A/N: I know this chapter was a long time in coming, but it gave me trouble. I ended up rewriting most of it. Anyway, enjoy! I will try to be a little quicker with the next chapter.
Chapter Two
"You ready to go?" Sirius said, poking his head through Harry's door.
Harry yelped, yanking up his shorts and snatching for his jeans. "Sirius, get out!"
"What, we're all guys here."
"Except the girl downstairs!" Harry hissed.
"Please tell me you didn't invite your girlfriend along for this."
"Tonks is here, you retard. Didn't you hear Remus say that he and she were assigned to follow that Yaxley bloke tonight?"
"Oh. Thought that was tomorrow," Sirius answered, unconcerned.
"Could you please shut the door until I get my pants all the way on?"
"Sure," he smirked, retreating and closing the door softly. Harry could hear him sauntering down the stairs and was sure he was going to be relating exactly what happened. He briefly considered going out the window and Flooing to Hogwarts from the Leaky Cauldron, just to avoid the teasing, but he couldn't exactly do this without Sirius. And it had been an awfully long time in coming. Research, a ghastly number of firecalls to get permission, and more research. But they finally had the procedure right and Harry felt right about doing it.
Harry went downstairs calmly, only to find Sirius standing in the hall, turning to face him with a finger on his lips. Harry raised his eyebrows in question, but Sirius just jerked his head toward the kitchen door.
"No, that won't be necessary," Remus said, obviously answering a question.
"Are you sure?" came Tonks' voice.
"Yes, of course, I'm quite practiced with Disillusionment Charms."
"Ah, yes, all that . . . experience." Her voice sounded teasing, and it had the hint of an already long familiar joke.
"If you poke fun at my age again, I shall simply leave you to your own devices," Remus declared loftily, and Harry could just picture the private little smile he wore.
"I would never!" Tonks gasped with faked horror. "When I said that gray was an attractive colour on you, I was talking about your jumper! You know, like that time you said purple after the solstice was just in bad taste, I knew you were talking about Sirius' horrid jacket, not me."
They had both dissolved into laughter.
Sirius grimaced at Harry, but Harry was grinning. "By God, they're flirting," he whispered.
"That's flirting?" Sirius muttered, but then he was smiling, too. "Best of luck, Remus," he added before he cleared his throat and walked forward with obvious footsteps. Harry followed him. "We're leaving now."
"Oh, us, too," Tonks said, looking entirely sober now.
Remus was maintaining a dignified aura. "We both ought to be back within two hours, yes? Everyone knows the plan if someone isn't?"
They all nodded and agreed, then Sirius headed for the hall again.
"We're just Flooing. You kids have fun."
"Fun? Tailing that ape Yaxley?" Tonks snorted.
"I'm sure you'll find a way," Harry murmured, mostly to himself, but he wasn't really amused by the budding romance, he was thinking about his own plans. He wasn't looking forward to his own job for the night. He'd much rather be running around under a charm trying not to get caught by the Death Eaters he was spying on. He was going to be involved in very risky magic and most likely get in a fight, only without the benefit of it including a pretty girl or doing anything positive for the Order.
He let Sirius go through first, to scope things out and make sure Harry wasn't going to get hexed the minute he stepped through, then he threw down some powder and declared his destination as Dumbledore's office. With a swirling rush of air and noise, he was there. He coughed, brushed ash from his shoulders, and looked around.
Everyone was seated calmly and quietly, so that was good. He met Draco's eyes and nodded.
"You ready?"
Draco looked a bit ill, but at least he looked like Draco. He'd been at the school half the afternoon, while Dumbledore explained to him the risks that were involved in what they were about to do (like the risks weren't obvious), so the Polyjuice had worn off.
"I was ready to do this months ago," Draco answered with a grim look.
"Tough. Told you I wouldn't until I talked to the other people in the DL and made sure they knew what was going on. Couldn't track down Colin until yesterday, as you know. They all say they don't mind anyone knowing they were part of it, and we're going to destroy that parchment Hermione spelled. So, let's do it."
"Wait," Draco said, licking his lips, and looking at Dumbledore, who was sitting at his desk with his usual aplomb. "You'll stop it if things go wrong?"
