... say it... don't... just don't... I can't... handle this, I can't... I can't take this...." He broke off, suddenly seized by a wrenching, hacking cough; his dry throat and labored, hitching breath becoming too much for him to handle any longer. He wrapped both arms around his midsection and doubled over, his fair hair now brushing the floor, making strangled, choking sounds that seemed to be half cough, half sob.
"Bloody hell," Snape muttered, and then, "to hell with THIS," and, disregarding Draco's near-frantic request not to be touched, reached out both-handed and virtually yanked the boy forward into his arms, crushing him against his chest, holding him tight.
Draco stiffened and attempted to wrench his arms free, but Snape just held him all the tighter. The traumatized boy responded, after a moment, by unleashing a veritable howl of rage and grief into his mentor's chest, then sagging forward into him, only briefly, before tensing up again as he began to do battle with the sobs that wanted to come.
His breathing became ever more erratic as he tried desperately to hold the tears at bay, and he just kept repeating the same two words, his voice muffled by the fabric of Snape's robes, into which his face was pressed; "I can't... I... can't..."
Snape said nothing, just held on; he didn't know what to say. Words of comfort had never been his strong suit.
And then Hermione was there, beside them on the floor on her knees, reaching out to grip Draco firmly by the shoulders and pull him around in Snape's arms so that he faced her instead. She straddled his legs, kneeling in his lap, getting herself as close to him as she could, then took his face in both her hands and lowered hers to it, resting her forehead against his. He was still whispering over and over again, "I can't..."
"Draco!" She was nearly shouting in an effort to get through to him. "Draco... Draco... listen to me... LISTEN!" When this failed to elicit any response, she pressed two fingers to his lips, finally shushing him.
"Draco," she said again when he had fallen silent, except for his hitching, painful-sounding breathing and swallowed sobs, "please hear me." She removed her fingers from his lips, cupping his cheek instead. Her other hand was tangled in his hair, her forehead still pressed to his.
"I love you," she said urgently, "do you understand that? Draco? I love you- YOU- and this changes nothing, all right? Nothing. I love the person you are and your magic is one part of that, and maybe it will come back and... and maybe... maybe it won't. But it doesn't change who you are and it doesn't change how I feel about you, God, Draco, please believe that, please." She dropped her hands to his shoulders and gave him a small shake, frustrated that his eyes still had the glazed, shocked look they'd held since he'd realized just what had happened to him.
"Draco," she whispered then, "I need you. Oh God, I need you so much. Please... Draco... don't let this destroy who you are. Please... stay with me. Stay with me. Draco, I'm begging you... if you love me at all... please..."
At that, his eyes finally seemed to clear a bit. She pulled her head back a few inches and they stared at one another for a silent moment, both breathing as if they'd just run a marathon, then Hermione dropped her head to his shoulder, burying her face in his neck. Draco brought his arms up then- Snape finally released them, judging, correctly, that the fight had gone out of him- and wrapped them about her, pulling her into a tight embrace, holding her against him almost frantically.
He let his head fall back onto Snape's shoulder and stared up at the ceiling with lost, despairing eyes. Then, sandwiched in a secure embrace between the two people who loved him most in all the world- magic or no magic- he gave a deep, shuddery sigh and let his pale eyes fall shut, his exhausted body drifting easily into sleep, granting him reprieve from the waves of hopeless misery that had been crashing over him since he had tried to accomplish something so simple as summoning himself some water.
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A long moment later, Hermione rocked back onto her heels, and wiped her forearm wearily across her eyes, which were steadily leaking silent tears. She met Snape's eyes then, and saw in them the same question that was foremost in her own mind at the moment-
How in the hell were they going to get Draco through this?
Hermione couldn't imagine the devastation she would feel if she were faced with the loss of her powers, and she hadn't even known magic existed until she'd been eleven years old. To someone like Draco, who'd been born and bred in the wizarding world, who had been raised on the belief that witches and wizards were as far superior to non-magic people as those non-magic people were to, say, chimpanzees, and that it was magic that accounted for this superiority, a loss of magical power had to be just about the worst blow he could suffer.
Dear God, what would it do to his pride?
On top of everything she had been through and was still going through, a new and cold and gnawing fear was born deep within her; that under the circumstances, death might be more appealing to Draco than life at this point.
He wouldn't... ever... consider....
Would he?
