Me once again, and I'm still bemoaning the fact that I don't own any of these characters. Not a one. This... well. This chapter I'm not entirely pleased with, as I couldn't seem to advance the plot as much as I'd like. Muses are fickle. Anyway. Thanks for sticking with me.
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"Draco... where have you been all afternoon? Blaise and I have been looking for you for hours," came Pansy Parkinson's slightly nasal voice, whining as usual.
Three steps. He'd only made it three steps into the Common Room before being set upon by the clinging and, if he was being honest, somewhat pug-nosed Parkinson. A single brow arched languidly upward, as if the question had amused him somehow by its complete inanity.
As was to be expected, Pansy faltered and simpered and generally made herself a nuisance as he stalked through the room, a single glance to the first-years congregating on his favorite couch sending them scattering like so many roaches under sudden light.
Draco had always found the room soothing- muted tones of moss green and heather grey merging to provide an understated sort of warmth. He appreciated understated- no doubt the Gryffindor Common Room was done all in screaming vermillion and gold, all very gaudy and painful to the eyes.
The thought failed to cheer him in the slightest. If he closed his eyes, he could still see Potter's face, upturned and hopeful, green eyes trusting... Merlin. Aristocratic features twisted, an abrupt snarl directed at the simpering Pansy.
"Not right now. Go slobber on Blaise."
Resentful, she abandoned the arm of the couch Draco had chosen to lounge upon, drifting off amidst melodramatic sniffles and poorly feigned hurt. The young Malfoy rolled his eyes heavenward, looking askance at the ceiling. Girls.
Having sufficiently intimidated his house mates into leaving him in peace (or in torment, as the case may be), Draco turned a pensive gaze on the fireplace. He should be thrilled at his success, crowing over Potter's shock and that painfully betrayed look he wore even as he disappeared. He should be impressing every Slytherin in the Common Room with the tale of his cunning, of how he, Draco Malfoy, had finally captured the idiotic Golden Boy.
But he wasn't.
More importantly, he didn't even want to. The idea made him vaguely nauseous, which only served to unsettle him further. It was an endless cycle of self-doubt and guilt, twisting the young Slytherin Prince up inside until he thought he might scream. But Malfoys don't show emotion.
"Mr. Malfoy."
The Potions Master's silky baritone interrupted his brooding, smoky eyes darting upward in badly-concealed surprise.
"A word, if you please," continued the head of Slytherin House, apparently nonplused by Draco's wide-eyed stare.
"Of course, sir," the young wizard managed, levering himself from the couch with characteristic grace. Snape had not bothered waiting for him, and Draco found himself hurrying in the taller man's wake. Eyes firmly fixed upon the hem of the Potions Master's billowing robes, he wondered just what had prompted this- had something gone wrong? Perhaps Potter had escaped... or he'd been killed... or had the Headmaster discovered his hand in things?
Caught up in these many terrifying thoughts, Draco failed to notice the older man had stopped in front of a faded painting and was carrying on a hushed conversation with its occupants. The preoccupied Slytherin Prince just managed to stumble to a halt before barreling into his unamused Head of House.
"Mr. Malfoy, if you would at least endeavor to focus," Snape began, looking almost beleaguered as he gestured Draco through the opening portrait hole.
Startled to find himself in a well-appointed sitting room, Draco hesitated just inside the portal. Bookshelves dominated the walls, cluttered with heavy volumes bound in dark leather. A long couch and matching chairs flanked the sprawling hearth, the reflection of flames swallowed by dark, rich fabric. It was neither spare nor cluttered, but somehow maintaining an earthy, comforting air of welcome.
Realizing he had been staring, the young wizard turned attention to his professor, brows elegantly arched in question.
"Please have a seat, Draco."
He complied, sitting tensely on the edge of the couch. Snape chose one of the chairs, folding his lanky frame into its cushioning depths.
"Doubtless you are wondering why I am risking another chat with you this evening," he began, fingertips tapping a soundless rhythm on the chair's arm.
"Yes, sir."
"Draco. This conversation will remain between the two of us- I would like you to be as candid as is comfortable for you while we are in this room."
"Very well, sir. I... has something gone wrong?"
The dark wings of Snape's brows rose, betraying his surprise at Draco's blunt acceptance of the situation. He had been expecting a struggle for the boy's trust, and this was... mildly startling, to say the least. Not unpleasant, but not expected.
"No. Things have gone precisely as planned."
"Then...why?"
"Why have I brought you here?"
At Draco's nod, the dark man drew a breath, scrutinizing his student closely.
"I wish to know how you view the evening's activities. You will, I hope, tell me exactly what occurred from the time you first encountered Potter until we met in the Forest."
Pale lashes hooding equally pale eyes, Draco considered this. He could tell Snape everything- it would be a relief to share his thoughts. But perhaps this was a test? Perhaps his father wished to know if Draco had any reservation, any doubts about his role in the evening's scheme.