"That is why I am here, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore answered, smiling with confidence. "I am certain they will go exactly as planned, however."
He was here to witness this as much as anything, Harry thought. He'd helped with the research to be sure no one would get killed, and now he wanted to see them go through with it so an impartial (well, sort of impartial) witness knew it was done.
"Then hurry up and do it," Draco said, his face very pale and his eyes everywhere but on Harry as Harry stepped up to him and they resumed the positions they'd taken when they'd taken the Vow all those months ago. Sirius held out his wand and began to work the magic to remove it. Harry had wondered if it would feel any different when it was finished, or if it would just feel normal. A feeling of pressure began to build in him, and he began to worry. His eyes flicked to Dumbledore, but Dumbledore looked serene, so Harry tried to relax despite the feeling that he was a balloon being blown up. If it went wrong, would he just . . . pop?
When Sirius spoke the final incantation, the answer was obvious. Harry felt a sudden lessening of all that pressure, building in someplace he couldn't define and gone just as quickly. Draco's breath rushed out of him is a whoosh, and he looked shaken.
"Did it work?" he gasped.
"Test it out," Dumbledore urged. "I am quite sure."
Draco opened his mouth, closed it, and fidgeted. "Quite sure?"
Harry rolled his eyes. That seemed to give Draco the strength he needed.
"Last term, I entered into an Unbreakable Vow with Harry Potter," Draco said, his words all a rush. Seeming surprised by his own statement, he hurried on. "It was forced on me, not something I wanted to do, but my only other option was a memory charm performed by an inexperienced blowhard—"
Sirius cleared his throat, but Harry just crossed his arms and gave Draco a flat look.
"I was sworn to secrecy concerning the actions of a group of students calling themselves the Defense League, or DL." Here Draco paused. "Oh. I guess it worked."
"Well, I don't see you choking to death or anything," Harry agreed.
Draco gave him a very grim smile. "This means you're not sworn to protect me from the rest of the DL anymore," he drawled. "Planning an ambush already, are you?"
"I'm not planning a thing," Harry said, impatient. "There, you're free. Run off and tell whoever you like. The DL is over with, now that Sirius is allowed to teach combative spells in class again." And now they arrived at the reason Harry had avoided Draco all summer, other than to let him have what little pride he could muster. "If this was all that was standing between you and going back to your father and Voldemort, it's not there now. You can."
Draco smirked. "Are you waiting for me to say that I'm going there right now, so you all can follow me and put a stop to it or something?"
Harry sighed, uncrossing his arms and stepping toward the fireplace. He didn't want to fight. "I'm going home. See you when school starts, Draco." Then a thought struck him, and he turned back. "I will see you, I hope. If your father doesn't believe you, if Voldemort is there . . ."
"Your concern is touching," Draco sneered. "A very good act."
Harry held his temper. "Whatever. Do what you like, get yourself killed. You're right, I don't care. Because when people know the consequences of their choices going in, I don't feel bad when they get what was coming to them."
"Ever the sovereign ruler of moral conviction."
"Thought some of it might rub off on you," Harry muttered. "I see you're the same coward you've always been. See you if I see you, then."
Not willing to waste any more breath on the trading of insults, he went back to the house. It was quiet, and he suddenly wished Tonks and Remus were still there, harmlessly flirting in the kitchen. Instead, it was just Kreacher, cooking them dinner. Harry thought he should probably be extra polite to the house elf, since he'd be leaving for school soon and the elf would start sulking over being alone too much. But he just went upstairs without saying a word and began to survey his room for dirty laundry. He had to start all the washing so he could pack his trunk. He, at least, planned to be there for the autumn term.
"Not purple, anyway," Harry muttered, not taking his eyes off the mirror when he heard Tonks burst into laughter down in the kitchen. There was the sound of a dish shattering, but that didn't draw too much attention, either. Tonks broke stuff all the time. "But something."
