Chapter 7: Objective Reality
The hedges needed to be trimmed. That was a thought Draco had never imagined would enter his head as long as he lived, and yet here he was, entertaining it for far longer than it deserved as the sun sank lower and lower above the hills behind the Manor. His parents were out of the country.
Weren't they?
They were. And the longer he considered the grounds, the longer he could hold onto that certainty. Which wasn't so bad, really-there was loads to consider. The roses, for example, appeared to be dying; he knew fuck-all about flowers, but could swear he'd always seen them in full bloom in the summer. The grass was slightly overgrown as well, particularly around the edges. Perhaps his father was right; the gardener might do well to search for his calling elsewhere. Draco drew back slightly as if something had bitten him, then shook his head irritably.
The idea was to avoid thinking about his father, he reminded himself.
Well, what're you blaming me for? Hissed the voice in the back of his head. I'm you, aren't I?
He stifled a groan of frustration with difficulty. It was time to go inside.
The foyer was dark and quiet, but that didn't mean anything. Scarcely daring to breathe, he shut the door painstakingly behind him and crept down the first-floor corridor. The living room was deserted, likewise the drawing room and the library. Reaching the door to his father's study, he hesitated for a moment, then pressed his ear against the wood. Nothing.
He frowned. Would he hear anything, though, if his father were inside?
Pushing this thought aside, he slipped back down the corridor and made his way upstairs, pausing before rounding every corner in case something lurked behind it, ready to jump out and seize him. His heartbeat was thudding painfully against his chest and his hands were unbearably clammy by the time he came to a stop at his bedroom door, dead certain at last that he was truly alone in the house.
Was he, though? His parents weren't in-if they were, he'd have caught hell by now for failing to come home after the World Cup. All the same, as he made his tentative way back downstairs, he couldn't escape the impression he was being watched. He gave the nastiest look he could summon to the portrait of Merlin on the second landing, which its occupant returned with what felt to Draco like targeted glee.
"Oh, shut up," he muttered aloud. Feeling colossally stupid but unable to adjust his behavior in the slightest, he hastened back downstairs and into the living room, taking a vindictive sort of pleasure in throwing himself violently down on the sofa without removing his shoes. To his extreme annoyance, however, the feeling of being watched intensified tenfold. He turned sharply away from the mantle, where a portrait of some old, important man whose name he'd probably never remember bore regally down on him. Most unfortunately, a few ballerinas regarded him with a serene detachment that bordered on creepy. With a faint groan, he buried his face in the cushions. Perhaps, he thought, if he couldn't see them, they couldn't see him.
Oh, very clever, hissed a nasty little voice in the back of his head. Did a six-year-old tell you that?
Shut up, he thought firmly, but nonetheless he turned to stare upward at the ceiling. A few breaths steadied him, and the quiet began to feel peaceful instead of frightening. A ghost of the afternoon's glow washed over him then; he could feel the sun warming his skin, the perfect, overwhelming promise of Hermione's eyes. Almost at once, the warmth vanished.
Why had he told her about Sirius's friend? For that matter, why had he brought up the Mark at all? It had been such a nice moment, and then...
That's what you do, though, isn't it, hissed the voice. You take nice things, and you wreck them.
"Shut up," he whispered. He squeezed his eyes shut, but this only seemed to encourage the voice.
She's never scared for long, is she?
No, she wasn't. But then, she'd always been far braver than he.
Yes. And she makes you feel braver, doesn't she?
A smile came unbidden to his lips. Yes, she did. Always had.
Don't you think that's a bit selfish? What d'you do for her, exactly?
He sighed. The moment of peace, it seemed, was over. Perhaps he'd go and finish his homework.
Soon.
Any moment now, gravity would lift and let him off the sofa.
Any moment now.
"Well, it's about bloody time." Draco's eyes shot open and he turned so quickly he nearly snapped his neck. The voice was familiar, but it wasn't his parents, it was…
The room was empty. He craned his neck and looked around the other direction, panic ebbing away into confusion. Had he dreamed the voice?
"Down here." No, and now it sounded exasperated. Draco stood and took a tentative step further into the room, then jumped nearly a foot in the air. Sirius's head was in the fire. The moment he recovered, Draco rushed across the room and knelt by the grate.
"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed, casting a frantic glance behind him. "You've got to go, right away, you-"
"You saw the World Cup, did you?" Sirius interrupted brusquely. Draco's heart sank and sped up unbearably at the same time.
"Well, yes, but-"
"Then you can't possibly be wondering what I'm doing here."
