Hullo again, my chil'rens. Thanks so much for sticking with me, and for your reviews and support. This chapter is a bit heavy on the dialogue, but there is some torture... nothing graphic, though. Not yet. Mwaha. Be forewarned and, as always, enjoy.
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Draco found himself staring at the space formerly occupied by his longtime school rival, feeling an undefinable sense of loss. Folding his arms against a sudden chill, he glanced up to his Professor, surprised to find the dark man watching him closely.
"Professor?"
Uncomfortable beneath the sharp black stare, he shifted weight from foot to foot, almost sheepish in expression.
"Mr. Malfoy. You seem... pensive for someone who has accomplished so impressive a feat."
Draco took a breath to deny it, and then sagged a little, feeling weary of subterfuge and lies. He'd never really tried to deceive Professor Snape. The man had always given him the impression he could read minds- maybe it was the eyes, inscrutable and hard as chips of onyx.
"I... where is he taking Potter?"
Better to just speak his mind, and was that surprise he saw on the Potions Master's sallow face?
"Most likely to the Manor, to await the arrival of the Dark Lord. Does that disturb you, Mr. Malfoy?"
Draco felt pinned by the older man's scrutiny, at a loss as to how to answer. It was then he realized he was still in possession of the other boy's wand, still clutching the smooth shaft of wood in numb fingers.
"Are they going to kill him?"
The question sprang unbidden from his lips, gaze riveted to the wand- like a trophy, and suddenly he didn't want it anymore. He thrust it toward the towering figure of his Professor, unreasonably grateful when long, stained fingers plucked it from his grasp.
"I am not privy to that information, Mr. Malfoy. Come, now. We should return before you are terribly missed."
"As if they'd notice with Potter gone. The whole castle is probably searching for him," sneered the young Malfoy, purely out of habit. Reality set in then, and he blanched. Oh, Merlin... he's gone. And I did it.
Struggling to smother a niggling feeling of my fault, my fault, he allowed a silent Professor Snape to steer him back in the direction of the castle.
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An uncharacteristically solemn Albus Dumbledore eyed the perpetually solemn Potions Master seated across from him. Severus had returned to the castle not fifteen minutes before, and after divesting himself of a very subdued Draco Malfoy, he had made his way to the Headmaster's office. So distracted was he by the evening's events, he didn't even spare a thought to the Headmaster's ridiculous choice of password.
"Severus, how is our young Mr. Malfoy?"
"Confused. There is a world of difference in name-calling and kidnapping, Albus. I think this has been an unpleasant dose of reality for him," sighed the younger man, recalling the utterly lost look upon his young ward's face. It was a sharp reminder that these were children, after all- for all the posturing and the expectations, they were so damnably young.
"And Harry?"
Severus allowed himself the luxury of a weary sigh, spidery digits darting to grasp at the bridge of his hooked nose. Now there was a mess, and no doubt about it.
"I cannot say, Albus. His whereabouts are... privileged information. I would presume Lucius took him to Malfoy Manor, but we cannot be certain."
"Ah. This is a delicate situation indeed, my young friend," murmured the elderly wizard, his gaze distant behind the ever present half-moon spectacles.
"There was every possibility that I might have been able to intervene before Lucius-"
"No, Severus. We could not risk your being discovered," interrupted the Headmaster gently.
The Potions Master's head snapped up, eyes narrowing as he recognized the tone of his mentor's voice.
"You've an idea as to how to salvage this... disaster, then?"
In answer, the older wizard leaned back, a calculating expression upon his typically genial face.
"Do you think Voldemort might be contacting our young Mr. Malfoy to... congratulate him?"
Severus all but glared at the Headmaster, infamous ire rising to the fore, leaving his expression nothing short of thunderous.
"Are you trying to save him, old man, or use him?" he sneered.
"Severus. We need to know Harry's whereabouts, and there is the distinct possibility that Draco may soon be privy to that information," Dumbledore stated, completely glossing over the younger man's snappish tone. One tended to grow accustomed to Severus' tempers after a few years, after all.
"You expect Draco Malfoy to simply abandon everything he's ever learned, to defy his father and the Dark Lord, to help Harry Potter? The same Harry Potter he helped to kidnap earlier this evening?" incredulous, Severus found himself leaning forward, hands clenched on the edge of the Headmaster's desk.