As Snape returned Draco, now mercifully unconscious once more, to the bed, murmuring over him the very same spell that Sirius had recently used on Harry, she reflected, in a state of mounting panic, that yes- he might. He might very well consider it, because to Draco, the state he found himself in now would be worse than castration. He had lost a fundamental part of what, in his mind, made him....
Well, human.
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And indeed, Draco's suffering was something terrible to behold.
But then, they were all suffering; on the day of Ron's funeral, which dawned clear and cool, what Ron would have referred to as perfect flying weather, Harry ended up having to be supported between Hermione and Sirius in much the same manner as Molly Weasley, standing on the other side of the open grave, was being supported between her husband and eldest son. Had such bodily support been withdrawn from either one of them, they would have collapsed to the grass of the tiny Ottery St. Catchpole churchyard in which Ron was being laid to rest.
Harry's grief had a wretched, hopeless quality to it that suggested that Ron had not, as yet, "visited" him. Draco and Hermione, by contrast, though still beside themselves with sorrow, were able to bear their grief a little better; thanks to their respective sessions with Ron, they possessed a serenity which Harry did not.
In keeping with wizarding funeral tradition, each person at the graveside had brought with him or herself an item of personal significance to place atop the casket before the grave was filled. When Draco's turn came to present his "gift", he placed on the coffin, with infinite care, a small square of parchment; it was a single sheet which had been folded over several times and sealed with wax. If the seal were to be broken and the parchment unfolded, only nine words would be found, written in Draco's elegant script;
Rest easy, mate. I will not leave her. Ever.
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As the group of mourners trod slowly back toward the Burrow for the post- funeral meal- the preparations for which had been overseen largely by Ginny, with the help of numerous family friends; Molly was so overwrought by grief as to be incapable- Harry was accosted by a witch wearing violently purple robes, and glittering spectacles to match; one Rita Skeeter, who had reclaimed her post as wizarding Britain's queen of gossip, lightly disguised as news.
She just started firing questions at Harry- who merely stood where he was and stared at her with dull, miserable eyes- declaring that the wizarding world wanted to know how he felt about seeing his best friend buried today, and didn't he think that Ron's death could have easily been prevented?- the press, true to Sirius' prediction, had been fed a story about how he had perished in a flying-related accident; only his family, the Hogwarts staff, and a select few others knew the true heroic nature of his death.
Before Harry- or Sirius, who was beside him and appeared to be in the process of rapidly forgetting the "boys don't hit girls" rule- could respond, Draco stepped up, placing himself between the obnoxious reporter and his friend as solidly and protectively as Harry had once placed himself between Draco and his murderously angry father.
Without a word, Draco reached out, plucked the parchment from her fingers- it was still blank except for the headline; that was already in place at the top- GRYFFINDOR FOUR NO MORE, it read- and tore it, very slowly and deliberately, into several pieces, which he threw in her face. Then, as Rita's mouth opened and closed, fish-like, in silent indignation, he took the quill from her other hand, snapped it in half, dropped the pieces at his feet, ground them into the dirt with the heel of one dragonhide boot, spat on them for good measure, turned, and walked away- all without having said a single word.
Rita Skeeter was left staring after him in astonishment; no one had ever treated her that way. A thousand things to say or do in the face of such an attack sprang to her mind, yet she acted on none of them. The reason was his eyes.
They had been the cold, dispassionate eyes of a man who has lost so much that he cares very little anymore for the consequences of his actions...
And is, therefore, a very dangerous man indeed.
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They had only a week after the funeral, and then N.E.W.T.s were upon them.
Harry, Hermione and Draco were all offered the opportunity, circumstances being what they were, to forego them and still progress with the rest of their class, yet all three declined the offer. Harry and Draco were both too proud to accept, Hermione was horrified at the thought, and when it came right down to it, they all needed something to occupy their time and attention; something into which they could throw themselves wholeheartedly, and the last-minute cramming the N.E.W.T.s required was just the ticket.
Draco was by necessity adjusting to his new condition, though no one but Hermione and Snape dared to discuss it with him. In fact, only Hermione, Harry, and, by necessity, the faculty knew about it. The faculty had to know because, obviously, Draco was going to be prevented from taking several of his N.E.W.T.s. Those which would require hands-on magic were now closed to him. Ordinarily, a Squib would not have been allowed to take any wizarding exams, much less graduate from Hogwarts, but it was generally agreed upon that an exception could be made in Draco's case, seeing as he had been a singularly gifted student for seven full years.
