First off, I would like to apologize immensely for the time it took for this to get out. I've started school again, and therefore, I have no time to write anymore. And I haven't really wanted to write… I'm slowly losing interest. Hopefully I'll finish this story, though, so I'll try not to just stop it here.
Secondly, I would also like to apologize for how short this is. And how pointless it is. Just some background, nothing interesting, sorry again.
Third, I want everyone to know that I didn't have this proof read because I didn't want to hassle my beta-reader. So any mistakes you find are because of me being a lazy arse. Sorry.
Gees, I'm doing a lot of apologizing. Just read. And don't hurt me.
P.S.- This chapter is dedicated to all the Draco fans out there.
Chapter 6
"I can't hear them! What are they saying?"
"Shush, Ron, I'm trying to listen. You'll give us away!"
"Ow! Was that really necessary?"
"Shhh!"
Harry nudged Ron in the ribs once more, silencing his protests. Ron pouted, frowning at him as his cheeks burned in frustration. Harry turned away and focused his attention back on the conversation taking place behind the door he stood next to.
"… looked everywhere we could think of, Albus-"
"What can you hear?" Ron whispered loudly, his eyes staring intently at the back of Harry's head from where he sat on the floor.
Harry swiveled his head towards him, "Will you be quiet? I can't hear what they're talking about with you constantly muttering…"
Harry could hear Dumbledore's chair creak as he stood, and the floorboards moan under his feet. His shoes shuffled on the carpet, pacing. "We've tried all we can, Minerva. There's nothing-"
"Harry?"
Harry smacked his hand across Ron's mouth and pressed his back closer to the wall.
"-without getting the Ministry involved. We would have to deal with Cornelius's insanity once more. I can't let that occur. He would take out his frustrations on the students, and he may even take it upon himself to try and get something done, and may even jeopardize the lives of those for whom we are searching."
He heard Lupin sigh and place his hands heavily on the table. "We can't sit around and do nothing; it can't be an option. It's been three days already."
Dumbledore's pacing paused, and it seemed farthest away from Harry. He imagined Dumbledore was standing before his window, probably gazing out onto the castle's snowy landscape. "I am quite aware of the time that has passed, Remus. I understand it's very hard to just sit around and do nothing. However, there is very little we can do. We've already exhausted many possibilities we thought of. There is very little left to accomplish without breaking Ministry laws."
Ron shifted beside Harry; frustrated he was being left out of all the details, he crossed his arms. He sighed and slumped against the wall, and Harry smacked his arm solidly as Flitwick's voice entered his ears. "What exactly have we done, Albus? What ideas have we determined can not help us or get us anywhere?"
Dumbledore sighed tiredly, something Harry was sure he had never heard him do. He could just picture was Dumbledore looked like, standing beaten by the window, his posture slack and his eyes lacking their usual warmth. He could imagine McGonagall sitting sadly at the table, her eyes downcast as she sighed and slumped against her arm. He could practically see Lupin staring off down at the floor, his arms supporting him against the tabletop. He could see Flitwick, Spout, and Trelawny positioned at the table with faces of depression, anger, and defeat.
The past few days had been hard on the staff of Hogwarts. Dumbledore had taken over Snape's classes, and the time spent in the dungeons passed with an uneasiness and anxiety. Dumbledore didn't act as snide or cruel as Snape, but paid close attention to each student and what they were doing, and made sure everything was in order. Though they still completed the same potions work, it was uncomfortably odd not to see him brooding over this paperwork at the front of the room, staring back at them if they dared look up from their work. Instead, seeing Dumbledore's warm stare made them realize today wasn't normal.
More people had realized Hermione's disappearance, and the Slytherins had realized her absence as well. Their taunting had Ron at his wit's end, which made him even more stressed than he already was. With their grades slowly dropping and they're hope of seeing her for Christmas diminishing, Ron and Harry slept less and less, the nightmares increasing. Sometimes they would unexpectedly meet up in the common room at early hours in the morning, neither of them being able to drift into unconsciousness easily. Most nights were spent sitting in front of the fire, as if they were waiting for her to walk through the portrait door and scold them for being up late and send them back to bed with a hug and a wish for a good night's rest.