"Oh, can't I?" countered Draco, craning his neck in an unsuccessful attempt to look at Sirius and keep the doorway in sight at the same time. If he'd been wrong before...if he wasn't alone in the house…
"Relax," Sirius told him, and his tone softened somewhat. "A family reunion isn't on my agenda today."
"Then might I suggest sending an owl?" Draco tried to snap, but instead his voice sounded thin and rather higher than normal.
"Far too risky." Draco opened his mouth to point out that Sirius showing his face in the Manor was about the riskiest thing he could think of, but Sirius forestalled him. "Normally I'd quite appreciate your wit, but there isn't much time, and there are things...things I've got to talk to you about. First off, this World Cup business. You do know what the Dark Mark is, yes?" Draco nodded.
"Yes," he said quietly.
"Right. I've been keeping my eyes on the Daily Prophet, and it seems the Ministry's saying it was a one-off. A few blokes had too much to drink at the World Cup, no one hurt, end of story. But I don't think so. This business with Mad-Eye Moody…" Draco frowned, head spinning slightly. Hermione and Ginny had been talking about someone called Moody earlier, hadn't they?
"Er-I don't-" he broke off. "What business?" Sirius raised an eyebrow.
"You have heard of Mad-Eye Moody?" Draco shook his head, and Sirius sighed slightly. "He's an Auror. Well, ex-Auror, but he's the best the Ministry's ever had." He paused, then shook his head. "Hang on." There was a muffled thud and Sirius flickered and vanished, returning a moment later with the sound of rustling paper. "Right. Listen to this: Recently under fire for its poor crowd control at the Quidditch World Cup, and still unable to account for the disappearance of one of its witches, the Ministry was plunged into fresh embarrassment yesterday by the antics of Arnold Weasley of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. Arnold Weasley, who was charged with possession of a flying car two years ago, was yesterday involved in a tussle with several Muggle law-keepers (policemen) over a number of highly aggressive dustbins. Mr. Weasley appears to have rushed to the aid of Mad-Eye Moody, the aged ex-Auror who retired from the Ministry when no longer able to tell the difference between a handshake and attempted murder. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Weasley found, upon arrival at Mr. Moody's heavily guarded house, that Mr. Moody had once again raised a false alarm. Mr. Weasley was forced to modify several memories before he could escape from the policemen, but refused to answer Daily Prophet questions about why he had involved the Ministry in such an undignified and potentially embarrassing scene." It took Draco a moment to make sense of what Sirius had read, but understanding the words didn't stop his head spinning.
"That's not Mr. Weasley's name," he said dully. Sirius gave a short, humorless laugh.
"Well, Rita Skeeter's never been known for her commitment to the truth." He paused. "The thing is, I don't think it was. A false alarm, that is." Draco frowned.
"Why not?" Sirius sighed.
"Because rumor has it Dumbledore's got him out of retirement to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts this year," he said grimly. "Which means he's reading the signs, even if no one else is." Dread crept into the pit of Draco's stomach and sat, cold and hard as a rock.
"Er...right, but why does that mean this isn't a false alarm, then?" Sirius considered him for a moment.
"Have you heard of the Triwizard Tournament?" Well and truly lost now, Draco shrugged.
"Yeah, but-"
"And you know which schools traditionally compete in the Triwizard Tournament?"
"Yes, but Sirius, what-I mean, hasn't it been banned for around three hundred years?"
"It has. But certain reliable sources tell me they're bringing it back this year." Draco frowned.
"What reliable sources?" For the first time, Sirius gave him something resembling a smile.
"None of your business. Does that sound familiar?" Draco paused, slightly stunned. If he remembered correctly, the Triwizard Tournament had been banned all those years because large numbers of students and judges met their untimely and grisly demise when the champions' tasks went awry.
"The Triwizard Tournament's supposed to be...quite dangerous, isn't it?" he said slowly. Sirius gave a grave nod.
"It'll be dangerous, yeah. But not for the reason you're thinking. That's why I've got to talk to you." Draco felt as if his head were filled with wet cement instead of brains.
"I don't understand."
"You'll have heard of Igor Karkaroff?"
"The...the Headmaster at Durmstrang?" Sirius gave a short nod. "Well, yeah, Father knows him, but what-" Sirius interrupted him with a sigh.
"Silly me, I was worried you'd be slow. How does your father know him exactly, Draco?"
"Why don't you just tell me then, seeing as you obviously know?" snapped Draco, now feeling vaguely resentful in addition to his confusion. As Sirius opened his mouth to speak, however, a particularly nasty voice in the back of his mind whispered the only possible answer to the question.