He was staring at himself, wondering what he was going to do. The problem? He looked too much like a goody-two-shoes, too much like an Undersecretary-in-training. Nice haircut, well groomed, and of course his school uniform made him look very presentable. And he looked very unappealing to a huge number of people. All the people who were crying out for Fudge's job, acting impressed by Harry's life before England . . . not to mention all the students at his school who now knew who he was and were going to have a hard time taking him for who he was. It was all the stupid newspaper articles, the interviews with reporters, the meetings with the Minister, and so forth. Harry was being forced into politics, and he didn't like it. Hated it, in fact. And people were going to start thinking of him as a politician instead of a fighter, and he was ready to do anything to divorce himself from that image.
His thoughts were revolving around his hair. Maybe he could grow it out into a mohawk or something, but he didn't think that would impress anyone. But something rebellious-looking. It was probably Sirius' fault, for making him dye his hair and grow it out all this time. He barely recognised himself like this, although he was happy to have his specs back and ditch the contact lenses. He met his own eyes in the mirror, happy to have his mother's eyes but annoyed with all the people who thought he was his father come again. Sirius never treated him like that.
He started to grin. He was going to go to a Muggle hair salon, but first, he had to call Hermione. He wanted her help finding a potion or a spell that would make his hair just an inch or so longer.
Sirius strolled in. "Well, they're off tailing Yaxley again. I tell you, Dumbledore doesn't miss a thing, putting them together on patrol three times in as many weeks. I hope he knows what he's doing, though. They might forget about those pesky Death Eaters."
Harry just smiled.
"What are you doing up here, anyway?"
"Figuring out a way to create a public image. I have to work with the Ministry, I don't have to be their poster boy."
Sirius' smile fell. "Oh, no. Don't do it, Harry."
"You don't even know what I'm going to do," he protested.
"You're right. That's why I'm nervous."
"Do you deny I need a public image? I've been in the newspaper all summer, and I need some way to prove I'm my own person, rather than my father or an extension of the Ministry. They're trying to make me into—"
"The Chosen One," Sirius finished for him.
Harry cringed. That little moniker had shown up in the papers just this week. It was the worst thing he'd ever heard. Chosen One? Please. The only one who had chosen him for anything was Voldemort, and he was getting pretty sick of Voldemort.
"I won't be what they want me to be, Sirius. You see why I have to do something obvious to prove I'm not it?"
"I see it, Harry," Sirius whispered. "I see it because I raised you and I love you. They're having a much harder time. So, yes, you have my permission. But nothing crazy. Please."
"It has to be simple and obvious."
"It does. Just do one thing for me? Ask Dumbledore's opinion?"
Harry snorted. "Not until he's ready to talk about the Horcruxes and the Deathly Hallows. He's pretending he doesn't know what I'm talking about and that he really will tell me his thoughts when he has more information."
Sirius frowned, but didn't have any new advice on that matter. "Just keep being who you are. He'll see that he can trust you with this stuff eventually."
"Eventually?" Harry repeated, eyes blazing. "We don't have that much time. I doubt we'll get another year before Voldemort goes from sneaking around doing household murder and starts touching off real battles."
Sirius held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "You're right. I'm not the one you need to convince."
"I know," Harry sighed. "Sorry. It's just everyone else in the country . . ."
He had three aprons, all washed by the service witch at the inn, and he handed them over to Mr. Fortescue silently, unable to conceal the relief in his face that it was over. The summer had driven him mad. People treating him like dirt just because he was wearing the apron, and him unable to say a word back because he was supposed to be fine with being treated like dirt. Taking the Polyjuice every hour, pretending it was some kind of treatment for an illness he supposedly had, and therefore being treated even worse by the other staff and the folks at the inn for being filthy and diseased. He'd hated this whole thing. Fortescue and Tom at the Leaky Cauldron were the only people who knew who he was, and they were happy to do Dumbledore a favour, and everyone else had ignored Draco unless they wanted something from him.
It wasn't fair. He was the son of Lucius Malfoy, they should have been bowing and scraping to him. But he wanted to live, so he pretended he deserved their scorn, feeling the million little slights driving into him like needles all while smiling and saying he'd be happy to serve them. And it wasn't like he deserved it anyway! He'd done the job asked of him, hadn't he? He'd been polite and conscientious all summer! Was this just how people treated nobody wait staff all the time? What had any of them ever done to deserve it?