"Draco."
The Potions Master's normally terse baritone was unexpectedly gentle, those black eyes entreating. Unsettled, the younger wizard stared at his clasped hands.
"Sir, I... I don't know what it is you want me to say."
"Mr. Malfoy, this is not an interrogation. I simply thought you might wish to discuss your evening with someone- and I am the only logical choice."
Smoky eyes flickered upward, judging the sincerity of that statement. Snape met his gaze evenly, and Draco was uncomfortably reminded of Potter's open gaze- the way he had patiently waited for Draco to help him out of the pit.
"Do you think we could have a cup of tea... while we talk, Professor?"
The older man smiled, the expression looking peculiar upon his sallow face, as if he didn't regularly exercise those particular facial muscles.
"Of course, Draco."
Answering his professor's ill-fitting smile with a hesitant one of his own, Draco settled more comfortably into the couch's embrace.
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"Potter."
Distantly, Harry could hear the insistent voice, tugging him back toward awareness. He also knew that aware was not a state he was in any hurry to return to- so with a low moan of protest, lashes scrunched more tightly over his eyes.
"Have it your way, then."
That same disconnected part of Harry's brain observed, somewhat inanely, that that statement didn't sound good at all. Reluctantly, a bloodshot eye creaked open, lighting upon the sneering face of Lucius Malfoy.
Definitely not good, the captive Gryffindor had time to think before a whispered hex brought him fully and painfully awake. The words were unfamiliar, but the result caught him as somewhere between being jabbed with a red-hot poker and having his arm set ablaze. Setting his teeth against the wash of sensation, Harry straightened up and glared weakly at his captor.
"I see your time with Sutherland and Abernathy did not properly impact you, boy. A pity, that. They will be most disappointed to know you did not take their lessons to heart."
Lucius smiled unpleasantly, aristocratic features twisting in the dim lighting. The younger wizard felt a momentary stab of panic at that smile, wondering uneasily if Lucius meant to indulge in his companions' method of instructing him on the finer points of respect. However the elder Malfoy merely tucked his wand away, twitching the heavy fabric of dark robes back into place.
"You are too willful by half, Potter, and as you seem unaffected by the efforts of my... colleagues... I suppose I will have to take the situation in hand."
"Generous of you," Harry muttered, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. The frames were warped, having been damaged at some point the evening prior- most likely when he passed out.
"Now, now. Try to appreciate the fact that I am willing to take time out of my exceedingly busy schedule to train you," came the infamous Malfoy drawl, a certain dark amusement lingering behind silver-grey eyes.
"Train me? I'm not a bloody cocker spaniel, you arrogant git."
Distantly, Harry could hear himself mouthing off to the tall blonde, marveling that his tongue seemed to have a will of its own. Lucius looked less entertained, however, a hand darting between the bars of the captive wizard's cage to curl elegantly long fingers around the boy's throat.
"Did I say train? I meant break. I will break you, boy. Make no mistake," he hissed, tightening his grasp as Harry ineffectually clawed at the fingers depriving him of much-needed oxygen.
Vision greying, knees threatening yet another collapse upon the cold stone floor, the young Gryffindor made one last effort at prying Malfoy's vice-like grip loose. It was all to no effect, however, and Harry found himself slipping back into unconsciousness, a low chuckle echoing in his ears.
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Hermione absently nibbled at a bit of toast, not feeling hungry in the slightest. Ron sat to her left, systematically mutilating a breakfast sausage. That in itself was enough to draw attention- Ron, not eating? It was unheard of. Across the table from the duo, Seamus Finnigan cast a flinty-eyed look at his house mates, freckled face reflecting mild concern.
"Oi, Weasley. Sausage say somethin' y'took offense to?"
Ron scowled, brandishing his fork at the Irish boy despite the fact that Hermione was already regarding him in mild disapproval.
"Shove off, Finnigan."
Neville, unexpectedly, decided to throw himself into the conversation, round-face going a bit red at his own bravery.
"He didn't mean anything by it, Ron. We just... you know, wondered if everything was all right. You and Hermione were in a right state last night," he stammered softly, eyes intent upon a muffin he was trying to butter to death.
Hermione, plucking the somewhat greasy fork from Ron's grasp, favored the trio of boys with a patient, long-suffering look, dark eyes circled with equally dark rings- bruises betraying that she had not slept well the evening prior.
"Neville, Seamus... Ron and I have a... well. It's about Harry, you see," she began, voice pitched to carry only to those immediately surrounding her at the Gryffindor table. Some eyes swung to the female prefect immediately, others still intent upon their breakfast. Clutching Ron's hand beneath the table for support, Hermione quietly explained the events of the evening as she understood them, unaware that the little commotion in their corner of the Great Hall was being observed by a pair of stormy grey eyes.