It was a grim day indeed when Snape called him into his office to go over with him which exams would be open to him, and which would not.
He started with the good news.
"You will still be able to take quite a few of the N.E.W.T.s- a majority of them, in fact; History of Magic, Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies, Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Astronomy, and... Potions," Snape said quietly.
Draco's face was devoid of expression. "That's all?"
Snape sighed unhappily. "That's all."
"Charms?"
"No."
"Defense?"
"No."
"Transfiguration?"
"No."
"Divination?"
"You're not even in that rubbish class."
"But if I were, could I take the exam?"
"Draco... no."
Draco had stood, his face tight. "All right- thank you, professor."
Behind his desk, Snape had also gotten to his feet, just as Draco had started to turn for the door. "Draco-"
"Yes?" The tone was flat; dull.
"You could have a very bright career ahead of you in potions-making, you know, regardless of whether-"
Draco cut him off. "Thank you, professor," he said again, this time with an edge to his voice, and moved toward the door.
"Draco."
"Yes?" This time the word was positively ground out.
"Are you-"
"I'm fine."
He'd said that when he'd been dying too. Snape felt a monster headache coming on.
"You know I'm here if-"
"Thank you, professor." And he was gone.
The Ministry of Magic has confirmed early this morning the rumors that Malfoy Manor, one of the most ancient residences in Britain, has burned to the ground, and that fourteen people, including, our sources tell us, the patriarchs of several well-known pureblooded wizarding families, were found dead at the scene.
Lucius Malfoy, the owner of the manor, whose remains were the only ones to be recovered from within the smoldering building itself, has been conformed dead. The identities of the other persons, who perished in an apparent bloody confrontation outside the manor as it burned, are being withheld from the press pending the notifications of next-of-kin.
The Malfoys owned ten house elves, all of which are also presumed dead in the blaze.
According to our sources, virtually all of the deceased had been rumored to be one-time supporters of the Dark Lord Voldemort, and current speculation has it that Lucius Malfoy had stepped forth among them to take the place of their fallen master. Arriving at the manor for a ceremony in which, it is presumed, Lucius Malfoy was to become their new Lord, they found the building in flames and Malfoy deceased, and a deadly conflict then erupted amongst them as to who should be chosen as their next leader.
There is no evidence, at this time, however, of the cause of the fire. One theory is house elf arson, as the Malfoys, claims one neighbor who wishes to remain anonymous, treated their servants with notorious cruelty.
Though no body has been recovered at this time, it is presumed that Narcissa Malfoy, wife of Lucius and lady of the manor, is also dead, perished in the flames. Missing from the scene was Draco Malfoy, Lucius and Narcissa's only child. It has lately been confirmed that Draco is safe at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he is a seventh- year student and the school's Head Boy. He is not thought to have had any part in the conflict that has destroyed his ancestral home and rendered him an orphan.
Draco Malfoy was one of the four heroes who defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort over a year ago. Rumors abound that his parents, who were reputed to be staunch allies of Voldemort, were in the process of disowning Draco for his part in bringing about the Dark Lord's fall, and for his subsequent Resorting from Slytherin House, which had previously seen twelve generations of Malfoys sorted into it while at Hogwarts, to Gryffindor House, which had already boasted the affiliation of the other three youths responsible for Voldemort's demise; Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger.
The Malfoy family solicitors, when contacted for comment, refused to confirm or deny such rumors that Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy had expressed an interest in, or even begun the process of, disowning their son, but they did state firmly that as of yesterday, when the tragedy occurred, Draco had not been officially disowned, and so he stands to inherit whatever Malfoy wealth was not destroyed by the fire.
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Sirius sighed and closed the paper. No mention of Ron's death could be found anywhere in its pages. It would have to be made public knowledge soon, though. He wondered what cover story Dumbledore would come up with, to offer the wizarding world as an explanation for the loss of Arthur and Molly Weasley's youngest son... but of one thing he was sure; Ron's name would not be besmirched by any association with the goings on at Malfoy Manor. It was likely to be reported as a freak accident in the Forbidden Forest, or some sort of Quidditch tragedy; something of that nature. This would serve to protect his memory, and also his surviving relatives and friends, from any untoward attention.
On the other hand, it would also prevent the world at large from ever knowing what a hero Ron had been. His death would be seen as stupid, senseless, without meaning. Ron, who had been one of a family of seven children, who had gone on to become the faithful best friend of the most famous young wizard of the age, and who had craved recognition of his own all his life, would be denied it, one final time, in death.