Except Fortescue. Fortescue had treated him with a modicum of respect, even deigned to tell him a few of the wild stories from his youth. And Tom, of course, who'd given him a discount for his room (his tiny, cramped, ugly room) because of how long he was staying there, and every once in a while brought up a butterbeer or an ale, "on the house" with a wink of shared secrets when it was the ale that he was still too young to drink. He supposed he could get Tom in a lot of trouble for serving it to him, if he wanted to.
He really wanted to leave, but instead he looked at Fortescue and said the words, the words that sat there bitter on his tongue, waiting to be expelled however reluctantly.
"Thank you."
For taking him. For treating him better than the others. For not trying to turn Draco in for a favour from his father. He didn't want to say it, he wanted to go on acting like he deserved it, but he'd spent the whole summer having it ground into him that he was nobody, now. Not to mention reading in the paper that his father was a traitor and slime, despite the fact that nobody had enough evidence to actually prove he was with the Dark Lord. Fortescue could have been treating him like a walking pile of rubbish, same as everyone else. So, he had to say thank you.
Fortescue just smiled, tucked the aprons under his arm, and said, "You're quite welcome, young man."
Draco parted ways with him with no other words spoken. He went back to the Leaky Cauldron and shrank his trunk, which contained all his worldly possessions, along with the new schoolbooks and supplies he'd had to hoard his meagre wages all summer to be able to purchase. He carried it downstairs to the smoky and nearly deserted room where he knew he'd find Tom. The hateful words had to be said for a second time.
"Ah, time to leave then, is it?" Tom said, a smile cracking open his wrinkled, craggy face.
"Yes."
"I've seen a great number of young people pass through here," Tom said in a quiet, just-you-and-me voice. "Going to fetch their school supplies, staying overnight before the train, all sorts of children with all sorts of dreams. You're one I'll remember, that's for sure. Can't have been easy, doing what you did. What you're doing now. Ain't that many who'll see it and recognise it, but it's taken a lot of strength. Dumbledore's a good man, that's sure, and it was good of him to get you set up. But it was you who saw it through, and that's something to be proud of. Good luck to you, sir."
Draco had to take a deep, calming breath before he could answer. "Thank you. For . . . well, thank you."
He rushed out of the place and hurried on his way to King's Cross Station. He'd taken his last dose of Polyjuice an hour ago, and he began to feel the effects creeping out of him, bleeding away the dark hair and spotty skin and skinny neck. He'd be himself, soon, and he stopped to put on the Invisibility Cloak that Dumbledore had loaned him before he continued entered the train station.
He hurried through the barrier and then pressed himself up against a pillar to wait. He'd be the last to board the Hogwarts Express, not wanting to get knocked into by any of the students milling around calling out greetings and trying to wrestle their luggage onto the train. He didn't want to reveal himself until he was on the train. He could have boarded under disguise, but he thought it might cause a bit of trouble if he suddenly transformed into himself right in the middle of a train compartment. Anyone who'd seen him over the summer would figure it out and possibly get Fortescue or Tom killed. He just didn't want to get ambushed before getting on the train, that was all. So he'd stay under the Cloak until the last possible moment.
He kept an eye out, wondering if his father would come down here to look for him. Or if he'd send someone to do it. Draco didn't know who they'd be, but he thought he'd know them if he saw them. Whether it could be proved or not, his father was one of the Dark Lord's Death Eaters, so any one of them might come down here to wipe the smear off the family tree.
He tried to catch sight of Potter, wanting to see where he boarded so Draco could make a point of avoiding that part of the train. But the billowing steam kept hiding, revealing, and hiding again, so it was impossible. He didn't want to see him. He'd been dismissed. He'd had a strange, untrusting sort of a friendship with Evan Rivers, but Harry bloody Potter had broken the Vow and walked away, declaring that Draco was no longer worth it without having to say a word. He thought of Draco as a coward, as a weakling. And he'd decided to sever their ties and move on.
