Chapter Eight

Those Dangerous Thoughts

I'm staring at a slender woman, her eyes as icy as her hair waving regally down the prominent arches of her face. She stands proud, proud as a queen in this derelict drawing room. For a woman that's locked in a cage, her behavior is either admirable or foolish.

There's something simmering in my veins. Crackling at my fingertips. My snake can sense it — she's brushing consolingly at my ankles beneath my robes as she promises in parseltongue, "All will go according to plan."

If anything, my blood simmers more vigorously.

The tapping of boots against wood growing louder from outside makes my ears prick. My eyes slide over to the door, zeroing in on who steps in as it swings open. A groomed, polished-up Lucius Malfoy steps in, although I recognise the haunted look of an Azkaban prisoner in his eyes. If he's shocked by the sight that meets him, his expression shows nothing.

"My Lord," he greets, voice cool. There are several moments of silence, save for the snake muttering sweet nothings at my feet. Lucius' gaze does not waver from me. "May I ask why my wife is in a cage?"

I feel my lips curl into a smirk.

"For a demonstration," I hiss, my eyes narrowing. If possible, he goes paler than he already is in complexion. The man seems to give in as his eyes flicker to the cage — I follow them, glimpsing the slight shake of his wife's head — before I turn back to Lucius. Amusement surges through me.

He waits a few more moments in silence before he realizes he's not going to get an elaboration without prompting.

"A demonstration, my Lord?"

I chuckle — a sharp shard of ice charging through the air. I glimpse Lucius shudder before I glide to face the cage. The woman's stony expression does not falter as I approach closer and closer. I can hear my reptilian ally slithering against the polished wood with the pad of my bare footsteps.

"Dinner?" the snake asks, and the hint of hope in her hiss heightens my laughter.

"Not yet," I respond mid-chuckle. She expresses her disappointment through low hissing, but I ignore her. I'm now an inch away from the bars. The cage is small enough in the perimeter that if I wanted to grab hold of the woman, all I would need to do is reach through one of the gaps. My chuckling abruptly stops as I meet her icy eyes. My blood is simmering again.

"My Lord—" I raise my hand sharply, and Lucius immediately is silent.

"Narcissa," I say softly, though my voice is clear enough to carry across the room. She says nothing. "Your son has so much potential. When I look into his eyes, when I pierce his mind…" Her lips thin, the only indication of the effect of my words on her. "I see rage. Something not uncommon in a boy of his age — something that can be sharpened to greatness."

"Dangerous rage…"

Something creeps inside of me. My eyes flick down to the diamond pattern shape against my snake's head, brushing against the hem of my robes. It gnaws at my gut like a warning. I raise my eyes back to the woman, who, like her husband, is much paler than she was seconds prior. The simmering in my blood drowns the gnawing, creeping feeling.

"But I am afraid that should the boy fail me, there will have to be consequences."

My ears prick as Lucius shifts a few meters behind me. I know my snake is listening intently, too. When he attempts to speak again, his voice is a croak, "M — my Lor —"

"Nagini," I hiss, fury racing through my veins. "Keep him quiet." She immediately obeys, slithering away from me. The absence of her from my feet makes me momentarily anxious, before I brush away the stutter in my heart. Lucius had been silent the minute I'd called her name in parseltongue, but she slides toward him anyway, and judging from the fact that the man remains silent, he's at least intelligent enough to put together my instructions to her. Nagini will be disappointed, as dinner evades her again.

The silent woman before me speaks for the first time, her voice cold and hard. "My Lord." She pauses, watching me carefully, before she continues, "What has Draco done to give you the impression he will fail you?"

I smile coldly. "Love. The boy loves you. He appears, for some reason, to love Lucius—" my lips curdle when her heart betrays her and a flash of fury spasms across her face. "To some measure, he even appears to have a certain fondness towards dear Severus." She has successfully schooled her expression back to being completely blank. Not even a chip of ice in between her frosty eyelashes. I narrow my own eyes. "Love, Narcissa, is a weakness. I do not tolerate weaknesses in my ranks."

"He is not weak," she states coolly.

"All mothers will say the same thing," I reply, carefully watching her blank features. A feigned wistful sigh escapes me. "I would not know. I have not experienced a mother's warm touch, and perhaps that is what has allowed me to be strong." A smirk grows on my face. "But I know how to sculpt Draco's anger — if he is capable of love, he is capable of hate."