"We've searched Hogsmeade through several times. No evidence of any kind was left behind except several small splatters of blood. There is nothing to follow," Dumbledore explained. "We've already questioned Harry, Ron, and Neville to the extent of their knowledge of the incident. You can see that the event has begun to take its toll on them. The disappearance of a friend is a very frightening experience to endure. They've shown a lot of courage, but they won't be able to handle it much longer. They're still young. It's a tough burden for anyone to bear."
Harry slumped farther down the wall as Ron gave him a quizzical look. Harry felt annoyed; of course it was hard, but it wasn't as if he was falling apart. Sure, he couldn't sleep, barely ate, and was unable study, but he was completely fine! He wasn't a child anymore, constantly running to elders because he was scared or angry or sad. He was handling the situation just fine by himself.
"Harry, are you alright?" Ron questioned.
"I'm fine," Harry bit out, and immediately felt sorry for his tone as Ron recoiled and sat staring at his hands after muttering a small, "I was only concerned, is all. Sorry."
Harry exhaled slowly. "Sorry, Ron, I just haven't had a good day in a while, you know?"
"Yeah, I hear you," Ron whispered, cracking his knuckles, "I haven't had a good night sleep in ages."
Dumbledore starting talking again, and Harry 'shh'ed him and listened again.
"… mentioned something about Lucius Malfoy being involved, but without proper evidence, we have no right to accuse him of anything."
"We have eye-witness accounts, Albus! What about them? Do they not count for anything?" Lupin cried.
"Not from a minor, no, they have no value, I'm afraid. Even if they were of the age, they would have to go through extensive testing to prove they were speaking the truth, and were not influenced by any spell, hex, or charm. Even then, it might not help at all. It's very risky business dealing with specific facts in a time like this, when we are at war."
"So what you are saying," Trelawny began, and Harry could perfectly view her movement from his mind, of her folding her hands and placing them gracefully on the table, her eyes wistful, "is that there is very little we can accomplish, and therefore, nothing we can do for them?"
Harry held his breath, his heart racing waiting for Dumbledore to speak again.
He heard him sigh. "At this point in time, no, there is nothing we can do."
Harry felt himself release a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding in.
So Dumbledore couldn't do anything. Hermione wasn't going to come back. It was like letting the air out of a balloon. Harry's heart fell like a stone.
"Come on, Ron, let's go," he said quietly, not wanting to hear anymore.
Ron was quiet and didn't ask any questions, which made Harry feel a little better. Slowly they stood so that the invisibility cloak didn't slip, and made their way back to the common room.
Harry was silent most of the way there. His face ashen, his heart limp, he suddenly felt very small and vulnerable. He had expected Dumbledore to have all the answers and know what to do, since he had always solved all of Harry's problems in the past. Dumbledore was wise and intuitive, and knew how to handle any situation. He suddenly realized that Dumbledore wasn't God, and didn't see everything. He felt his hope swiftly slip through his fingers.
"Harry, what's wrong? You're awfully quiet."
Harry quickly repeated what he had heard for Ron. Ron's expression changed from curious to frightened.
"Does that mean she's not coming back at all, then?" he asked worriedly as they quietly climbed in the portrait door.
Harry pulled the cloak off of his head and gave Ron a small, sad smile, "It certainly doesn't look like it, does it?"
*
He quickly jumped from the train steps out onto the cement landing as the train's steam whistle bellowed. Gracefully whipping the hair out of his face, his cold gray eyes slid frostily over the scene before him.
Not spotting his father anywhere close by, he took to watching the other students greet their parents with warm smiles and happy faces. His face contorted evilly; one could almost call it a sneer. Though his face made it look much worse. With smooth white skin, it seemed foreign for a disturbed expression to touch his lips, even though most people who knew him well enough knew he had no other appearance.
One child ran exuberantly to her mother and threw her arms around her waist, burying her head into the winkles of the woman's cloak. He barely caught the mumbled "I missed you!" muttered by the mother into the girl's hair.
