Reaching Maturity
Disclaimer: look, if they were mine, do you think I'd be posting on or getting this published?
A/N: one more week left of placement. Less, technically, seeing as it's Saturday afternoon and I finish on Friday lunchtime. It's been OK, but adult neuro is not an area of particular interest for me; I spent a day and a half over at paediatrics this week and it confirmed that I do want to go into paeds. This time next week I'll be able to tell you whether or not I've passed this placement. I may well not; my supervisor told me I'm bordering on failing. Still, I can always redo it.
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Chapter 7: The Search Begins
The next day, those at Hogwarts felt rather flat after the previous day's festivities. Harry woke before Ron, courtesy of a rather imperious eagle owl pecking him none too affectionately. It was Draco's owl, Hecate, he realised, with a note tied to her leg.
Harry –
Do you know the name Marie-Jeanne Lenoir? I don't expect you do, but I'd be grateful if you could find out for me. It's important – she used to be my mother's French penfriend. Please find out for me if it's at all possible.
I can't say more.
- Draco
Harry shook his head. The name wasn't at all familiar to him; there weren't many witches and wizards outside of Britain that he knew. He located his quill and scribbled a quick reply, promising to contact a couple of people that he thought could have heard of her, and then tied the letter to Hecate's leg. She flew off immediately through the open window (Since when was the window open? thought Harry in confusion).
Once she was no longer visible to Harry's eyes, he picked up his quill again and grabbed a scrap of parchment, writing simply the name and Who is she? before signing his name. He quickly dressed (Ron slept on) and headed up to the Owlery, where Hedwig was sleeping. He gently stroked her and she promptly awoke. "Hedwig, I have a job for you," he informed her as he tied the note to her leg. "Take this to Sirius."
Hedwig gave him an affectionate nip before spreading her wings and flying from the Owlery. Harry glanced at his watch and noticed that it was time for breakfast. I'd better wake Ron, he thought as he began descending the tower steps. It was up to Sirius now.
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Early morning starts were essential for tasks like his, Draco knew, and he got up at six-thirty that morning. He spent only twenty minutes on dressing (there was no point having a shower if he was going to get himself – horror of horrors – dirty, dusty and sweaty) and eating breakfast. The most difficult part of the mission would be his father's study – he knew there were security enchantments on it. The problem was, any definite clues or evidence would be sure to be in there. Lucius was nothing if not extremely careful.
Maybe later he'd attempt to get in.
Maybe.
The two house-elves in the kitchen assured him that "Master Malfoy" had not been in there except to occasionally complain about the food, and that only briefly. Draco knew that they were telling the truth because he knew them well and thus was aware that they were hopeless at lying convincingly. His next stop was the dining room, but he found only an old toy that had been his. He had last played with it when he was four. He wryly recalled throwing it under the small table in the corner where he had just rediscovered it. The table was covered with a thick, dark green cloth that reached the floor. He left the toy there, making a mental note to recover it at lunchtime.
He left the bare, cold room for the living room – or 'the parlour', as his mother insisted on calling it. This room was elegantly decorated and, unlike the other rooms in the mansion, light, airy and pleasant. A piano stood against one wall, unused by him for several years. Draco shuddered as his eyes fell onto the object, remembering the six years of torturous piano lessons his parents had forced him to endure. They had not seemed to be able to accept that their son did not possess a single musical bone in his body, and he had been ecstatic when his Hogwarts letter had arrived – it meant no more piano lessons.
Perhaps there was something concealed inside the piano? His mother, after all, was a decent pianist. Carefully, slowly, he lifted up the lid of the instrument, wincing as the hinges squeaked. It seemed to be such a loud noise in the silence of the house. He couldn't quite see down inside, owing to his lack of height, so he hooked his foot around a nearby stool, pulling it to him so that he could stand on it. Using the stool, he peered inside the piano, but as far as he could see, there was nothing apart from the hammers and strings that made up the inside of the instrument.
Groaning with impatience (patience had never been Draco's strongest point), he stepped down from the stool and put it back where it had come from, at one side of the piano. There was nothing under the piano, or in or behind the cupboards in the parlour. The rug hid nothing beneath it and the curtains held no secrets either. He even checked the fireplace and got on his knees and peered up the chimney (using the light his wand gave off), but there was nothing to be found.
Face, hair and clothes now streaked with soot, dust and ash, he scoured the corridors and the entrance hall. His spirits lifted slightly as he checked the hall cupboard, but to no avail. Even though he examined and shook every item of outdoor clothing, he found nothing at all. As far as he could tell, the only things missing were some of his father's things that he had taken with him when he had left. Draco's spirits dropped sharply again.
He glanced at his watch, startled to see that it was already twelve-thirty. He realised that he was extremely hungry now. At least he'd covered the ground floor; he could do the first floor after lunch.
