37 – Cold as Ice

He wasn't ready. He should have just let Potter amputate his arm. Then he'd be done with this mad man. Now he had to face the Dark Lord, unprepared, with one arm that he couldn't feel at all. His stomach lurched and he felt cold sweat on the back of his neck. This was going to be bad.

No.

That wasn't the way to think. He needed to pull himself together. He could do this.

The first thing was to look calm, confident, Malfoy. He stood up taller, pushing his shoulders back, then took a single deep breath. That came easily – years of practice.

Next, he had to get his mind in order. There was no time to be delicate. He found his memory of sitting at his desk writing, just after the visit to the Daily Prophet, and got rid of everything after that. The timing would be off, way off, but he'd just have to hope . . . .

"Draco, you have something to show me, don't you?" The Dark Lord's voice was smooth and sibilant.

Even as his mind protested that he wasn't ready, his mouth was already saying it. "Yes, sir."

"Excellent. How was our friend at the Daily Prophet?"

"Very cooperative." This was it. The search was coming. He looked straight into the Dark Lord's eyes, willing himself to be calm, to ignore the heaving in his stomach, to . . . .

There was an undignified screech from somewhere in the cave and the Dark Lord's head jerked around. "What was that?"

Draco stood still as his master went, wand already raised, to see what the disturbance had been. All eyes were on the Dark Lord, but just to be safe he couldn't let his relief show. He took a slow breath in through his nose, concentrated on slowing his racing heart. Then, once Old Ugly was thoroughly occupied with interrogating whoever had stepped out of line, Draco slipped back into his own mind and started grabbing memories, moving them around, one of him finishing some notes, another of eating a sandwich, then taking a nap. That was enough.

As he focused back on the cave he recognized that tonight's screaming was coming from Mr. Parkinson. What had the poor fool done to deserve that? What did anyone ever do?

He gripped his hands behind his back, his customary position. Tonight though, his left arm and hand were completely numb. Potter had overdone it. Draco clutched his own numb hand, ignored the weird sensation of holding a wrist that couldn't feel his other hand at all. He widened his stance slightly. Having his left side numb made him feel unbalanced. He needed to act like a Malfoy – ice, calm, the perfect soldier.

So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Last night he'd finally kissed Hermione. It had been better than he had ever imagined. Then - it felt like mere seconds later - he'd lost her. He'd been so worried, terrified, that something had happened to her, someone had gotten her. He'd had visions of Greyback grabbing her, Hermione melting her coin in desperation.

That had been wrong. He'd been completely off. For all of his wild imaginings he'd been nowhere near what actually happened. When Potter told him what Hermione had seen he had lost all hope, then the Chosen One had thrown him a line. That was all it was – just a thin line, a fraying string, a slight chance that, now that he knew why she hated him, maybe, just maybe, there was some way he could show her the truth, convince her to give him a second chance. He didn't deserve it. He'd traumatized Pansy, one of his oldest friends. No matter what, Pansy would have those memories in her head, incomplete as they were. She'd never be able to look at him without seeing him as a monster and Hermione, sweet, idealistic Hermione, had seen the monster as well.

This was not the time to think about what a mess his life was, unless he wanted his miserable existence to flare out into a much more hideous end. He couldn't even try to deal with any of this unless he was alive. With a sigh, he went back into his own head and pushed those thoughts away. He couldn't have errant thoughts of Hermione or the Menace that Lived floating around his mind.

Once again, he slipped out and focused on the cave, on being ready. He glanced over at the mob. Parkinson's screams were subsiding into hiccupping sobs.

Draco took slow deep breaths and thought of ice. He tried to pull up some feeling of devotion to the Dark Lord, some pleasure in his praise, something, but he couldn't do it. It was gone. He glanced up and his eyes caught eyes of grey, so similar to his own. His father was watching him, the black and red pieces of a checkers game scattered on the cave floor in front of him, one red one clutched in his hand as though he were about to place it on the board. His hair was dank and disheveled, his robes, frayed and marked with dirt, but his eyes – tonight they were focused, sharp, his father's eyes of old. They stared at each other, eye to eye, man to man. Had Lucius ever looked at him like that before?