But Draco wasn't. Tom had as good as said so. He had made it through the summer. He wasn't dead and he hadn't dumped ice cream over anyone's head. He might not have chosen a side in this war, but that was because he was careful, not spineless. He had to be sure he was making the right choice, didn't he? He had hardly concerned himself with the ideologies at work. In his mind, it was a matter of choosing his father and the Dark Lord, or Dumbledore and Harry Potter.
The train would be leaving in half a minute, and there was the female Weasley only just squeezing onto the train, her hair an affront to the world if her tardiness wasn't already. Draco slipped onto the train. And he sought out the compartment containing Harry Potter. He wanted to see him. See if there was any sign that he'd given a single thought to Draco Malfoy since the moment he'd left Dumbledore's office. See if he recognised the struggle Draco had gone through, knowing he could have left Tom and Fortescue and gone to his father three weeks ago, and he hadn't done it.
He found him sitting with Neville Longbottom, the creepy Ravenclaw Luna, and two Hufflepuffs from the DL, named Hannah something and something Macmillan. They were all laughing and talking, old friends seeing one another after being apart. Potter looked ridiculous. He was sitting there with his hair done up in green-tipped spikes, assuring the others that in the Muggle world, the style would hardly even draw attention. Stupid Potter, who could get away with hair like that and laugh with his friends like the whole bloody world wasn't looking to him to end a war. And Harry had his arm around a girl . . . Draco was stunned. It was Granger. Hermione Granger standing there beside him as though she didn't have a problem with his arm or his hair. And she looked fantastic.
Draco immediately looked away in disgust. She didn't, really. But she'd done something to her hair (though nothing quite so drastic as grow it out and make it half-black and half-green), smoothed it and pulled it back in a clip so that it fell in lustrous waves over her shoulders. Her usually pale face was flushed with colour, with spots of happy pink in her cheeks. And her smile, something that Draco had rarely seen in five years of sharing a classroom and dining room, was radiant. She was beautiful. Well, for a Mudblood. For Merlin's sake, of course he'd never noticed what she looked like, she was a Muggleborn, he didn't look at girls like her. But he couldn't help looking now. It was a strange transformation. Even when she'd shown up to that ball fourth year looking all done up, she was shy and skinny. Now she was beaming, and her thin frame had developed all those lovely curves . . .
"He did that to her," Draco muttered. The attention of an international Quidditch star had made her put on a pretty dress that only accentuated how awkward she really was. A scar-headed freak who'd run off and snuck back into the country like a coward had made her like this. How could he have seen all her potential, and brought it out? Draco hadn't thought there was anything to bring out, and he wouldn't have known how to do it if he had. Not that he'd have wanted to, not with Granger.
"We've got to get to the prefects' compartment for a quick meeting," the Hannah girl was saying, sounding apologetic. "Come on, Ernie."
"I'm, er, coming with you," Neville stammered out. They all looked at him in surprise. "I've been added on, they thought we could use a few more. There'll be a lot more hall patrols with the way things are . . . I saw Ginny a moment ago, she's got a badge now as well," he said, trying to change the subject.
"Excellent," Ernie said, sounding a bit pompous as he clapped Neville on the back. "Nice to know we've got some well-trained prefects with us this year. I tell you, Riv— er, Potter, the DL was the best thing you could have done. We're much better equipped this year."
There was a few more quick laughs, promises to come back after the meeting, then the three prefects were bursting out into the hall. Draco jumped to the side, holding his breath even though his heart was hammering. Prefect! He was a prefect! Was he still? He still had the badge, and Dumbledore hadn't said anything about it. He supposed he must be. Merlin, that meant he ought to be going down to the meeting as well. He shuddered a bit at the thought of standing in front of Blaise and Pansy and trying to explain where he'd been all summer. It had been hard enough explaining his constant sneaking off to supposedly spy on Evan Rivers all last year. They'd never understand. And Draco began to realise this was some kind of test from Dumbledore. Would he have the guts to show up?
He was angry, and jealous, and he was starting to bloody suffocate under this ridiculous cloak. He tore it off and walked briskly enough to almost catch up the others. They turned around at hearing his footsteps and looked shocked to see him coming.
"Hello, Draco," Neville said cautiously. "Oh, that's right, you're a prefect, too." He turned around, saying to all of them in general, "Come on, or we'll be late."