"He...they...before, they both worked…" Sirius nodded.
"Karkaroff got himself locked up in Azkaban," he said grimly. "Got released, though. Obviously." Draco frowned.
"Why?"
"Well, he made a deal, didn't he? Came to the Ministry and named names, put a load of people in Azkaban in his place. He's not very popular in there, I can tell you. And I'll tell you one more thing. Mad-Eye Moody? He's the one that caught old Karkaroff in the first place. I'll bet everything I own that's why Dumbledore's got him out of retirement." Up to this point, it seemed to Draco that his thoughts were being passed through an extremely tight sieve, fighting their slow and reluctant way to the surface of his mind. Now, the sieve abruptly snapped.
"So you don't think the attack on Moody was a false alarm," he said quietly. "You think someone…"
"Did their damndest to stop him going to Hogwarts," Sirius finished, with a nod. "Yeah." Feeling slightly dizzy, Draco glanced down at the floor in an ill-fated attempt to steady himself.
"And if someone tried to stop him coming to Hogwarts, they'd need a reason." He heard his own voice as if it were a stranger's, reaching his ears from very far away. "So you're telling me...you're telling me you think Karkaroff…"
"I'm telling you I think Karkaroff's planning to make good use of his time at Hogwarts this year," Sirius concluded grimly. "And I'm telling you he doesn't strike me as the type to be plotting anything if he weren't absolutely sure his old master would be there to reward him when it's all over." There was a moment of very heavy silence. "I don't say this to frighten you," Sirius added, in an entirely different tone.
"Could've fooled me," sighed Draco.
"Just...watch him, would you?" For the first time, a hint of trepidation crept into Sirius's voice. "I don't think...well, just keep an eye on him. I'll be near, but I won't be able to see everything that's going on. You will." Draco jumped slightly.
"What d'you mean, you'll be-you haven't come back?"
"Come off it," Sirius scoffed. "With the rumors I've been hearing all summer...Harry-" before he could stop himself, Draco rolled his eyes.
"He could be in danger, yes, I know," he said dully. "He'll try and go after Karkaroff himself if he works any of this out, so I've got to stop him doing anything stupid." When Sirius spoke again, it was scarcely above a whisper.
"Please."
The heaviness in Sirius's eyes dragged Draco's heart straight down to his toes.
"Right," he sighed. "I-yeah. All right." Almost at once, Sirius broke into a grin.
"How was the match, then?" Draco nearly laughed.
"Brilliant," he said flatly. Sirius listened raptly as he described the ins and outs of the match, and made him recount Krum's capture of the Snitch in great detail four times before he was satisfied.
Draco stood and made his way to the window after Sirius vanished, unsure, as was becoming usual after talking to Sirius, how he felt. Harry Potter shouldn't need anyone looking out for him, should he? If what Sirius said was true-if Igor Karkaroff was a Death Eater and this Mad-Eye Moody bloke had been brought in to watch him-well, why would Potter go looking for someone who wanted to kill him?
Draco nearly laughed aloud. Never mind why he did it; going after someone who wanted to kill him was nothing if not Harry Potter's specialty. And this time...well, by the sound of it, going after Igor Karkroff might be the very thing that sent the world into the cataclysm Sirius had described on that gray morning after last year's Quidditch final. He sighed and leaned his cheek against the windowpane-which he wasn't supposed to do, but his mother wasn't here, so she could get stuffed. The glass felt pleasantly smooth and cool, but the world suddenly felt vast and cavernous and empty, and Draco felt profoundly alone in it. Alone, and very, very small.
"Strength of mind," said his mother smoothly, "is not something that can be achieved quickly or imitated by employing tactics or tricks. No amount of cleverness will help you here." She paced back and forth along the length of the drawing room as she spoke, and Draco wished she wouldn't. It was making him feel dizzy and sick-or perhaps that was a byproduct of Legilimency.
Three days had passed since Sirius's visit, two since his parents' return. He'd scarcely seen his father, who'd shut himself up in his office with a few dark insinuations about what would happen if he was disturbed. His mother, meanwhile, had lost no time in teaching him about strength of mind.
"The moment in which you find yourself, your surroundings, make up objective reality. By breaking into your mind, I attempt to remove you from objective reality. Obviously, if I am successful, the contents of your mind are mine. I control you." His mother paused next to the fireplace. "Consider the room around you. Look carefully. Take it in." She paused for what seemed scarcely half a second. "Close your eyes." Though everything in him burned against it, Draco complied.
"Good. Now, visualize this room. What can you see in front of you?"