His face knotted again and he turned his eyes in the other direction. He had never known was it was like to be missed. Father always said that young boys should be seen but not heard, and he had grown up a little less than noticed. He knew his father preferred him to be at school, out of the way. Mother was the only one who seemed to tend to him, but God forbid he crave any physical contact. Hugs and kisses were unknown in his childhood.
Father was always very busy. He was an important man, or so he said. Since he was rarely home, he found himself playing by himself, using his own imagination to keep himself busy. When he was young, Mother always found more interest in going to expensive parties and sitting around the house brooding or staring at her own reflection constantly. She had never wanted a son; a whiny, crying, costly little thing that screamed all night and day and relentlessly wanted attention. It would ruin her perfect figure. However, it had been something her husband had wanted. An heir to the family estate, he explained. She never said no to her husband.
"Draco."
He turned and his silver eyes fell upon a tall, cloaked figure standing behind him. He felt himself smile, even though he didn't want to. "Father."
He made no move to touch him, hug him. He simply gave a smile back, though it didn't touch his eyes. "I expect school has been decent for you?"
"About as well as expected," he replied coolly, turning his gaze to watch the train begin to inch away from the station, the whistle ringing and the smoke beginning to steam and trail behind it as it fled.
He felt the wind following the momentum of the train catch him and whip his cloak around his thin body, his hair brushing into his face again. Sighing, he looked down at the train tracks.
"Let's go, Draco. You know your mother doesn't like us to be late."
"What about my luggage?" said Draco quietly, eyeing his father unemotionally.
"I've had the servants take it already. It should be in your room already."
Draco looked off in the distance as his father muttered, "Let's go."
He felt a large hand on his shoulder and suddenly the world began to blur into black and gray as he was transported back to the Manor.
He opened his eyes as he heard his father's feet tread the habitual route up the grand flowing steps to the large oak doors. "Come now, Draco. Do not dawdle."
He sneered at his father's retreating back and reluctantly followed. Clutching the edge of the door as it began to slowly creek closed, he slipped into the dark hallway.
Shadows cast across his face as the light cast from the door disappeared, a loud thud echoing off the walls as Draco followed towards the light down the long hallway. His father swept quickly ahead of him down the winding staircase, towards the basement. Draco knew the routine by now.
When he came home for holidays, his father would update him of the occurrences that had taken place in his absence. He would be informed of the upcoming events, of what he was expected to do around the house, and what to expect in the days to come. Usually nothing really interesting came up, and Draco trailed behind his father through the house's many corridors, listening to his droning voice and daydreaming.
As his father began to groan on about the house elves and how many he had released in the last month, Draco's mind began to wander, as it had so many times before.
His eyes trailed over the stonewalls, wondering how they could looks so warm, yet be so cold to the touch. He followed the wall down to were it curved towards the right, where a window allowed the only light into the dank passageway. Its faded curtains billowed in the cold draft as his father hurried past, and Draco's eyes steadily followed the pattern of threads woven into the cloth. The colors faded, dust seemed to be permanently settled in between the fine strands. He wrinkled his nose in repugnance and sped up to find his father. This house has gone to the dogs these days…
"-and so mother is driving herself mad trying to make the house look presentable for guests," his father finished.
She's obviously not doing a very good job, he thought with a wry smile.
Down another flight of stairs, down a dark hallway…
"I want you on your best behavior for our guests, Draco."
"Yes, father." Like I do anything but, he thought with distain.
His father paused in step, turning to face his son. "You're awfully quiet. Is anything wrong?"
Draco's eyes peered like ice towards him. "No."
His father walked slowly towards him, placing a cold hand on his shoulder. Draco looked towards his hand, his eyes confused. "I know I'll never be like a brother to you, Draco, but I do wish that you could feel that you can talk to me if you need. I try to be here for you."
Draco looked up at him with a bitter stare. "I know," he replied.
They followed another staircase down, and Draco cold feel his skin prickle and tense as it grew colder. They were obviously headed for the basement. It was the fastest route to the main hall of the Manor from where they had ended up, and Draco wanted to leave as quickly as possible.