It was almost too cruel to contemplate.
Standing, Sirius walked restlessly over to the room's one small window, careful not to disturb Harry, who was slumbering peacefully, still under the effects of the spell.
"Ron," he murmured aloud, addressing the red haired boy as though he were standing in front of him. He saw in his mind's eye a picture of Ron the way he had been that night in the Shrieking Shack; over four years ago it had been. Harry had been only thirteen years old. Ron had had a broken leg, yet despite the agony he'd been in, he had still attempted to shield Harry from Sirius, whom he had though a murderer out to harm his best friend.
"You were, and are, to Harry as James was, and is to me. And know this, Ron Weasley; your heroic act will never be forgotten. Not by Harry, nor by me. You saved the only precious thing in my life, at the cost of your own. I will be grateful unto my grave."
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Snape, who had been sleeping the dead, black sleep of the truly exhausted, and thus had failed to hear Draco's increasingly agitated attempts to Accio himself a glass of water, nevertheless came fully awake an instant later, with a powerful sense that something was wrong- and that intuition was confirmed as he met Draco's eyes across the room.
The first thing Snape registered that the blond boy was sitting up- which should have been a good thing, but the expression on Draco's face- hurt and confusion and shock and panic all rolled into one- quickly told him otherwise. Then Snape saw Draco's wand where it lay atop the covers- his sharp eyes darting down to it and then back up to Draco in a fraction of a second- and he understood.
Draco was, he saw now, breathing very quickly- too quickly- his chest rising and falling with hitching rapidness beneath the soft white fabric of his shirt.
"Draco," Snape said, getting to his feet-
"No," Draco rasped, in a dry, gravelly voice, and pressed himself back, as far into the pillows as he could, as if actually trying to escape from his mentor- or, more likely, from what he could tell his mentor was about to say to him.
Snape moved towards him. "Draco, it's-"
"Don't!" Draco yelled, his voice cracking, "don't say it!" Hermione was stirring now, beginning to wake up as well. Draco edged away from her; in fact, he edged right off the bed, and proceeded to press himself against the wall, looking completely panicked now; a trapped, desperate animal.
This was worse than Snape had even feared it would be- and Snape was a pessimist by nature.
He stopped moving then, and ran a hand distractedly through his jet black hair. "Draco," he said, slowly, carefully, "you have to calm-"
"FUCK THAT!" Draco shouted, and now Hermione sat straight up, pushing back the masses of dark hair that fell across her face, her expression groggy for only a second- then she too caught on to what was happening.
And what was happening was that Draco knew. And he was not taking it well.
He continued backing away from Snape, keeping his back against the wall, until he found himself wedged in a corner, at which point his legs finally gave way, spilling him to his knees (Snape was amazed that he had lasted even as long as he had on his feet, as hurt and weak as he was), one arm bracing himself against the floor, the other held pressed to his side, his head bowed, silver-white hair spilling down over his eyes, obscuring them from view.
Snape was at his side in an instant, but when he reached for him, Draco wrenched himself away. "Don't... touch... me," he gasped, his breath still coming far too shallow and rapid for Snape's comfort- "don't touch me, don't... say it... don't... just don't... I can't... handle this, I can't... I can't take this...." He broke off, suddenly seized by a wrenching, hacking cough; his dry throat and labored, hitching breath becoming too much for him to handle any longer. He wrapped both arms around his midsection and doubled over, his fair hair now brushing the floor, making strangled, choking sounds that seemed to be half cough, half sob.
"Bloody hell," Snape muttered, and then, "to hell with THIS," and, disregarding Draco's near-frantic request not to be touched, reached out both-handed and virtually yanked the boy forward into his arms, crushing him against his chest, holding him tight.
Draco stiffened and attempted to wrench his arms free, but Snape just held him all the tighter. The traumatized boy responded, after a moment, by unleashing a veritable howl of rage and grief into his mentor's chest, then sagging forward into him, only briefly, before tensing up again as he began to do battle with the sobs that wanted to come.
His breathing became ever more erratic as he tried desperately to hold the tears at bay, and he just kept repeating the same two words, his voice muffled by the fabric of Snape's robes, into which his face was pressed; "I can't... I... can't..."
Snape said nothing, just held on; he didn't know what to say. Words of comfort had never been his strong suit.