"Er...well, a fireplace."
"Yes. And to the left of the fireplace?"
"There's a window."
"What can you see outside the window?"
"Er…" He'd been looking at it seconds ago, hadn't he?
"Is it raining?" his mother prompted, after a moment.
"Yes?"
"Wrong. The right of the fireplace?"
"There's a cabinet with loads of china."
"What color is the pattern on the china?"
"Gold."
"Very good. And on the wall behind you?"
"There's a painting. Women in dresses sitting around in a park."
"How many are there?" Draco wracked his brains.
"Three?"
"Wrong. The second from the right. What color is her dress?" He hadn't a clue, or a hope of guessing.
"Er…"
"Legilimens!"
He was standing inside the drawing room, quite alone. The doors were shut, but something was straining against them, fighting tooth and nail to get in. His back pressed against the door, the knob digging painfully into his spine as he strained against the intruder.
Bang! Whatever lay beyond the door gave a particularly forceful shove, and suddenly he was in the middle of last year's Quidditch final. Lee Jordan's yells mingled with McGonagall's scolding from the stands, and ahead of him, just out of reach-no. He was back in the drawing room. There were candlesticks on the mantle above the fireplace. Two of them, crystal with white tapers.
Crash! Another almighty jab into his back. There was a mirror above the mantle, wasn't there?
Yes, and suddenly a crystal goblet flew through the air, nearly knocking him in the head, and shattered it. His father's voice sounded from above, firm and dripping with disgust...No. That was years ago, and the mirror had long since been mended. In it, he could see the painting behind him; the second woman from the right wore a blue dress...or was it green? Or purple? Or-
Bang! It was dark. Every inch of him screamed with agony, but when he tried to cry out, nothing escaped him. Clear blue eyes appeared inches from his face, and he recognized them before he saw the woman they belonged to. Dementors circled above him, too many to count, blocking out the light from the full moon above. He couldn't fight them, he could scarcely stand, but he must escape, he had to get to Sirius.
I shouldn't have told you, came a voice from the darkness. You're a good kid, Draco.
No! He grasped madly for the drawing room, but he could no longer remember where the door was. Or whether there was a door. Where had this grass come from?
I won't lie to you, Draco, said Sirius, and he was clear as day now, seated in the middle of the clearing. My word's all I've got in the world…
NO! There was a fireplace. It wasn't the one in the drawing room, but it would do. There was a fire, but he wasn't looking at the real thing. Rather, he was looking at its reflection…
It's hard, sometimes? To look at you? Because I really don't know how I feel about you, but...I'm not afraid of you.
No. No, no, no…
Was Theo quite so beautiful in real life? He couldn't remember.
I still don't know what the fuck you're- His own voice.
Oh, my god!
No.
He couldn't see the kiss. He felt it burn him, but he couldn't let go.
And then, all at once, the parlor was back. His head hurt, and the thoughts making halfhearted attempts to cross his mind made him want to cry out in agony. There was his mother's face, white as a sheet and filled with an expression he couldn't place.
"Go to your room." It was a command, but it lacked her usual authority. She looked stricken. That's what it was. But why?
"I…"
"Go!" Her voice reached a pitch that brought the past few minutes crashing back. Unable to think of a thing in the world to say and horrified by the prospect of what might happen if he disobeyed, he turned on his heel and fled.
By the time he reached his bedroom, panic was enjoying full range of his mind and his insides. His heart pounded unbearably against his ribs, his hands shook so badly he struggled to close the door behind him, and he couldn't see properly. Instead, his surroundings appeared as blocky, indistinct shapes which whirled and tilted sickeningly before his eyes. He collapsed on his bed at once and squeezed his eyes shut, willing it all to stop. He must think.
Obviously, something his mother had seen during her foray into his mind had frightened her, or...angered her? He couldn't say. Had she seen...everything as he'd seen it, or had she seen snatches here and there?
More importantly, exactly which bit had caused her to react like this?
Most importantly...had she seen Sirius?
Surely, if she had, he wouldn't be up here with his neck. Surely…
That wasn't right, he realized with a jolt. His mother already knew about Sirius. He'd told her himself, too exhausted and angry to think about the implications.
Which left...the kiss. That didn't seem right, either.
It made him sick to the core that she'd seen it, but at the same time...surely that wasn't what made her send him away so abruptly. Was it?
Either way, his next move was clear. If his parents were taking this Occlumency business seriously, so would he. The moment he got to school, he'd spend every waking minute making dead certain the next time they went poking around inside his head, it wouldn't be so easy.