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"Bathroom, parents' room, library, Mother's studio, guest wing," Draco muttered as he stood at the top of the stairs after lunch. The library door stood to his right and he pushed the heavy oak door open. The many shelves of the fairly large library were lined mainly with thick, dusty, old books devoted to the Dark Arts – although, courtesy of many very complex charms placed upon them, to the casual observer (and even Ministry of Magic officials) they seemed to have perfectly legitimate titles. Most had a thick blanket of dust on them. Draco briefly scanned the shelves – even the most complex concealing spells could not make disturbed dust appear undisturbed, even slightly.
He almost didn't see the door concealed behind the tapestry of some long-dead ancestor in the darkest, farthest corner. A draught from a small window near to it caused the tapestry to swing slightly, and the teenager caught sight of a door handle behind it. From the few times he'd ventured into the library, he'd certainly never seen this door.
When he tried it, he discovered that it was unlocked, so he opened it cautiously, not knowing what was behind it. After all, you could never be too careful, particularly in this house. "Lumos," he muttered as he held up his wand and took a few nervous steps forward.
The door banged shut behind him, plunging the world around Draco into sudden and complete darkness. Panicked, he whirled round and grabbed the round knob that was on his side of the door, frantically twisting it both ways in an attempt to get it to open, but it remained stubbornly and defiantly shut. "Alohomora!"
It didn't work. The light at the tip of his wand dimmed and then went out altogether. Repeated attempts on Draco's part to get it to re-light were in vain as he became aware of a beating sound getting steadily louder. He threw himself to the floor just in time to avoid the worst as a huge cloud of bats descended on him. He tried to fight them off but they just kept coming at him, squeaking, attacking him as he gave up fighting and curled up into a small protective ball on the cold stone floor.
After what seemed like hours but in reality was actually only a few minutes, the squeaking diminished and dissipated, and he could no longer feel their wings either on his body or creating small currents in the air around him. He slowly uncurled himself and carefully sat up. There were numerous bites and bruises on his hands, arms and legs – he could just about see these now that his eyes had adjusted to the gloom. His heart, which had been racing, was slowing down back to its normal rhythm, ceasing the almost painful pounding that it had been doing during the assault. He was terrified; he had no way of knowing if the bats would come back.
He sat silently, statuesque, for several long, seemingly interminable minutes before he forced himself to his feet. His wand, he discovered, was now lying several feet away from him – he had lost his grip on it when he had fallen – and he retrieved it now. Once again he tried the door, but to his despair, it was still well and truly locked. He walked across the room (for it was a room that he was in) to where he could just about make out the opening to a small passage. He had to go along it if he were to have any chance of getting out alive. Dimly he recalled that a human being could only last for three days without water.
He had to duck frequently as he walked cautiously along, to avoid the stones that jutted down from the ceiling and also those that jutted out from either side of him, scraping his skin. Once or twice he felt blood trickling down his arms, but he forced himself to keep going.
The passage eventually widened out into another small room, containing, Draco could see in the dimness, a chair and a table of a simple and plain design, and he gasped as he saw the person sitting there. The man turned and smiled at him, his eyes glinting eerily in the light of the single candle that stood burning on the table. They appeared bloodshot and, if he was honest with himself, they unnerved Draco.
"So," drawled the man. "We meet again, young Malfoy."
Draco froze. "Who – who are you?" he stammered when he finally found his voice. "What are you doing here? How did you get here?"
The man tapped his fingers against each other, steepled in front of his face. "Questions, questions. We are impatient, aren't we, young Malfoy?" There was a definite sneer in his cold, almost snakelike voice. "I am a…friend of your father's. Very kind he is, offering me somewhere to stay in secret. Not many would risk it, not in this day and age." He smiled at Draco; a bitter, twisted smile that radiated malevolence, sending shivers down the teenager's spine.
"I had hoped to meet you at some point during the Christmas holidays," the man continued. "After all, you have always wanted to devote your life to the Dark Arts just like your father, haven't you?" He looked directly at Draco, who looked away under the piercing gaze. This man gave the impression that he could read minds – and Draco most certainly didn't want him to read his mind.
"I deliberately allowed you to see that door. After all, I needed to meet you at some point. The bats are my…protection, shall we say. They're not dangerous per se, unless someone whom I do not wish to encounter comes through that door.
"But what to do with you?" he mused idly.
"I-I just want to get back to the main part of the house," Draco told him falteringly.
"You've been awfully busy today," the stranger commented lightly. "I've been observing you – oh, you won't have been aware of it!"
Draco shuddered involuntarily and took a step backwards. "What do you want from me?" he asked shakily, looking straight at the stranger for the first time.
The stranger suddenly laughed, a harsh, scornful laugh. "It is not your place to ask, though I believe I have found what I want. All I ask is that you tell nobody – nobody – of my hiding place. Understand?"
Draco nodded. "Yes, sir."
The stranger pointed towards a door on the far side of the room that Draco could have sworn had not been there previously. "You are free to go."
Draco walked quickly towards the door and had just put his hand on the doorknob when the stranger spoke.