But Ernie Macmillan was just looking at him with narrow eyes. "Potter told us we were all able to speak freely about the DL now. Told You-Know-Who all about it yet?"
Draco snorted. "Your family been murdered yet? What do you think?"
And he strode ahead, putting them all behind him. Merlin, what did a wizard have to do to get a little trust around here? What exactly were they all waiting for him to do, take the Mark? That thing was more trouble than it was worth.
The prefect meeting was torture. No one looked at him. No one spoke to him. They all kept shooting little glances out of the corner of their eyes, and looked like they were itching to ask him where he'd been, but no one did. Maybe they didn't care. He hadn't ratted out the DL, and he hadn't joined up too visibly for either side, so they didn't care. He was still going to be alone, while they all flocked around Potter and worshiped him and his silly green hair.
Didn't anyone in this entire world care? He could join Potter's side and just be some stupid little soldier, going around spouting high-flown ideals that he didn't believe. They'd just say how wonderful it was that he'd finally seen the light and tell him to get on with doing the same old boring things. And then he'd be stuck with Potter, that arrogant prat, and have to smile at his girlfriend, who'd been a frigid bitch until he came along, and pretend it was all fine.
But his father . . . his father would care. Father would be glad he'd returned. He'd have to pay with some information, to be sure. But honestly, why would he feel guilty about telling Father that the Weasleys and half these stupid prefects had met in secret to declare themselves against the Dark Lord? They were pretty openly against him, anyway. And he'd be able to report, at last. A year-long spying mission, complete. And it was as Father always said—the Dark Lord rewarded service. Draco could become great, if he went to that side. He'd be heaped with gratitude for what he could do, the way he was already a part of the inner circle, if he chose to be. He could strike blows that none of the adults could.
He would never get yelled at for serving the wrong flavour of ice cream. He'd be more than just one of several dozen students fawning over the Boy-Who-Lived. He could be somebody.
Not like Potter missed him, was it?
As Professor Snape was marching him toward the infirmary for some bruise cream for his eye (he seemed to think Draco wouldn't go if it was up to him and would let the black eye rest), he berated him for his conduct. He'd never take points off a Slytherin, if he could help it, but Draco did have a detention for getting into a fight in the common room. Draco suspected his annoyance mostly lay in the fact that it had degenerated to fists and Draco hadn't simply laid the seventh-year out flat with his wand. Professor Snape apparently didn't know how good it felt to hit somebody who was having a go at you.
"Just lay off, would you?" Draco snapped, pulling away from his professor and Head of House.
Snape's eyes were glittering darkly with rage.
"I got into a fight about . . . stuff. And I'm tired of stuff," he said stiffly. "I'm tired of a lot of things." He clenched his jaw and said something he never thought he'd say to anyone, much less this man. "I need your help."
"I beg your pardon?" Professor Snape said in a soft, dangerous voice.
"I need to see my father."
Draco was well aware that Professor Snape could arrange that. Father had been positively gleeful about Snape's true allegiances, and he'd mentioned them once or twice or maybe twenty billion times. It seemed to amuse him to no end that Dumbledore had a triple-crossing spy right under his nose.
"I need your help getting out of the school tonight."
Snape looked like there were many things he wanted to say. There was a war going on behind those eyes of black ice. Draco wondered what he was thinking. He had to judge if Draco was serious, and if Draco was doing what he appeared to be doing. Of course he was! He wouldn't ask to see his father if he didn't mean it.
"You will follow curfew tonight and join the other students in bed at ten-thirty. At eleven, you will get up and come meet me in my classroom. I will escort you to your home. Understand that I will leave you there, and that it will be your father's responsibility to see you back to the school."
The if you survive the trip was unspoken, but seemed to be there. Professor Snape was not planning to be a witness to whatever would follow Draco's knock on the door, probably so he could honestly tell the headmaster he didn't know what happened to their missing student. Draco tried not to shiver and show his fear. If Professor Snape was doubtful, then Father or even the Dark Lord must be even more furious than he'd believed. But why shouldn't they be? In their eyes, he'd gone back on his family and his upbringing and everything a pureblood should stand for. He'd have about twelve seconds to explain himself, or he'd be dead.