Narcissa's face crumbles abruptly as realization dawns. I'm delighted.

"He will grow to hate his father very soon."

"My Lord…" she whispers.

A strangled outcry comes from behind me. "Please—" but Nagini silences him. My lips twitch when a few bones crack. The woman in the cage flinches as if she had been whipped by the sound.

"You'll have to suffer first," I murmur.

Narcissa Malfoy raises her eyes over my shoulder, obviously to meet Lucius' ones. It makes me feel sick.

I retrieve my wand from my robes and point it at her.

And then I'm wrenched back to my world.

My fist is stuffed in my mouth. I can feel the skin of my lower palm and the back of my hand just below my knuckles stinging under my teeth. There's an iron tang of blood against my tongue. An agonizing pulse throbs in my forehead, where my scar burns.

Breathing heavily, I blink a few times as my eyes grow accustomed to the gentle gloom in contrast to the harsh light from the drawing room. Strips of moonlight break the even darkness across the carpeted floor that I'm sprawled on. I still feel sick, but for an entirely different reason to Voldemort's.

I remember when I woke up from the vision of Mr. Weasley getting attacked by that horrific snake. I'd been trembling and sweating and at one point I'd kneeled over my bed and threw up. What was worse was that nobody, at first, believed me. Including Ron. They just kept telling me it was a nightmare, but I knew in my bones what I had seen was real — and I was right.

I'm trembling and sweating now, even gagging on the fist still in my mouth. I pull it out, taking gulps of air. It's too hot. Too stuffy. My hair is brushing against fabric. The cloak, I think, and without thinking I haul it off. I take deep, steadying breaths, gulping down the bile in my throat. A trickle of sweat clambers down the side of my rippling jaw. Mr. Weasley didn't suffer any lasting damage after his incident, but that's because I'd finally convinced McGonagall to get help. I don't think anyone would go charging into (presumably) Malfoy Manor to confront Voldemort about Mrs. Malfoy, wife of a notorious recently reformed Death Eater who got arrested last year and who got broken out a couple of weeks ago.

Maybe Snape would. Voldemort had mentioned him, although I'm not really sure what the connection between him and the Malfoys are. Honestly I always thought Malfoy was his favorite student because he's a bully just like him. But then, he had made an Unbreakable Vow for the Malfoy scion, the memory of their eavesdropped conversation outside Slughorn's Christmas party flooding back. I remember catching words like 'your master' during that conversation. And now, at Voldmort's own words, Malfoy is a potential weakness in his 'ranks'. There's no longer any amount of argument from Ron or Hermione that can ever give to convince me Malfoy isn't a Death Eater. I clutch my throbbing head, gritting my teeth. Scrunching my eyes shut for a few seconds, I listen to my pulse buzz in my ears. When I open them again, it's not the dark ceiling that I see.

I immediately scramble to stand, but Malfoy is quicker.

"Petrificus Dimidium!" As my limbs lock into place — my legs poised to spring, one of my palms flattened on the ground while the other remains on my still aching head — he sneers down at me, his silver eyes dark and glittering in the moonlight glow. "There's something familiar about our position, don't you think, Potter?" I glower up at him furiously, even though I really hope he doesn't break my nose again.

"Granger is a terrible liar," he drawls, lowering himself to crouch at my side, and my pulse quickens further. I move my eyes as far left as I possibly can, keeping his sneering pointed face in sight. "She said it must have been Peeves or a portrait making that odd choking sound. Batted me away nearly in time to miss your trainer flashing from under your lovely cloak. She was all brisk and righteous and officious…" His eyes lower, and the rustling beneath me tells me he's toying with the invisibility cloak. "I wanted to believe her, Potter, I really did. But that would require me to be as thick as Weaselbee—" I snarl abruptly, and then I startle myself. Malfoy laughs coldly down at me. "Don't you know this curse? You're not completely immobile." His sneer heightens. "I want you to talk."

For a moment, I consider pressing my lips together and giving him an insolent look. But then the image of his mother's ice-cold eyes piercing me from behind the bars of a cage flashes through my mind, and I feel the blood drain from my face.