"Precisely, Severus. I am glad we understand one another," the older wizard fairly beamed, unwrapping a toffee covered in colored foil.
"Now, if you don't mind, I have a couple of very anxious Gryffindors that require my attention, and you might want to check on young Mr. Malfoy," and popping the toffee in his mouth, the Headmaster swept from the room in a rustle of screamingly purple robes, leaving a gawking Potions Master in his wake.
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A dungeon. An honest-to-goodness dungeon, complete with dank stone walls and rusted manacles bolted into the ceiling. Despair was palpable in the unwelcoming little space, thick enough to taste on the back of one's tongue, bitter and salty as tears. The room was windowless, light coming from a set of bracketed torches just outside the bars that formed a cell-like enclosure not much larger than a closet.
A cell within a cell, Harry thought, eyeing the interior of his prison once again in search of... well, anything. He'd been unceremoniously thrust within the uncomfortably small enclosure perhaps an hour before, and since then the weary young Gryffindor had passed from a numb sort of terror to bewildered boredom. He could not manage to rest in the small space- it did not permit him the luxury of being long enough to allow him the room to stretch out. Instead, he'd managed to wedge himself into one corner of the miserably small cell, curling into a pained, feverish huddle.
Idly wondering if his captors wanted him to brood himself to death, Harry stared balefully at one of the torches. He was a fool, really... believing Draco sodding Malfoy would just turn around and forget his little plot after their brief adventure in the cave. Trusting, naive Gryffindor, he berated himself in Snape's condescending baritone. Still, there had been a moment there when it seemed the Slytherin prefect had been at least reconsidering- wishful thinking, Harry, and he blinked back sudden tears. Malfoy and Snape, how could he have been so foolish as to trust them both, to even harbor the vague hope that they might suddenly leap to his aid? Right up to the last, Harry had been expecting something, a rescue attempt, or at the very least vehement protest from the younger Malfoy.
Right, and Voldemort just really needs a good snog and he'll give up on world domination, prat, he mentally sneered at himself.
The sound of the door creaking open distracted him from the self-effacing thoughts, and Harry struggled to his feet. He had been expecting Lucius Malfoy to return, but the two wizards that entered were unknown to him. After observing him in silence for a moment, the shorter of the two stepped forward with a chilling smile.
"Mr. Potter. So good of you to join us. Our Lord will be most pleased."
The man's voice was reedy, obnoxiously loud in the quiet. Harry maintained a stony silence, glowering at the two thugs.
"Disrespectful," clucked the taller Death Eater, disapproval obvious upon his aristocratic features. Some disconnected part of Harry's brain wondered if perhaps the man was related to the Malfoys, or if all pure-blooded wizards had that same pinched, pointed look... inbreeding, perhaps? The young Gryffindor smirked, drawing another sound of disappointment from his captors.
"The Dark Lord does not tolerate disrespect, Mr. Potter. Perhaps we should give you some lessons in manners before he arrives."
"I wouldn't respect that monster if the bloody Minister awarded him an Order of Merlin," and Harry could've bitten his tongue out for letting his temper get the better of him.
The two older wizards exchanged a glance, chuckling quietly- their mirth clearly born out of something darker than simple amusement.
"I can see we had better get started if we want to impress the Dark Lord with a well-mannered prize," stated the shorter of the two in his shrill voice, the tone more than the words eliciting a wince from the captive Gryffindor.
Wide, defiant green eyes observed the appearance of two wands, tracked the motion that left both leveled directly at him without so much as a blink. He could do this. They were just goons, for Merlin's sake- like an overgrown Crabbe and Goyle, really.
"Crucio.
Abruptly Harry found himself unable to keep up the taunting inner monologue, all thoughts running out of his head like water from a sieve. His nerves were on fire- no they were melting, sizzling to crisps beneath skin that was aflame with the pricking of a myriad of tiny needles. He could taste blood, teeth having nicked his tongue in his initial effort to quell the scream fighting its way through the spasming muscles of his throat and jaw. On and on it went, unending waves of agony and pain and he couldn't contain the scream any longer. A wail, visceral and vaguely inhuman in sound followed him down into the darkness pressing on the edges of his vision, and Harry blissfully knew no more.
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"Gone. You mean... gone, as in really gone?"