And then Hermione was there, beside them on the floor on her knees, reaching out to grip Draco firmly by the shoulders and pull him around in Snape's arms so that he faced her instead. She straddled his legs, kneeling in his lap, getting herself as close to him as she could, then took his face in both her hands and lowered hers to it, resting her forehead against his. He was still whispering over and over again, "I can't..."
"Draco!" She was nearly shouting in an effort to get through to him. "Draco... Draco... listen to me... LISTEN!" When this failed to elicit any response, she pressed two fingers to his lips, finally shushing him.
"Draco," she said again when he had fallen silent, except for his hitching, painful-sounding breathing and swallowed sobs, "please hear me." She removed her fingers from his lips, cupping his cheek instead. Her other hand was tangled in his hair, her forehead still pressed to his.
"I love you," she said urgently, "do you understand that? Draco? I love you- YOU- and this changes nothing, all right? Nothing. I love the person you are and your magic is one part of that, and maybe it will come back and... and maybe... maybe it won't. But it doesn't change who you are and it doesn't change how I feel about you, God, Draco, please believe that, please." She dropped her hands to his shoulders and gave him a small shake, frustrated that his eyes still had the glazed, shocked look they'd held since he'd realized just what had happened to him.
"Draco," she whispered then, "I need you. Oh God, I need you so much. Please... Draco... don't let this destroy who you are. Please... stay with me. Stay with me. Draco, I'm begging you... if you love me at all... please..."
At that, his eyes finally seemed to clear a bit. She pulled her head back a few inches and they stared at one another for a silent moment, both breathing as if they'd just run a marathon, then Hermione dropped her head to his shoulder, burying her face in his neck. Draco brought his arms up then- Snape finally released them, judging, correctly, that the fight had gone out of him- and wrapped them about her, pulling her into a tight embrace, holding her against him almost frantically.
He let his head fall back onto Snape's shoulder and stared up at the ceiling with lost, despairing eyes. Then, sandwiched in a secure embrace between the two people who loved him most in all the world- magic or no magic- he gave a deep, shuddery sigh and let his pale eyes fall shut, his exhausted body drifting easily into sleep, granting him reprieve from the waves of hopeless misery that had been crashing over him since he had tried to accomplish something so simple as summoning himself some water.
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A long moment later, Hermione rocked back onto her heels, and wiped her forearm wearily across her eyes, which were steadily leaking silent tears. She met Snape's eyes then, and saw in them the same question that was foremost in her own mind at the moment-
How in the hell were they going to get Draco through this?
Hermione couldn't imagine the devastation she would feel if she were faced with the loss of her powers, and she hadn't even known magic existed until she'd been eleven years old. To someone like Draco, who'd been born and bred in the wizarding world, who had been raised on the belief that witches and wizards were as far superior to non-magic people as those non-magic people were to, say, chimpanzees, and that it was magic that accounted for this superiority, a loss of magical power had to be just about the worst blow he could suffer.
Dear God, what would it do to his pride?
On top of everything she had been through and was still going through, a new and cold and gnawing fear was born deep within her; that under the circumstances, death might be more appealing to Draco than life at this point.
He wouldn't... ever... consider....
Would he?
As Snape returned Draco, now mercifully unconscious once more, to the bed, murmuring over him the very same spell that Sirius had recently used on Harry, she reflected, in a state of mounting panic, that yes- he might. He might very well consider it, because to Draco, the state he found himself in now would be worse than castration. He had lost a fundamental part of what, in his mind, made him....
Well, human.
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And indeed, Draco's suffering was something terrible to behold.
But then, they were all suffering; on the day of Ron's funeral, which dawned clear and cool, what Ron would have referred to as perfect flying weather, Harry ended up having to be supported between Hermione and Sirius in much the same manner as Molly Weasley, standing on the other side of the open grave, was being supported between her husband and eldest son. Had such bodily support been withdrawn from either one of them, they would have collapsed to the grass of the tiny Ottery St. Catchpole churchyard in which Ron was being laid to rest.
Harry's grief had a wretched, hopeless quality to it that suggested that Ron had not, as yet, "visited" him. Draco and Hermione, by contrast, though still beside themselves with sorrow, were able to bear their grief a little better; thanks to their respective sessions with Ron, they possessed a serenity which Harry did not.