His father swiftly walked towards the corridor for the dungeons. Draco felt a chill as he thought of the first time he had snuck down to see what he could find. He had been only five, and the things he had seen still haunted his memory from time to time. He rarely went down there without a reason.
Most of the year it stayed uninhabited, since the Lord usually dealt with problem people promptly. But there were occasionally a select few who he wanted to die a painful death- after torture.
They reached the double doors from which the labyrinth of a dungeon branched off. Two burly heavily armed warlocks stood guard in front of the two doors, watching Draco carefully as he passed. He responded by giving them an equally frightening stare back, and continued to follow dutifully behind his father.
"Father, what are the Warlocks doing here-" started Draco, finally out of the earshot of the Warlocks.
"That is a question for which you will never know the answer. You will stay away from the dungeons, Draco. I mean that seriously."
"But, Father-"
"I will hear no more on the subject, Draco." This marked the end of the conversation. "And I do not want to hear of you anywhere near there. Do I make myself understood?"
Draco's eyes focused unemotionally on his father's angry face. "Yes, Father."
"Good." His father opened another set of doors into the main hall, and turned towards his son. "You may go now."
Draco sneered at his father's back as he turned around and began walking in the opposite direction, towards the towers.
"Oh, and Draco," his father started.
He stopped, but did not turn around.
"You better heed my words, boy. I'm warning you."
Draco's head dropped as his blood boiled.
"Yes, father." And with that, he stalked away from his father, feeling his disbelieving gaze on his back as he retreated. Slipping into a small passageway that led quickly to the highest tower in the Manor, Draco began to think of how to get to the dungeons unnoticed.
Brother my arse.
*
He stared at the underside of the canopy that sloped and curved over the posts of his bed. His eyes followed the flowing black velvet fabric as it sagged lazily, watching the shadows flicker as it moved with the breeze from the open window. The cold draft scratched across Draco's face, but he didn't flinch. He kept his eyes on the draped cloth. He had never minded the cold. In fact, most of the time he welcomed it.
He enjoyed the winter months more than he did the summer months. The heat never treated him well, and the sun became a harsh mistress. He, in turn, took pleasure in seeing the ground covered in cold frost, his breath billowing out in front of him in clouds. The crackling of the fire lulled him to sleep most nights, giving him an air of comfort in familiarity.
Sighing, he reaching into a pocket of his slacks and withdrew a switchblade knife. Flicking it open, a twisted smile grew onto his face as the reflection of the setting sun shone into his eyes. The pictures of medieval creatures etched into the metal pressed against his skin as he pondered his trip to the dungeons.
"It must be someone important if father is so keen about keeping it guarded," he said out loud to no one. His fingertips grazed the edge of the blade, the silver metal cold to his touch. "And yet, he usually doesn't keep the contents of a cell secret from me, either."
He sat up suddenly, "Which means the people he's torturing must be very special to him," his eyes narrowed as the blade slid closer to his fingers, "or very important. Someone he's believes is an enemy…" he trailed off.
"No," he said in response to his own thoughts, "he would have had them decimated by now." He touched the tip, his thoughts colliding in his mind. "Still," he pondered, still voicing his thoughts, "it would have to be someone with great significance… possibly," his thumb trailed down the back of the knife, "someone I'm familiar with."
His mind was working ahead of him now. "Potter," he said with disgust as the first person he believed legitimate flew from his mouth. "That's impossible, though… not with Dumbledore holding his hand." He was becoming frustrated very quickly. "It must be someone I know."
The blade slowly dug into his skin, allowing a slow but steady stream of blood to ooze from the wound. A sly smile spread over his face, "A simple invisibility spell and a Sleeping Draught ought to do the trick."
Well, what do you think? I want to apologize again for this chapter taking so long… and I'm sorry there is nothing interesting here. I am very sorry. I will try and post the next chapter as quickly as possible, and it will be much more exciting.
And please review… let me know you guys are still out there! Thanks
~Shorty