"Malfoy, listen," I say urgently, qualms forgotten. He's looking down at me derisively. I pause. There could be many complications if I tell him the truth… I'm not sure how many of Voldemort's followers know about the tapped in connection with the 'Boy-Who-Lived' (somehow, I doubt very many). Someone would want to use me as a weapon. Perhaps Malfoy himself. Not to mention the fact that Voldemort doesn't appear to be aware of our reconnection. The last thing I want is for him to start slithering in my mind and discover my discovery of Horcruxes. My brows knit, watching Malfoy's impatience tick in his jaw. But I have to do something.

Wracking my brains, I settle on doing what I do best. I regulate my breathing and even manage a small smirk, which he notices through narrowed eyes. "Alright. You caught me. But you have to understand, Malfoy… I like her."

His eyes turn to slits. "Who?"

My smirk turns dandy, and I realize the curse doesn't restrict my head from tilting, either, so he gets a full view of it. "I think we both know." Malfoy goes a shade paler as his jaw clenches. "And I think we both know who she'd choose."

"She doesn't need to choose anyone," he says in his nasally voice. His eyes scorch down against my already searing forehead, as if he could will me believe him. "I want nothing to do with her. She's just a filthy Mudblood who keeps me entertained during these boring patrols."

"I know. I was watching you, after all." I hum thoughtfully to prevent myself from cackling at his cold glare. "I wasn't worried about the competition—" I have to strangle back another rather hysterical impulse to laugh when he visibly fights a scowl "—more about the type of company she's keeping." He glances away, jaw tightening further. "I mean, with parents like yours—"

"Careful, Potter." His voice is dangerously low. As much as this is for his own good, I'm not particularly ashamed to admit that I'm enjoying hitting his sore spots.

"I won't even talk about your father." His wand is suddenly jabbing against my throat, but it doesn't deter me. "But your mother… she may be cruel," I swallow as the wand lodges harder into a crook of my throat, making my speech rather uncomfortable, "but she's also beautiful." Malfoy's face is a mixture of perplexity and incredulousness. It's the most fantastic expression I've ever seen on him and I briefly have the ridiculous wish that one of the Creevey brothers were here right now to snap a photo. My next words are quick to sober me up, though. "I wonder how long a beautiful thing can last in a dark world like that. Dementors and werewolves…" Sorry, Lupin. "...Your father's friends… And Voldemort." That last one makes him go stiff. "Voldemort likes breaking beautiful things." I laugh bitterly, and this isn't remotely faked. I tilt my head straight, gazing up at the shadowy ceiling instead. "Just ask my family."

A resonating silence rings in our ears. Or at least, my own pair. I decide to plant the cherry on top: "I'm glad you think Hermione is… not to your standards." I can't hide the contempt in my voice, but I feel like it'll have the right effect anyway. There's a shifting beside me. "She's too beautiful for your world. They would lock her up in a cage and torture her and break her soul." I release a shuddering breath at the very thought. "Maybe it would be you who would do those things. Right now. At this very moment."

Then we lapse into complete silence. I'm not sure if a minute or ten has passed by the time his wand slides away from my throat. The whole time my mind is racing, wondering if by some miracle he had been able to interpret what I was trying to convey. I don't turn to look as I hear the rustling of robes, then the footsteps muffled by the carpet of the corridor fading away. A cloud must've fallen over the moon, because the glow through the windows fades and casts me into darkness.

I lay alone in the corridor until Malfoy's curse wears off.

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"What have you done?" Ron mumbles in my ear, as his potion coughs up a putrid purple smoke. I follow his stare across the table to Hermione, who is pointedly ignoring us. Ernie, who is chopping ingredients on the space beside her, is attempting to draw her into conversation, but when she snaps at him he promptly gives up, glancing at the pair of us with a knowing look. "Or was it me?"

"No," I mutter, just as surreptitiously, watching Ernie return to his potion. I pause as Slughorn grabs my attention, giving loud praise towards the bright green steam rising from my own cauldron. I don't need to look at Hermione to know she's scowling at the Prince's book plopped open beside my chopping board. As the professor wanders away from our table, I quietly continue, "It was me."

"Well?"

"Uhh…" I sigh. Glancing at Hermione, I almost cringe when she sneers at me in a very Malfoy-like way. I drag my eyes to my potion. "I was spying on her, and she found out."

Ron appears to be stunned into silence. I uncomfortably listen to my potion bubble before I raise my eyes to him. His red eyebrows are furrowed, making his freckled head wrinkle slightly. "Why?"

"I'll tell you later."

"What? Tell me now!"

"No."