In keeping with wizarding funeral tradition, each person at the graveside had brought with him or herself an item of personal significance to place atop the casket before the grave was filled. When Draco's turn came to present his "gift", he placed on the coffin, with infinite care, a small square of parchment; it was a single sheet which had been folded over several times and sealed with wax. If the seal were to be broken and the parchment unfolded, only nine words would be found, written in Draco's elegant script;
Rest easy, mate. I will not leave her. Ever.
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As the group of mourners trod slowly back toward the Burrow for the post- funeral meal- the preparations for which had been overseen largely by Ginny, with the help of numerous family friends; Molly was so overwrought by grief as to be incapable- Harry was accosted by a witch wearing violently purple robes, and glittering spectacles to match; one Rita Skeeter, who had reclaimed her post as wizarding Britain's queen of gossip, lightly disguised as news.
She just started firing questions at Harry- who merely stood where he was and stared at her with dull, miserable eyes- declaring that the wizarding world wanted to know how he felt about seeing his best friend buried today, and didn't he think that Ron's death could have easily been prevented?- the press, true to Sirius' prediction, had been fed a story about how he had perished in a flying-related accident; only his family, the Hogwarts staff, and a select few others knew the true heroic nature of his death.
Before Harry- or Sirius, who was beside him and appeared to be in the process of rapidly forgetting the "boys don't hit girls" rule- could respond, Draco stepped up, placing himself between the obnoxious reporter and his friend as solidly and protectively as Harry had once placed himself between Draco and his murderously angry father.
Without a word, Draco reached out, plucked the parchment from her fingers- it was still blank except for the headline; that was already in place at the top- GRYFFINDOR FOUR NO MORE, it read- and tore it, very slowly and deliberately, into several pieces, which he threw in her face. Then, as Rita's mouth opened and closed, fish-like, in silent indignation, he took the quill from her other hand, snapped it in half, dropped the pieces at his feet, ground them into the dirt with the heel of one dragonhide boot, spat on them for good measure, turned, and walked away- all without having said a single word.
Rita Skeeter was left staring after him in astonishment; no one had ever treated her that way. A thousand things to say or do in the face of such an attack sprang to her mind, yet she acted on none of them. The reason was his eyes.
They had been the cold, dispassionate eyes of a man who has lost so much that he cares very little anymore for the consequences of his actions...
And is, therefore, a very dangerous man indeed.
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They had only a week after the funeral, and then N.E.W.T.s were upon them.
Harry, Hermione and Draco were all offered the opportunity, circumstances being what they were, to forego them and still progress with the rest of their class, yet all three declined the offer. Harry and Draco were both too proud to accept, Hermione was horrified at the thought, and when it came right down to it, they all needed something to occupy their time and attention; something into which they could throw themselves wholeheartedly, and the last-minute cramming the N.E.W.T.s required was just the ticket.
Draco was by necessity adjusting to his new condition, though no one but Hermione and Snape dared to discuss it with him. In fact, only Hermione, Harry, and, by necessity, the faculty knew about it. The faculty had to know because, obviously, Draco was going to be prevented from taking several of his N.E.W.T.s. Those which would require hands-on magic were now closed to him. Ordinarily, a Squib would not have been allowed to take any wizarding exams, much less graduate from Hogwarts, but it was generally agreed upon that an exception could be made in Draco's case, seeing as he had been a singularly gifted student for seven full years.
It was a grim day indeed when Snape called him into his office to go over with him which exams would be open to him, and which would not.
He started with the good news.
"You will still be able to take quite a few of the N.E.W.T.s- a majority of them, in fact; History of Magic, Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies, Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Astronomy, and... Potions," Snape said quietly.
Draco's face was devoid of expression. "That's all?"
Snape sighed unhappily. "That's all."
"Charms?"
"No."
"Defense?"
"No."
"Transfiguration?"
"No."
"Divination?"
"You're not even in that rubbish class."
"But if I were, could I take the exam?"
"Draco... no."
Draco had stood, his face tight. "All right- thank you, professor."
Behind his desk, Snape had also gotten to his feet, just as Draco had started to turn for the door. "Draco-"
"Yes?" The tone was flat; dull.
"You could have a very bright career ahead of you in potions-making, you know, regardless of whether-"
Draco cut him off. "Thank you, professor," he said again, this time with an edge to his voice, and moved toward the door.
"Draco."
"Yes?" This time the word was positively ground out.
"Are you-"
"I'm fine."
He'd said that when he'd been dying too. Snape felt a monster headache coming on.
"You know I'm here if-"
"Thank you, professor." And he was gone.