"Enough." The Dark Lord's voice rang out. "We have business to attend to. No more interruptions."

Lucius' eyes fell to the checkers, but Draco thought he'd nodded at him first. A deliberate nod. A recognition. A message of some sort. Another thing for Draco to ponder later. The Dark Lord would have questions and he wasn't going to have all the answers.

"Master Malfoy, where were we?"

"My Lord, I believe you were going to examine my meeting with Mr. Carneirus of the Daily Prophet."

"Ah, yes. Come. Some privacy will prevent any further interruptions." A bony robed arm was held out to him and Draco placed his hand on it, bracing against the side along apparition. For some reason, he had to fight the urge to seek out his father's eyes one more time as they departed the cave. They landed quickly, once more in the Lestranges' stifling dining room, the fire blazing in the dark room. Draco stumbled, only slightly. He couldn't fall. That would be disastrous with a numbed arm.

The invasion came almost immediately. Draco pushed his memory from that afternoon forward. The Dark Lord chuckled over the reporter's claim that Hardstone was in charge of the security for the most important vaults. Draco felt as well as heard the hiss: "Potter." He kept his mind as blank as possible. He couldn't risk an uncontrolled thought.

Then the Dark Lord was out, strutting, preening. All Draco could focus on was the heat from the fire. That, at least, was safe. Could he cast a wordless cooling charm? He tried it. He needed to be cool. He needed to not be sweating. It was a bit weak, but it helped.

"And what of your message? Have you broken the code?"

That he was not ready for. He dropped his head. Best to be honest. "No, my Lord."

"The little bitch is nothing if not cryptic." Draco could not react.

If only he'd had a chance to read the scroll in his pocket. He would later. That meant he could bluff now.

"I'll know when I get into the vault. They are puzzle pieces. I've always excelled at puzzles."

"But if you don't?"

Draco took in a lungful of air and held it. Unfortunately, that was a very good question. He'd thought about this before. What had his plan been?

"My Lord, I was thinking about that very question the other day." He frowned. He didn't want to go back into his own mind. He couldn't risk having Snake Eyes barge in with him. There had been an answer. Of course – it had to do with how limited their mission was. "My Lord, if I can't solve the puzzle while we are there I will simply get your assistance when we get back."

He looked up at Old Ugly, wanting him to put the pieces together himself. The Evil One was always happier when he was the smartest one in the room. Draco thought, maybe, that he saw a glimmer of confidence in the thin slits that his boss called eyes.

Of course, nothing could be easy.

"Explain your plan so that nothing goes astray." The "s's" were long hisses. Was this a test, or had Snake Nose really not put things together? Did it matter?

"I will methodically look at everything in the vault. It is probably best if my companion does the same thing to make sure that neither of us misses anything. If I can't decipher the clues I will come back and let you look through my memories and then we can solve this."

The Dark Lord nodded. One way or another he was happy with Draco's answer. That was all that mattered for now. Draco knew he'd be able to read the scroll. It felt strangely like cheating on a test, but desperate times called for . . . .

"You'll be going with Mr. Parkinson. I do hope he will be up for the exertion." Was Old Ugly realizing that torturing his most faithful followers had a downside? "Are you ready then? Do you have any questions?"

Old Ugly must be happy with him, at least for now. He was being almost solicitous. This was an opportunity Draco shouldn't waste.

"I do have a question, my Lord, although it is unrelated to the Gringotts venture."

The Dark Lord's nearly non-existent eyebrows raised. "What would that be?"

"Why didn't Greyback transform last night? The moon was full."

"Ahh. I was wondering when someone would notice. I'm not surprised that it was you."

Snake Eyes gave him an almost smile, expecting him to be thrilled at the almost compliment. Draco tried to fake a pleased blush, tried not to think about the fact that it had been Hermione who had noticed. It must have been enough since his boss gave him a nod and continued.

"Dolohov and I have been experimenting. It seems that Greyback has had moments of heightened awareness, feeling the wolf arise while he was in human form. It sharpened his senses, increased his power, even when he hadn't transformed. We've been trying to induce the same effect, control it. I've made him a potion."

"I should have known only you could change the nature of a werewolf," Draco said, the flattery dripping out almost reflexively.