"You'll never find her, you know," he informed Draco. "Your mother, I mean. It's no good you searching for her – though I must confess, it's somewhat touching. You can search for a million years, but if the Fidelius Charm is still in operation, you'll never find her."
Draco hurried from the room, sick to his stomach, shaking and sweating uncontrollably. Once he emerged into the main hallway of the house (the door disappeared as soon as he had closed it), he sank to the floor and leaned against the wall, breathing hard. What did the stranger mean?
Somewhat calmer after a few minutes, he got to his feet, filled with renewed vigour. The stranger was lying; he had to be. Draco picked up his wand and resumed his search of the first floor.
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Three owls arrived at breakfast the next morning, one of them being Hedwig. Eagerly, Harry took the parchment from her leg while she nibbled some of his toast. The letter was a reply from Sirius.
Dear Harry,
Thanks so much for asking me how I am. (For your information, I am fine; near the village at the moment).
Marie-Jeanne Lenoir is a French artist and a witch. She paints, but it's very weird, abstract stuff. She went to Beauxbatons at a time when Dumbledore thought it would be a good idea to have penpals – 'form links with witches and wizards of other nationalities and academies of magic', I think he said. There was an exchange programme like a lot of Muggle schools have. Marie-Jeanne was put in touch with Narcissa (now Mrs. Malfoy). I have to say I never liked Marie-Jeanne, and had she come to Hogwarts, I believe she would have been placed in Slytherin. Rumour has it (though it was never confirmed one way or the other) that she was right in with Voldemort, possibly more so than even Lucius Malfoy. Of course, she presents a perfectly respectable front now; whether or not the rumours of her allegiances are true is neither here nor there.
Why do you need to know? Is there something going on that I don't know about? Something I should know???
Send a different owl when you reply.
Then came a squiggle that Harry assumed to be Sirius' signature
Harry folded the letter and shoved it deep into his robes. Neither Ron nor Ginny had seen it, for which he was extremely grateful. He needed to pass this information onto Draco immediately.
He was just finishing his breakfast when he suddenly became aware of someone standing behind him. Turning, he stiffened. Snape.
"Come to my office, Potter," said the Potions teacher. It was not a request.
Harry hurried after the swift-moving teacher as they mad their way along the corridors, feeling distinctly apprehensive with regard to what Snape could possibly want this time. He hadn't done anything wrong as far as he could recall – although where Snape was concerned, being a Gryffindor was crime enough.
Eventually they reached the office. "Sit," Snape ordered curtly. He then sat down on the other side of the desk. "The Headmaster has asked me to have a brief word with you, Potter."
"About what?" asked Harry.
"In the last few months, although you have most likely remained blissfully unaware of it, the Dark Lord has gained an immense amount of power, gaining more support by the hour almost. My own Dark Mark burns almost constantly now." Snape stiffened slightly at this admission.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you need to know, be aware. The way things will work out in the end…The next time you and he meet, it will be for the final showdown. One of you will die. There is no question of that. It is just a matter of months. You need to start preparing yourself."
Harry stared at him in shock.
"You're an exceptional wizard, Potter, much as it pains me to admit it. Now go, before I cease being nice to you." Snape turned to some essays on his desk and picked up a quill covered in red teacher's ink, making it clear that Harry was dismissed.
He left and returned slowly to Gryffindor Tower. He had a lot to think about.
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TBC
Author thanks:
Actionmaster, AshleyPorter
Evanescent Dawn: re. 3rd storey – Americans call it the 3rd floor but us Brits call it the 2nd floor (ground, first, second, etc.) so that was just to make sure everyone was clear about how high up his room is. Do you really think that 'rat boy' (love the name!) could be anyone else??? And there could be someone else at the Manor…(If you've read chapter 7 before reading the response, I think you'll figure things out). I will make no comment on your ideas of romance – although the clues are fairly obvious as it's not something I'm particularly going out of my way to keep concealed!! Do you honestly think I'm going to tell you about Marie-Jeanne?? Mind you, she could easily be a red herring I've thrown in to put you all off!!
Lucidity: I couldn't do two in one go – particularly considering the content of chapter 7 as I wanted things to be left hanging for a week!! I know, I'm cruel! And I completely agree with you about Lucius!
Atana: those deleted scenes should have been left in! Lucius is horrible, I agree. Personally I think he's more evil than Voldemort himself (hides from an enraged Dark Lord)
Ruperts-a-Honey: Yay! A new reviewer! Hope you continue with this! (blushes) You're too kind. I aim to please! As for Narcissa, you'll find out – eventually! Not information I wish to impart just yet.
Rinkurocks: (blushes) I do my best; I feel it's extremely important to let readers feel characters' emotions as it makes it more real and a better story (sorry for the analytical stuff – I did English Lit A-Level and am seriously considering doing a degree in it once I (if I) qualify as an OT first).
Samhaincat: you're just going to have to wait to find out about Narcissa. There's all sorts of stuff going on around that issue that, quite frankly, I can't tell you about because it would ruin the whole story! I can't wait to read your one-shot!!