So he slipped out of the hospital wing moments after Professor Snape dropped him off there, wanting to have the black eye as his first bit of evidence that he wasn't off on a lark. It would give Father a moment of pause, at least. Snape didn't even say anything about it when Draco appeared in his classroom at precisely eleven o'clock that night. Draco assumed that Snape understood, and was grateful to hear that Father had been warned of his coming.
But when he stood outside the palatial home he'd grown up in, hearing the rustle of their prized white peacocks in the hedges, he could feel his pulse hammering in his throat and wondered if the professor could hear his heart. He wondered if the Dark Lord was here. If he was about to die.
Professor Snape left him at the door, leaving him with only a spare sentence that was no comfort at all:
"The Dark Lord will use Legilimency on you, and you cannot stop it."
Draco stood outside the doors for some time after Snape abandoned him there, pondering why he'd said that. Draco knew from listening to Father that Lord Voldemort did that from time to time. It was why they were so sure of Snape's true loyalties. Why would Snape have said that, like it was a warning? Draco wondered if Snape was questioning Draco's loyalties, wondering if he was here on some kind of Gryffindorish suicide mission to become a spy for his best friend Harry Potter. Draco tried a little self-analysis. What would Lord Voldemort find in him, if he cared to look?
Oh. Oh, no. The Dark Lord would see, and would be less than pleased, with his memories. Of having fun in the DL meetings. Of partnering with Potter or Weasley and working as a team against another team of DL members. Of laughing. Flying with Potter and enjoying it. Of wondering if they were actually friends, instead of enemies keeping an eye on each other.
Had Snape seen it? That was why he'd given Draco the warning, surely. But what could Draco do about it? The professor had said that Draco couldn't stop it. But that didn't mean he couldn't avoid it, or dodge it, or something, did it? Perhaps it was possible to hide those things. Perhaps he could screen them, somehow. Hide them behind something else.
Draco focused all his energies on the bitter feelings of being forgotten by Potter and the awful summer he'd had. He focused on his jealousy, and his rage that he'd been forced into this. He'd been mistreated, and then Potter had the utter gall to offer protection, like he had any to give! Potter, strutting around like a hero, and Dumbledore, spouting off about Mudbloods being worth anything . . . there was nothing for him in their side. But serving the Dark Lord, that was what he wanted. He could reconcile with his family, and he could gain status and power, and he could serve his own beliefs. It would be great.
So he walked inside with confidence, and went to Father's study. He was stopped by the coldness in Lucius Malfoy's eyes, but he simply bent his head in submissiveness and began his story, just the way he had when he'd tested it out.
"Last term, I entered into an Unbreakable Vow with Harry Potter . . ."
He was smiling, but Draco knew better than to rise from his knees. He'd won his father over easily enough, and when he'd strutted into the Dark Lord's presence, he'd felt confident. Now he was shaking and staring up at the wizard in fear. Lord Voldemort had managed to humiliate him in seconds and terrify him in less than a minute. So he kept his posture bent and waited with trembling hands to be forgiven for his mistakes of the past year. Because he'd made them, made so many, it was just as the Dark Lord said, he'd been weak . . .
"I will not be weak again," he said, his voice hoarse. He'd screamed when he'd been subjected to his very first Cruciatus Curse—that had been inflicted upon him for assuming his mission of spying on Potter without getting permission. "Please allow me to serve you."
"Oh, yes, you will serve me, young Malfoy," the cold voice said in amusement. Draco now knew where it was that Father had learned to speak that way. "You will call me your master yet."
"I do. I call you master."
How could he not? How could anyone stand up to this wizard? He was proud and powerful and inhuman and to not serve him was unthinkable. To not serve him was death. And Draco had been promised so much. He focused on that, to get past the fear he was feeling. Lord Voldemort had promised him so much if he was a good servant. The other Death Eaters would look up to him and obey him, and Draco would have a place close to the Dark Lord. The whole wizarding world would look to Draco with fear and love, if only Draco would serve the Dark Lord.
"But what will you do for me to prove yourself to me?" he mused, his red eyes glinting with some private humour.
