Disclaimer: JK Rowling and a few other people own everything, I don't.
Of Loyalty and Traitors
Chapter 3
The Choices One Makes
Draco lay sprawled out on his bed, leafing idly through a book lying in front of him. He had received the book from some aunt or uncle as a gift on his last birthday, but hadn't got around to reading it. He had been, at the time, a bit pre-occupied with organising his former headmaster's murder.
He picked at a loose strand of the thick emerald blanket that covered his bed, gazing at the gruesome curses depicted on the pages. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that this dark arts book would have been given to him by his mother's sister, Bellatrix. It seemed like her kind of thing, really. Why use a simple 'Avada Kedavra' when there are spells that can bring about much more blood, gore and misery?
He mused over the concept that someone so obviously dedicated to disturbing killing methods and illegal spells causing maximum bodily harm would take the time to send a boy a birthday present.
He sighed, placing the book aside.
It wasn't as though he didn't appreciate the thought behind the gift. Though, of course, any thought behind it would hardly have been along the lines of 'I hope you have an enjoyable birthday my love'.
More likely something like 'Hope you make the family proud by killing as many mudbloods as possible and further developing your taste for extreme violence'.
Extremely likely if it had indeed been given to him by his dear aunt Bellatrix.
Bellatrix Lestrange had been pushing him to get more involved in the practice of dark arts for some time now. Not for Draco's sake, of course, but merely so that he could be of more use the Dark Lord and she could take as much credit as possible for it. That was how he saw the whole situation, anyway.
A faint knock sounded on Draco's bedroom door.
"Come in." the boy responded, sitting up.
His mother entered the room, clutching a letter in her hand. Draco was hardly surprised to see worry evident in his mother's pale eyes. Narcissa Malfoy had became quite anxious and fretful as of late. Actually, Draco guessed that her behaviour may have arose back when his father had been arrested down at the Ministry of Magic. He observed the letter she was holding, sure that it didn't contain what he would consider to be good news.
"The D-Dark Lord has decided y-you can be of some use in the next step, D-Draco" his mother told him, forcing her mouth into a little smile. "It should be a bit easier that the l-last one, I think. He appears to think you have pr-promise..."
For some reason, the way his mother was acting irritated Draco. For a second, he wasn't sure he wanted to 'have promise' and he highly doubted that this next thing that the Dark Lord wanted him to accomplish would be much easier.
"Lets hear it then, Mother" Draco drawled.
Narcissa managed to pull herself together a bit before replying.
"Well, it seems logical that we must continue to pick off other any other wizards and witches who have risen against our cause in the past...those who were dedicated to Dumbledore and those that the Ministry whom are capable of meddling. Our master also thinks we will be effective in breaking that Potter kid down in the process, especially if we target those around him. He hopes that you will be particularly helpful in breaking down Potter's support network formed by his more juvenile companians..."
She paused for a moment, observing her son carefully, before carrying on.
"You've informed your father and I a number of times of the hatred you feel towards the boy...if you focus on the reasons behind your veiws, I'm sure you will be successful. You can be discrete, of course Draco, hardly any need to endanger yourself. And I'm sure our Lordship would want you to enlist the help of some of your more trustworthy associates from your former school."
His mother fought to catch her breath - she had been speaking at an extremely fast rate - and watched the boy in front of her nod his head in acceptance of the news.
As she turned and left the room, Draco collapsed back onto the bed, a familiar sickness swooping through him.
Such things were much easier said than done.
Many miles away from the Malfoy's home, another person was also recovering from receiving a rather upsetting letter.
Headmistress McGonagall glared at the parchment before her. It seemed parents weren't the only ones with doubts of the safety at Hogwarts, with the school Board of Governors confirming that the school would have to be 'closed until further notice'.
They justified their decision by adding that during war, which certainly was seeming inevitable, drastic measures must be taken to ensure the well-being of the young students. A time had approached where parents needed to be free to act as they saw best for their sons and daughters. During such times, many would want keep their offspring under their own watchful eyes.
Minerva felt overwhelming frustration at her lack of control over the situation. She could fully understand the veiws offered by both the governors and the students' parents, yet she was quite convinced they were disregarding certain factors. She was sure that those with muggle backgrounds, for example, would certainly be better of in the campany of competent magical folk.