"Somewhat. Greyback is disappointed. Bringing the wolf out more has apparently prevented him from transforming, a development that pleases me greatly. He will have to learn to enjoy being more wolf all the time, rather than a full wolf once a month."

Draco suppressed a shudder. Other werewolves wanted to decrease the wolf, strengthen their human side. Greyback, the savage, wanted to be less human and more wolf. All of that made him more dangerous, a greater risk to Hermione. Draco needed to warn her.

The Dark Lord gave him a dismissive nod and held out his arm. Time to go back to the cave. Good. Now he just needed to survive the meeting. That had to be easier than having the Dark Lord's focus only on himself, didn't it?

As they arrived back in the cave, Draco noticed that his balance was improving. His arm was slowing regaining feeling. He just needed to get through a little while more. Then his attention was drawn to a group over near the cave wall. They were turning, noticing the Dark Lord's return, quickly shuffling away from whatever they had been doing, heads down, trying not to draw attention.

He paid little attention, instead taking a moment to grip his left hand with his right. A firm squeeze sent needles of sensation jabbing through his hand. It was uncomfortable, but such a relief that he kept doing it again and again. Maybe he could speed the return of full function, maybe not, but at least his hand wasn't completely useless anymore.

"My friends," the Dark Lord had magnified his own voice so that it reverberated through the cave, "we stand about to penetrate into the Order's secrets. They will never see us coming and our triumph will be . . . ."

Draco tuned him out. This would probably go on for a while. At this volume it would give him a headache before the speech's end. It was apparently intended as a pep talk, although it was mainly the same old bragging.

He glanced up, letting his eyes wander the cave while attention was on his master. With a start he realized that, now that the small crowd had dispersed, he could see his father, leaning heavily against the cave wall. Whatever alertness he had seen earlier - he had seen it, hadn't he? – was gone now. Instead, Lucius seemed on the verge of unconsciousness, his eyes unfocused, his mouth hanging open. Most worrisome, there was a large red welt rising on his cheek. It appeared that someone had struck him. His clothes were rumpled, one sleeve torn, almost separated from the rest of his shirt. He hadn't had a wizard's cloak for a while now, but surely Draco would have noticed if his shirt had been in tatters before.

Was that what the Death Eaters had been doing in his absence? Abusing his father? Rage rose within him. His father was wandless, helpless, but he wasn't. Did they not fear him? The fools.

Then another thought struck him. Why? Why would they turn on Lucius now? For the most part they ignored him, all afraid to acknowledge his fallen state. Draco surveyed those standing nearest to Lucius. Parkinson, who was looking fairly disshelved himself, glanced over at him surreptitiously. There was guilt in his face, in the way he could not, would not, meet Draco's eye.

Parkinson was part of this. Good. The two of them would be alone in the Gringott's vault. He would deal with Parkinson then.

" . . . . by young Master Malfoy and my dear friend Parkinson." Both Draco and Parkinson quickly shifted their focus to Old Ugly. It wasn't safe to ignore him too long. He was droning on about their secret mission, giving no details and promising much triumph. To Draco's immense relief it wasn't long before they were all released.

As he finally apparated back to his cottage, the Dark Lord's parting words rang in his ears. "No matter what traps Potter and his mudblood set, we will outwit them."

Somehow the idiocy of that statement, coming on top of the emotional upheaval of the past few hours, and the sensation of apparating while exhausted and off balance, caused Draco's stomach to heave. He barely had time to trip into the kitchen before he vomited the contents of his stomach into the sink. Even once his stomach was empty, the dry heaves continued until he heard Nappy behind him.

He was past being embarrassed to have the elf see him so pathetic. Instead, he took the potion offered and slammed it back. Whatever it was, he trusted that it could only help.

Sure enough, the potion settled his stomach. It must have been something medicinal, and there seemed to be some calming draught included. Draco slumped into a kitchen chair, catching his breath.

Thank God he hadn't lost it like that in front of the Dark Lord. He felt weak, like a small child.

"Master be sleeping. Need rest."

Draco could only nod. "Wake me at 5."