"Whatever you ask, master."
Lucius was still there, looking caught in a trap. Was he wondering if Draco would be placed above him, eventually? He had been alternating between looking proud and looking a bit sick this whole time. He must be jealous. Had Lord Voldemort promised him so much? But Draco could do more for their lord. Draco was well-placed inside Hogwarts, with links to Dumbledore and Potter. Draco could serve him in ways that his father could not.
"Tell me this, young Draco. Will you kill Dumbledore for me?"
Draco wanted to fervently promise that he would. But he didn't. He looked up in surprise at the Dark Lord and found something in his shocking eyes that made him pause. This was a test. His true first test as a servant. His answer meant something. So he stopped to think. Why would he be asked to do something that no one could do?
"You want to punish my family for the ways they have failed you this summer," Draco said quietly. "You know that I could never succeed, that I would almost certainly be caught or killed in the attempt. I am not experienced enough to do that." He bowed his head, trying furiously to think. "Is that what you want from me?"
If it was, Draco would find a way out of this. He could leave, he would go somewhere. He wanted to serve, he wanted to become great. He didn't want to die. If he'd wanted to die, he could have just kept doing what he had been doing until the Death Eaters were so angry with his rebellion that they came after him. He would have to disappear.
The Dark Lord laughed, and looked proud of him. "Since you are so eager to prove yourself, I will give you another task. You will find a way to get my Death Eaters into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
"I will?" Draco blurted out, and shivered in anticipation of pain.
"The wards that protect the school are old and strong, and impossible to break from the outside. I give you the task of finding a way from the inside."
"You say they are old and strong. How can I . . ."
"You wish to serve me?" Lord Voldemort snapped, his eyes flaring. "You will find a way, or I will kill you myself, you insolent child!"
Draco ducked his head. "Yes, master, I will find a way . . ." he mumbled, closing his eyes and trying to breathe. He was not going to die, he was not going to die. He would do this. He might not have the least idea now, but he would find a way.
"Then it is time to declare yourself as my servant, Draco." He had somehow conjured warmth into his unsettling voice, which was almost worse than the coldness. "You will now take my Mark."
Draco froze. Even his shaking stopped. "The Dark Mark?"
"You will take it now, to prove to me that you are ready to be my servant. You are not one of my Death Eaters if you do not wear my Mark with pride. Stand up."
Draco stood up, feeling as though he were moving through water. The world felt slow and dull. He was going to have to do this. He didn't think he would leave here unharmed if he did not allow Lord Voldemort to burn the symbol into him. He wanted to leave here unharmed. He held his arm out, grateful to see that he was able to hold it steady. He didn't want this. He didn't want this, but he didn't have a choice. And one day, having this Mark would garner him favours that no others could have. It would be worth it.
It hurt. It hurt like fire, and it hurt like ice, and it hurt to the point that he couldn't feel it anymore. When it was finished, he cradled his arm to his side, numb and disbelieving. The snake coiling from the skull, there on his arm. A way for the Dark Lord to call Draco to his side, a way for him to call Draco his own. There was no way for him to go back, now. So he let himself begin to shake again. It was over, and he couldn't control his adrenaline anymore.
The Dark Lord—his true master now—didn't look as pleased as he ought to. "You have explained to me already that you waited until your school term began to come to me because it would create less suspicion. That our enemies would not be watching. But I see another reason in your mind that gives me concern."
Draco held his breath, squeezing the Mark on his arm and trying to quell the pain.
"I have seen you call that Potter brat 'friend,'" he spat. "Friend!"
Draco summoned up all the anger he could find under his fear, and held it in the front of his mind, bolstered by his awe of the wizard before him. "I once, briefly, called a boy named Rivers friend. I call Potter nothing. He is nothing to me."
Lord Voldemort cocked his head in a very disconcerting way, and slowly smiled. "I can see that you mean that. That is good to hear." His smile slipped away. "But your loyalty was to him before it was to me, and that will not go unpunished. It cannot. You understand that, don't you, Draco?"
Draco almost stepped back, but he stopped himself in time. Trying to retreat would only get him worse. Lord Voldemort raised his wand and began to speak.
Draco screamed.