She sat down in her chair in the office she still had touble referring to as her own, contemplating matters. Minerva planned to continue teaching those that she would have access to through the Order of the Phoenix. The Weasley children, along with Harry and Hermione, she reasoned, would probably find themselves requiring such training more so than most. And the witch had made it her aim to help the Longbottom boy reach his full potential.
And there would definately be others that would need it.
Calmed by the thought that she could still further the education of a number of her students, she gazed around the room. It had changed very little from when Albus had been headmaster, with the only significant difference being the empty perch where Fawkes the phoenix had once sat. The women didn't have a clue what had happened to Fawkes, finding him to have disappeared not long after Dumbledore's death.
Minerva opened the doors of the cabinet behind her and it was then that a shimmery substance caught her eye.
Contained in a familiar ancient stone basin with magical symbols etched across the sides, the silver waves swirled, illuminating the area around it in a similar way to moonlight. Minerva recognised what she was looking at to be Albus Dumbledore's pensieve.
Hence began the inner battle.
All of the questions that she had never had answered by the old wizard came back to her in great force. The exact terms of the prophecy involving Harry Potter, she was already knowledgeable of, yet she longed to know how to help the boy get through it alive. Any reason as to why Albus had placed such trust in Severus. How far Voldemort had gone in his quest for immortality, how Harry was supposed to defeat him if the feared man was in fact immortal...
Would she have been given these answers if Albus knew he was to die?
Minerva didn't know; the man had tended to be very secretive with what he knew.
She wondered if he had intended her to discover the answers from the pensieve. It seemed unlikely, she had a guilty feeling that it may be an invasion of privacy for her to enter into personal memories. Yet surely Albus would want them to be as best prepared as possible, and Minerva was she needed the information greatly...
Yet Harry had given her the impression that Dumbledore didn't intend for her to know.
The headmistress looked up at the portraits on the wall. Dumbledore's was sleeping, something his portrait had spent a vast majority of the time doing.
Though wizard portraits could capture a near precise account of the personality of whom they depicted, they didn't supply the knowledge nor the memories that the person may have had. In the few times that Minerva had managed to catch the wizard awake, she found it was far different to talking to the man she had known for most of her life.
A tear rolled down the suddenly aged woman's cheek.
She dragged her eyes away from the pensieve and attempted to distract herself by checking the contents of her desk drawers.
The first drawer she opened was stuffed with sweets and Minerva smiled, amused, as she shuffled through the bags of lemon sherbets. There she found, concealed under the various forms of confectionary, a rolled up piece of parchment.
Seemingly out of place in the drawer, Minerva withdrew it curiously. By doing so she noticed the elegant handwriting scrawled across one side of the funnel. It simply read 'For the Headmistress'.
Startled, she unrolled the parchment with trembling hands.
'If you are reading this Minerva, it is safe for as to assume that time has caught up on an old man. I have no right to now give orders on the running of a world in which I no longer live, as would not be I facing the consequences for any unwise advice.
I hope you can understand that, for this reason, the wizarding community - including yourself - must be let to make your own choices and decisions. This is why the only instructions I leave for you are to support Mr. Potter and all of the others to the best of your ability and to continue the fight against Tom. In such times, never underestimate the values of love, trust and co-operation.
I have faith in you all to do what is right, rather than what is easy.
Your Sincerly, Albus Dumbledore.'
Minerva blinked to clear her eyes, before reading the note jotted down below.
'P.S.- I hardly advise you to ponder in the past, yet to look towards memories to shed light on a matter can, in dire circumstances, be acceptable.'
Before she had time to give this statement the attention it deserved, the offices was lit up in a series of bright colours. Her clock, which she had bought up from her former office earlier that day, was the source of this. The rotating planets were radiating beams of light, set to alert her to the fact the she was running late for an appointment.
Carefully folding the parchment and placing it in the pocket of her navy cloak, she strode over to the fireplace. She then paused, murmering some words that returned the clock to its normal state. Minerva grabbed a fistful of floo powder and threw it into the flames, which flickered to green.
"Number 12 Grimmauld Place."
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A/N - Thank-you for reading, I'd love to know what you think so far!