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Ruddy Granger and her sodding Weasel, Draco thought viciously, stabbing at his eggs with more force than was necessary. Watching the yellow yolk ooze across his plate, the blonde decided to give up on breakfast- his stomach wasn't entirely up to the experience.
He'd spent most of the evening in Professor Snape's sitting room, discussing Potter, Death Eaters, and the Dark Lord. None of it made for good bedtime conversation, and Draco had been unable to sleep without being plagued with nightmares. Still uneasy despite having shared some of his concerns with his Head of House, the Slytherin prince found himself envying the Gryffindor bunch- all huddled together, no doubt having a touchy-feely session of Who Misses Potter the Most, or something equally ridiculous. Envying them, for Merlin's sake. Here he sat, all tied up in knots over accomplishing a feat which would earn him respect and admiration from every dark wizard in leagues, unable to share his feelings with anyone save Professor Snape (and that wasn't entirely a comfortable situation, to be honest), and... ugh.
Disgusted at the turn his thoughts had taken, Draco stood abruptly, jaw set and expression stony. Clearly, he needed more rest. Snape would let him skive off Potions, even before their little heart-to-heart Draco had no concerns over missing the occasional class. Ignoring the looks of confusion his house mates cast in his direction, the Malfoy heir turned to stalk out of the Great Hall... only to find himself face to face with a red-faced Hermione Granger.
"Granger. What on Earth?" Draco snapped, his temper considerably short this morning.
"I didn't intend to startle you, really... I just wanted to catch you before you left the Hall," the girl offered, looking properly abashed at having nearly caused a head-on collision.
"Missing your counterparts, aren't you?"
Feeling unaccountably guilty as the girl's face fell, Draco resumed his path toward the doors, hoping she'd be unwilling to follow. He wasn't entirely certain he was up to verbally sparring with the Gryffindors this morning.
"Malfoy, wait... please?"
Even though the please sounded as if it had been wrung from her under threat of death, it prompted Draco to beckon the young witch to follow him. They were the focus of entirely too much attention in the middle of the Great Hall, and he wasn't going to be seen consorting with Granger of all people if it could be helped. Hearing her struggling to catch up, the blonde slowed his pace, heading for an abandoned classroom he knew to be in the immediate area.
This was either going to be good for a laugh, or it was going to be an unmitigated disaster.
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"My lord, things have gone precisely as you planned them."
"Of course, Severus. I knew young Malfoy would not fail us. His family's loyalty is impeccable."
Severus Snape cautiously straightened from where he had knelt in front of the Dark Lord, eyes still firmly affixed to the hem of robes dyed an imposing blood red. Feeling spidery digits settle upon a shoulder, he fought a sudden urge to shudder. This new body of Voldemort's was inhumanly grotesque, trying to even Severus' normally placid facade.
"You still have gleaned nothing of the prophecy, my dear boy?"
Clenching his teeth at hearing that particular endearment from lips other than the Headmaster's, Severus shook his head.
"I fear the only ones with knowledge of the prophecy to be the boy and Dumbledore himself, and I highly doubt either will be forthcoming with the information," he murmured lowly, as if in deep regret at being unable to discern the contents of the prophecy.
Laughter then, high-pitched and chilling, echoing weirdly off the stone walls of the cavern Severus had been summoned to. Swallowing a sense of foreboding at the sound of the Dark Lord's amusement, the Potions Master rocked back on his heels, rising back to his full height. Face-to-face now with his second master, Severus allowed carefully blank eyes to meet Voldemort's crimson gaze, inwardly quailing at the malevolent humor he could see glittering in those inhuman depths.
"The boy will be persuaded to tell us in due time, my traitor. Lucius assures me he has things well in hand."
Smiling blandly, Severus nodded to the words, desperately trying to recall whether or not he'd brewed anything particularly nasty for the elder Malfoy lately- he was loathe to have more of a hand in Potter's misfortune.
"Now, Severus. I have summoned you because I wish you to provide young Malfoy with this," the Dark Lord began, producing an empty potion vial. Brows arched in question, Severus took the small item and tucked it away into one of the many pockets in his teaching robes.
"A timed portkey. Young Malfoy will need to be in possession of the item this evening. His father and I are both... most anxious to congratulate him."
"Of course, my lord. If that will be all, I must return to Hogwarts or risk Dumbledore noticing my absence."
"Are you attempting to dismiss me, Severus?"
Eyes widening in unfeigned horror, the Potions Master shook his head, hands held forth in supplication.
"No, my lord... I meant no disrespect," he began, baritone laced with hasty denial.
"You have been too long without a proper master, my traitor. Perhaps I should remind you what it is I expect from my chosen few," Voldemort hissed, serpentine features darkening with anger.
Severus could only bow his head in acceptance of punishment, mentally distancing himself from his body. It was a useful tool, one that he had learned over years of painful service to the dark. Crooked teeth clenched tightly together, the Potions Master could almost disconnect himself entirely from the wash of agony from a hissed cruciatus. Almost.
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