Author's Note: Thanks for pointing out the mistake about having Luna in Ron and Harry's year. I've changed that in Chapter Two. Those kinds of discrepancies drive me crazy in HP fanfic, so I appreciate anybody who points out my mistakes – I try very hard to stay true to Harry's universe!
Chapter Four
Two weeks later, in the wee hours of a Sunday morning, Draco was shaken awake from an increasingly-common dream about Hermione Granger. He grunted, sat up, and scowled so fiercely at the terrified third-year beside his bed that the boy actually stumbled backwards a few steps.
"What is it?" Draco growled, privately thankful that the dream hadn't progressed far enough to create a stain on his sheets – again.
"The Headmaster wants to see you," squeaked the third-year.
"The Headmaster? What for?"
"I-I don't know. I was in the common room, reading, and-and Professor Snape came in and said come get you." The boy gulped. "You're wanted in the Headmaster's office right away."
When Draco furiously kicked the covers back, the boy raced from the room, apparently expecting a physical attack. Draco rolled his eyes as he shrugged into a robe over his pajamas (a pair of gray sweatpants and a white tee-shirt, none of this Slytherin-themed nonsense for him) and headed out of the dormitory. He wasn't that vicious, for pity's sake – what stories did the younger students hear about him, anyway?
All part of the image. Don't begrudge it. Right now you need all the respect you can get.
Hogwarts was eerily silent in the pre-dawn hours. A glance at the master clock outside the Great Hall told Draco it was just after five; he fought back a yawn as he stopped in front of what was usually a huge Griffin statue guarding the passageway to Dumbledore's office but was now, simply, a stairwell.
Guess they're expecting me, he thought grimly, stepping into the passage. Wonder what sort of trouble I'm in now…
He didn't have much time to worry about it, though, because when he stepped off the short staircase Snape, looking rather bleary-eyed himself, ushered him forward into the Headmaster's office, where Dumbledore waited serenely behind an enormous desk. The Sorting Hat snored loudly from a high shelf; Fawkes, Dumbledore's gorgeous phoenix, nodded sleepily at Draco from his perch in the corner.
"Sorry to wake you, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore began gravely. He rose and extended a copy of the Daily Prophet across the desk to Draco. "But I felt you should see this before the rest of your classmates."
No visible sign gave away the utter shock with which Draco register the Prophet's front-page headline:
LUCIUS MALFOY CUTS DEAL WITH MINISTRY
And beneath that, in only slightly smaller script:
THIRTY-ONE DEATH EATERS ARRESTED LAST NIGHT
You will not react, Draco's inner voice lectured sternly. You will show no weakness, no remorse, no fear. Not in front of these people.
He settled calmly into the chair Dumbledore motioned him towards, his face carefully arranged into an expressionless mask. His mind, however, was whirling; his father, his not-beloved-but-still-respected father, had caved. A few months in Azkaban – an Azkaban without the Dementors, even – and Lucius Malfoy cracked? He sold out his revered Dark Lord, his fellow Death Eaters?
Draco couldn't have cared less about Voldemort's ridiculous plans to purge the magical community of "half-bloods" and create a master race of pure-blood wizards. He couldn't have cared less about fairytales of immortality and limitless power. He had often wondered, honestly, how a man as intelligent as his father had been duped by such nonsense; sometimes, he had even considered the possibility that Lucius's zealotry was affected, a persona he had crafted as purposefully as Draco crafted his.
But never, not once, had Draco imagined that his father was weak.
"Your father should be released from Azkaban shortly," Dumbledore was saying, while Snape hovered over his shoulder, "as soon as the Ministry confirms that his information is correct."
Draco swallowed. "It says they arrested thirty-one people," he remarked coolly. "Isn't that confirmation?"
"The arrests are preliminary, pending trials. Every wizard is entitled to his day in court." Dumbledore, elbows resting on his cluttered desk, made a steeple with his fingers and stared over his fingertips at Draco. Behind his half-moon glasses, the Headmaster's piercing blue eyes appeared fathomless, like the ocean itself.
It took every ounce of Draco's self-control not to squirm under that penetrating gaze.
"We are concerned about your safety, Mr. Malfoy. Many of the wizards your father named are parents of your classmates, most of them members of your own house. It seems reasonable that they might wish to take revenge on you, since they obviously can't reach your father."
Draco had assumed, from the moment he saw the newspaper, that this was the reason for his unprecedented trip to the Headmaster's inner sanctum. He said nothing, however, waiting for Dumbledore to put all of his cards on the table before playing his own hand.
Snape chose that moment to enter the conversation. "I had an owl from your mother a short time ago. She said if you wish to come home, we should make arrangements for that immediately."