Ron's voice squeaked, slipping into a boyish octave in his surprise. He was doing an admirable impression of a goldfish as well, lips gaping, eyes wide and bright in his freckled face. The Headmaster merely smiled his enigmatic smile, blue eyes reflecting an endless patience behind the well-polished lenses of spectacles.
"Mr. Weasley. If you will calm yourself, I will explain," he began, lips twitching as the young Ms. Granger rubbed a soothing hand across the redhead's back. The two really were like bookends- a matched set. He'd seen many students come and go over the years, and always found some joy in those that paired off in the course of their schooling. The boy's parents, for instance. Another matched set, joined at the hip. The Headmaster regarded them fondly, awaiting a sign that the young Weasley wasn't about to hyperventilate.
"Feeling better, then?"
Receiving two solemn nods of agreement, he took a deep breath and gave them a rather edited version of the night's events, dancing masterfully around the worst of young Malfoy's involvement. It wasn't precisely lying to them, the clever way he fitted details in to gloss over his omissions- more like storytelling. The Headmaster was pitching a story, and the two young Gryffindors seemed to be buying every word.
Hermione's coffee-dark eyes seemed distant and pensive, breaths taken at points as if she would interrupt. Ron would gently nudge an elbow into her side at those points, as if aware from long experience that once the young witch began to work at a problem, she would be quite difficult to stop.
"And so yes, Mr. Weasley. Harry is gone- taken from the castle grounds," he concluded quietly, hands folding into his robed lap.
"B-but... sir. You know where he is, right? I mean, you've contacted the Order and they're preparing a rescue, right?"
So very young, and such idealism, thought Albus Dumbledore with a slowly dawning satisfaction. He had known some worry that they would've allowed the events of the past years to darken that charm, to wear dreams and noble pursuits into the jaded cynicism Severus wore like a cloak. He would protect them forever, if he could.
"No, I am afraid we do not know Harry's precise whereabouts," admitted the elderly wizard.
"But then how...?"
The young witch trailed off, looking stricken at the notion that they had no ready information on her friend's location or current state. Lower lip trembling, her gaze slid from its formerly intense contemplation of the Headmaster to catch Ron's equally wide eyes. The two shared a look, unspoken sympathy and some deeper meaning passing between the two housemates in that moment.
Albus could only smile, awaiting the return of their attention or a myriad of questions from the insatiable Ms. Granger. Truly a remarkable girl, that one. He was hinging a fair bit of this plan on her generous nature, not to mention the innate ability she seemed to possess when it came to keeping Mr. Weasley calm. No small feat, that.
"Now, my young friends. I know you are worried, as am I. But I have given you this information for two reasons. Firstly, so that you will stop roaming the castle and the grounds in search. These are dangerous times. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, I wish you to be able to reassure and inform your fellow students... yes, Ms. Granger?"
The girl was all but squirming in her seat, the obvious tension of restraining her tongue becoming too much to bear.
"But, Professor, you don't want us to... well, keep this quiet? Don't you think it will upset the other students, to know that Harry has been taken from what's considered a safe place?"
"Ah, my dear girl. Secrets are terrible things, you know. Never had any luck with them, and neither have you," a sharpening of those mild blue eyes then, and the young witch had the grace to blush, suddenly finding the hands folded into her lap very interesting.
"Now, then. I promise to keep you informed of the situation as it progresses. I trust you will find your own way back to Gryffindor Tower, then?"
He received two nods in reply, feeling inexplicably old as young Weasley scrambled up and beat a hasty path for the door. Hermione lingered, however, slowly rising and turning to go only to pause, dark eyes inscrutable as they fixed on the Headmaster.
"Ma... um. Draco. He returned to the castle, you said?"
A slow inclination of his bearded chin in response, the wily old wizard feeling a faint stirring of triumph at her question. It wasn't until the two Gryffindors departed in a flurry of youthful energy and school robes that he would turn attention to the tabby cat curled beneath his chair.
"Well, Minerva?"
The cat fixed him with an unblinking stare, padding from beneath the Headmaster's borrowed seat- it was hers, really, but she didn't begrudge his borrowing the office for this little meeting- to resume her natural form. Gathering the folds of her tartan robe about her, Professor McGonagall could only shake her head.
"They are only children, Albus."
He couldn't help but smile at her severity, the lines of her face set into a disapproval she typically reserved for wayward students.
"No, my old friend. They are so much more."