"If you don't tell me now I'll ask her myself," he declares, but he does so quietly.

I shrug. "Go ahead."

When he visibly blanches, I have to hide my smirk by bending my head over my bubbling cauldron. "C'mon, mate," he mutters, nudging me with his elbow. "If you were spying on Hermione, then she's either gone completely barmy or she's…" He falters. I can literally hear the cogs turn in his brain.

"Malfoy?" I was not expecting such a bang on answer. Frowning, I dock my head up to level my gaze with his.

"How'd you—?"

"You've been obsessed with him all year."

"I am not obsessed," I mutter hotly, for what must be the hundredth time this year.

He wisely diverges the topic. "So this is about the patrols, then?"

I have the sudden urge to rip my hair out.

"I mean — yeah. Why is it that you lot, well, never—"

"Complained?"

"Yeah."

"I pretty much always skip." I snort at my correct theory, dropping my eyes to my potion. "And Hermione never complains."

"Yes she does."

"Correction: she never complains about something not exam-related." I laugh, and in my peripheral vision Ron gives a tentative grin.

But my amusement quickly fades. "She's got more than just principal to not complain, though," I murmur, looking back at Ron. His brows are hovering. "They're… I think they're actually friends."

"I'm not surprised."

I blink at him owlishly. "What?"

"Apparently it's been an inside joke for years. Lav told me, or rather told one of her mates while she was half-snogging me." He clears his throat, averting his eyes and rubbing the back of his neck. I shift on my feet. "Since the Yule Ball, or something? Apparently some of the Ravenclaws caught sight of him just staring at her. They thought he fancied Krum." Ron briefly scowls, and I momentarily wonder who in this school actually had a good time at the Ball. "Parkinson blabbed about him tossing his Krum posters into the Slytherin common room fire the next morning, though, so, well, people started to speculate."

My eyes go blurry and I realize I've forgotten to blink. Why hasn't Parvati informed me about this? Not that it particularly matters anymore, although it could've made my life easier. "Okay…" I raise my eyebrows. "But why are you not surprised about Hermione?"

Ron sighs deeply. "Because I've spent a very long time pining after her. But every time I think she likes me back, I see the way she looks at that Slytherin prick."

"What?"

"I— I can't really explain it, Harry," he grumbles, finally paying attention to his disastrous concoction. "I'm not sure if she's even aware of it herself."

I glance at Hermione, who's glaring at her potion, and then at Malfoy across the classroom, who hasn't looked in either of our directions since their last Prefect patrol.

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I have to say, walking through a dim seventh floor corridor with two little girls in tow is about as shifty as I can look. One of the girls is muttering rapid instructions to me:

"—so of course they'll drop whatever they're holding, a sort of alert for our snake, we need to petrify them, and remember it doesn't matter that they look like little girls, they're really the great louts that are Crabbe and Goyle, that's what they were complaining about in our first Apparition lesson I think—"

"Parvati," I mutter, which earns a sharp whack on my back. "Ow." I rub the spot, sure that if she could have reached it she would've aimed for backhanding my head instead.

"I'm Heather Whitehouse from Hufflepuff, remember? And that's Kendra Hardy from Gryffindor." I turn to my other side, where 'Kendra' sashays forwards. I purse my lips. When I'd expressed my reservations of bringing Lavender into this, Parvati had brushed me off. She'd said that her friend needed a distraction.

I just hope she doesn't get distracted from her distraction.

"My best advice to you, Potter: don't be stupid."

"Much appreciated," I snark, and she sniggers in her newly higher-pitched voice. We round the final corner, and stop at the edge.

The Map had no trace of Malfoy, but had the names of Heather Whitehouse and Kendra Hardy inked on this corridor. After staring at them for five minutes, and realizing they wouldn't budge, I'd summoned Parvati with the information, claiming Dobby had informed me of the details.

We peer from behind the wall at the other Heather and Kendra loitering opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. I muse on where the real Heather and Kendra are, but the thought quickly vanishes as Parvati speaks in a low tone. "Well, Potter. The moment of truth. Don't mess it up." It makes me think of the memory I haven't retrieved from Slughorn yet. Hermione and Malfoy and Merlin knows what's going on there. She hates my guts right now, and is all chummy with Malfoy. Everything is all reversed and wrong.

Even if I do 'mess it up', I think stubbornly, I have Voldemort's mind to rely on.