Draco woke with a start. It was dark. He'd had some horrible dream that involved seeing his father playing with a detached arm, then realizing that it was his own.

His shook his head to clear out the image, while grouping for his wand, then cast a quick tempus charm. 4:20. No point in trying to go back to sleep. He got up and staggered into the bathroom. After a shower he finally felt fully conscious. Some strong tea should get rid of the vague headache that lingered.

He had just prepared the tea leaves when Nappy appeared with a "pop."

"Master is not be making tea. Tea is Nappy's job."

He held up his hands in surrender. "It's all yours." As he sat down at the table he smirked, seeing Nappy decide that he must have been doing a decent job.

It wasn't long before he was feasting on a spectacular fry-up, bangers, beans, bacon, eggs, toast. His nausea from the night before was long gone and he was starving. It was going to be a busy, important day. Best to go in well nourished.

As he ate he remembered the scroll he'd gotten from Potter and summoned it from his cloak in his room.

He used a flattening spell to straighten the tattered paper. It was the same note he'd sent with Nappy, with Potter's chicken-scratch writing answering each question in the margin. Some of it they'd covered last night – details about the Gringotts' escapade. He skipped over that part, only wanting to find the answer to his panicked query – "What are Hermione's memory clues about?"

It was a two word answer – "my glasses."

Draco sat back puzzled. Could it be that simple? He went through the memories again. Potter on the train – Hermione fixed his glasses. Dumbledore? He was wearing glasses, too. Seriously? Had she thought they would catch that?

The quidditch match made sense. She'd done a spell on his glasses. One by one, he went through the memories. They did all involve Potter's glasses, other than the one with Dumbledore. Would he ever have figured that out?

It didn't matter. He didn't have to. He took another slow sip of coffee. It was actually brilliant. Convince Snake Eyes that Potter's glasses were an amulet. The bit with Dumbledore suggested that his glasses had perhaps been one too. Old Ugly would love that. It helped that it didn't make any sense that either of them wore glasses. A reasonably good wizard could do an eye enhancement spell without any problem. Why hadn't Dumbledore? Anyway, it didn't matter at this point.

The whole thing was perfect.

Draco scanned through the scrawled notes about Gringott's, but it was going to be easy now. As easy as dealing with goblins and fooling his psychopathic boss ever could be.

And it was easy. The goblins bowed and grovelled. One of them, Algoroth, was the contact. He had set things up and was in on it. The rest of them were just worshipping power and money. Draco made sure to flaunt both.

He and Parkinson went into the vault alone. The Dark Lord had sent Dolohov with him, but he was assigned to keep watch on the steps of the bank. At least Old Ugly was smart enough to worry about a trap. He just had no idea the kind of trap that had been set for him.

Algoroth was certainly not friendly. Once they were in the cart he began to lecture them. "You are here to look. No more. The vault has been prepared. You will do no more than we have agreed. Pick anything up and you will be hexed. Try to take anything out of the vault and you will suffer a much more unpleasant hex."

The goblin seemed to relish the idea, as though he was hoping to see whatever would happen.

"There's no need to fret," Draco said in his most condescending voice. "We are only here to observe."

The fake Vault 687 itself looked perfect. Draco was glad that his boss wasn't actually there though. It looked just as an old money storage place for decades, if not centuries, of magical items should. The glasses were there, several pairs. That was enough to give away the game for sure. The book on amulets was a cute touch too. Overall though, the feel was off. Somehow it felt too clean, too pure.

Or maybe he was just comparing it to his own vaults.

Parkinson was so full of nervous energy that he was driving Draco mad. Fine, his nerves had to be still burning from the crucio last night. Draco looked at him as Parkinson, once more, avoided his eyes. He was afraid. As he should be.

"Ready to go?" Draco asked him, as the older man wandered aimlessly around the tables. At Draco's words, he jumped and bumped into a table, knocking several items off of the table. Without thinking he caught a small silver child's cup, then screamed as he realized that the cup was now stuck to his hand. He shook his arm, flailing wildly, but it wouldn't budge.