Home. And then Durmstrang. Or would he even still be accepted there after his father had betrayed the Dark Lord? In any case, leaving Hogwarts now would mean sacrificing everything he'd worked for, waving farewell to his plans for a career as a healer. No matter how painful the rest of the term might be, Draco wasn't prepared to give up his future.
Raising his chin, he tabled, "I don't want to leave."
Dumbledore, apparently nonplussed by Draco's decision, resumed control of the meeting. "Certainly, you're welcome to stay. However, we would like to take some precautions." He said the last word carefully, as if it were too delicate to emphasize.
Draco met the knowing blue gaze head-on. "Like what?" he challenged.
Snape, frowning disapproval at his student's tone, countered sharply, "Careful, Draco."
But Dumbledore waved Snape off. "Your dormitory would be the most likely place for…mischief, we'll say, since teachers rarely go there. We could make room for you in a private suite near the hospital wing. You could even do some of your classwork up there for the next few weeks, until things settle down."
Hide, he means. Run and hide like I've done something to be ashamed of – or worse yet, like I'm scared of those worthless morons!
"No." Draco spoke quietly, yet his voice was flinty with determination. "I appreciate your concern," his eyes flicked from Dumbledore to Snape, including them both, "but I don't need any special treatment."
Snape's mouth drew into a thin, impatient line. "Draco, I'm not sure you understand the gravity of the situation. These people your father named are facing years in Azkaban. Perhaps even worse penalties. Their families – their children – will want revenge, and you will be the most likely target."
"I understand. And the answer is still no." Draco rose. "Is that all?"
Leaning back in his chair, Dumbledore spoke softly. "You realize I could force you to accept these measures, Mr. Malfoy, as a condition of your remaining at Hogwarts. The Board of Governors entrusts me with every student's well-being. They would consider these reasonable steps to protect you."
Draco knew, without knowing exactly how he knew, that the Headmaster would not make good on his threat. Locking back onto the wizened gaze, he shrugged and said, "The answer is still no."
A charged silence held for a few seconds. Then, with a smile that looked, to Draco's surprise, almost proud, Dumbledore nodded in surrender. "Very good, Mr. Malfoy. But remember," he added as he stood, "I am not the enemy. You can come to me at any time, with any problem. I am on your side, Mr. Malfoy."
I very much doubt that, Draco wanted to say, though of course he didn't – impertinence could only be pushed so far. With a curt nod, he hastily took his leave of the Headmaster's office, walking as swiftly as he could without actually running back to his dormitory.
In the darkness, with his housemates still snoring obliviously around him, Draco threw on his uniform and bolted down to the bath-house. There he sat with his feet dangling in the warm water until he was certain breakfast was almost over; a number of the students, Granger included, subscribed to the Daily Prophet, so by the time the porridge was served, the entire school would know of his father's cowardice. Draco damn sure wasn't eager to face his classmates, to suffer the stares and whispers and hisses that would accompany his appearance in any corner of the school, no matter how brave a face he had put on for Dumbledore and Snape.
His father's radical change of heart made no sense to him. Actually, the revelation that Lucius would turn his back on the one cause he had always seemed immovably dedicated to had rocked the foundations of Draco's world. He didn't like his father; he didn't agree with him on most things. Yet he had always admired Lucius's strength, his ferocity, his loyalty – had tried, to some extent, to hone those same qualities in himself. Now, none of those attributes seemed real, merely affectations of a man who couldn't face the consequences of his choices, couldn't protect the allies he had sworn were closer to him than blood-brothers.
I will not be him, Draco decided fiercely, sometime while the rest of Hogwarts was waking up and trudging sleepily down to the Great Hall. I won't be weak. I won't be frightened. I won't back down. I'll show all of them, all of them, what it really means to be a Malfoy.
And so, shortly before the bell in the clock tower struck its reminder that they should be hurrying to class, Draco emerged from the dungeons, slipped silently from the shadows of the Great Hall, and caught Harry Potter's arm.
Potter stared at him in surprise. "What do you want?" he demanded, sounding more curious than angry.
Draco ignored the stares they were attracting. Luckily, Granger and Weasley were nowhere in sight; for some reason, Draco didn't want to look into Hermione's hazel eyes as he said what he knew had to be said.
"Still up for our duel, Potter?"
Potter's eyes widened slightly – but not in fear. Draco doubted Potter was truly afraid of much.
"Sure," he replied, without hesitation. "When?"
"Saturday night. By the split oak in the Forbidden Forest – do you know it?"
"I know it."
"Good. Be there at midnight. And bring a second."
Potter nodded mutely. And with that, Draco's legacy began: He would not be remembered as the son of Slytherin's greatest traitor, but as the wizard who bested The Boy Who Lived.