"Hold still," Draco commanded. There was only one way to get the cup off. If he tried to leave the vault with it stuck to his hand it would doubtlessly lead to something much worse. Parkinson gripped his forearm, holding himself still. Draco cast a quick severing spell, better to just do it quickly and Parkinson howled, but Draco followed it with a numbing charm, then healed the abrasions on the three bleeding fingers and Parkinson grew quiet. He was now clearly embarrassed by his reaction.

"Um? Are we done? Can we go?" Draco almost felt sorry for him. The guy had no idea why they were here, what they were doing, whether the Dark Lord would be pleased or not.

"Almost. Did you see this?" Draco gestured to the amulet book, but that was just a ruse to get Parkinson a bit closer.

"No. What is it?" The pudgy wizard hurried over, anxious, distracted.

"Petrificulus."

Draco's spell was wandless, but spoken aloud. Best not to leave a trail on his wand, but the way Parkinson's eyes had widened when he heard the word would be helpful. The spell wouldn't be as strong, but he didn't need much time.

Draco came around to stare into Parkinson's eyes and slipped into his mind. He pushed his way back to the cave and the memory of Parkinson tormenting his father jumped out, as guilty thoughts often did in the unpracticed.

Parkinson had his wand out, thrust into Lucius' face. Lucius' eyes had their usual vague emptiness. Had Draco imagined the glimmer of intelligence in them?

"You!" Parkinson accused. "Why were you toying with me?" He sent a stinging hex, that hit his father on the hip, then another that caught him across the face.

"What are you doing?" snapped Dolohov.

"He threw something at me, one of those red things. It hit me. It's his fault I was crucio'd! Why is he even still here? He's just a retard!" With that he lashed out at Lucius again, this time catching him across the chest and drawing a whimper from Draco's father.

Parkinson was a petulant child. How could he abuse someone like that? Someone who had once been his friend, but now was wandless and simple. Draco's earlier pity froze. This pathetic man deserved the pain he had caused himself by bumping into things. How could an adult not realize that one needed gloves in a vault like this?

Draco pulled out of his mind. Parkinson was pale now. Apparently being petrified didn't stop that reaction.

Draco slashed his wand and Parkinson gasped and clutched at his own chest. A stinging hex for a stinging hex. The Dark Lord wouldn't mind finding that on Draco's wand. Draco cast two more, one across the older man's face. He didn't mind if others knew. It would be more protection for his father that way.

Then he stopped. The Dark Lord would expect him to be harsh. He was more likely to chastise Draco for being too mild, but Hermione? She would remind him that Parkinson had suffered the crucio. The actual villain here, as happened so often, was Voldemort.

Draco sighed. They were all acting like bratty children.

All he said was "It is time to go."

The two men didn't speak as they summoned the goblin to open the vault door, then rode the cart back to the lobby.

Draco had a headache again. He wanted nothing more than to go home, but he still had to report back to his boss. At least he had the right answers now.

They left the bank and headed to the place at the bottom of the stairs where Dolohov was already waiting for them, with his faithful wolf, Fenrir.

"Finished, gents?" Antonin asked with mock politeness.

A soft gasp was the only warning he got, although even that was enough for Draco to jerk around. The voice was familiar. She had to be near. His wand was out, although Fenrir was already bolting up the bank stairs.

Where was she? It was Hermione, wasn't it, but where was she?

Then she screamed and there was no doubt in his mind that it was her. Fenrir was already on her, some sort of invisibility cloak falling off of her, even as she fell under his assault, landing heavily on the stairs. Draco cast a "stupefy" before he had time to think, then knew immediately that it would have no effect, no effect but causing the Dark Lord to doubt his loyalty.

What could he do? There was nothing. He and Dolohov were both bounding up the stairs, Fenrir gripping Hermione roughly.

"Steady, boy," Dolohov said, soothingly. "Let's go. The Dark Lord will be very pleased with you indeed." With that he grabbed her other arm and disapparated the three of them.

Draco fell back. He was too late. They had taken her.

He felt the blood rush from his head as the icy implications of that hit him.

They had taken her.

AN – So sorry for the delay. I'm hoping that without Christmas, travel and family illness the next chapter will be up more promptly. Thanks for reading. Please review.

As always – thanks to my lovely British beta – Hesaluti!

Next chapter you will see Hermione's POV and fill in some blanks.