Somewhere Only We Know

by Kris RL

Summer of 6th year? The wizarding world is at war with itself, and secrets, hidden pasts, biological fathers, staged deaths, broomstick rescues, band T-shirts, funerals, stifled laughter, new truths, and an old rivalry's new best friendship come into play

3. Enemies To Friends & Friends To Enemies

Disclaimer: The story plot and the original characters are mine. You know what belongs to J.K. and so do I! The only thing intended with this story is for entertainment purposes!

Somewhere Only We Know

Chapter Three

Enemies To Friends & Friends To Enemies

Draco only realized where they were once they had come to a very sudden halt. His eyes lowered from blurry and nameless faces to find one he was all to familiar with. It must have been with utmost misfortune that they ended up standing directly in front of his father at the very end of a very long line, and neither of them, clearly, wished to have landed where they had. Although Draco could not see the reaction of Judas's face, at first, he shortly was enlightened when, without saying a word to Lucius, Judas spun right around to Draco. Draco studied his face, closely, after taking one tired and weary look at his father. It was a fine mix of seasoned expressions, some of it finely tuned and some of it not. There was something of a panic that had seemed to flush over the even skin tone before him. Whether or not his father, Lucius Malfoy, was the Minister or Magic, Judas mostly meant little offense by turning away. For whatever reason he had, it had been person. It was most unfortunate, however, that this was the Minister's Ball and people were watching, of course. To have turned away from Lucius Malfoy, Minister of Magic, without even saying a word, well… that would have been talk, the next morning, in the papers, if Harry Potter hadn't surely snagged nearly ever article in every newspaper for the next week.

Not wanting this to turn as horribly awkward as it was looking to promise, Draco pulled his arms out from where they were clasped, behind his back, and looked past the angles of Judas's jaw and cheekbones. He forced only a look at his father. He was not a cold man to not understand why, perhaps, Judas would react to him as he had. It was best of Draco to smooth it out. Judas was, after all, going to be a guest in his father's home. He cleared his throat at Judas, but quietly, and the message had been received without a command, because he, too, turned back to face a very steely, stony-faced Minister of Magic.

"Father," Draco lightly worked in between their cold hard stares at each other. There was, he realized, more going on than he knew, but whilst they were in the company of most of the important and elite members of the Wizarding world, it was best they at least feign a tepid and very brief conversation.

Lucius looked at Draco with a tilt of his chin in the air, but it was only slight. He looked over Draco's face, and somewhere in his head, Draco heard that his father was thanking him for taking it upon himself to save the situation. His eyes then slid to Judas, and Draco then decided that even a lukewarm reception was going to be reaching. There was no emotion, just a blankness, as Lucius looked straight at Judas, and said, in a low and strangely stubborn tone, "Judas Cliffdale, I presume."

Draco felt that there was another version of himself, like, two feet away, twitching.

"Yes," Judas finally replied, though it did not come out harshly. A pause followed, and he seemed to be thinking of what next to say. Instead, he blinked once, as if shaking himself out of some exhaustive mental trance and relayed his tactic in an equally low and almost-mocking tone, "but presume nothing more about me."

Draco was stunned, somehow, and he clearly wasn't the only one. Not outwardly shocked, no, and not forced to pop a cocked eyebrow or deliver a part of lips, but it was a mental notation that was not to escape notice. There was something very haunting and hinting in Judas's socially-fixed voice—and it would really only be described as that, as Draco would not have figured him to have spoken that way by just looking at him. It was a sudden change; gone was his breeze of ease, and, too, in front of Lucius, he was standing tall, perfectly straight, with a set-stoned face and a straight line across his mouth, not turned up nor turned down. Awkward, because it looked somehow similar.

Draco found his father's eyes, feeling a loss of stability start to rise in his chest. Because Judas's father was WHO he was, and they lived in another country, Lucius meant very little to Judas's life, politically or personally. Personally, on a whole different level, he had probably spent his growing years hearing old stories about Lucius Malfoy and Voldemort—however regional a Minister was, Voldemort and his ways went far past the lines drawn on maps and in sand, past boundaries and into each and every corner of anyone who had anything to DO with magic. When Draco thought about it this way, he could understand how Judas could have turned away from the Minister of Magic, really. Draco never would have thought it possible from his own angle, but Judas did have a power over his father by personal reasoning. His father was richer—although much to Draco's displeasure, every year, after he'd read the new list of the 5 Richest Wizards and Witches rated by Wartes magazine—and more elusive, and, somehow, more elite. To have been looked down on by a sixteen year old, so very openly, must have killed his father. It could have been a five year old, and he still would have been bothered by it, Draco figured.

Just as Draco had been working it out in his head, the logistics seemed to have settled between his father and Judas, as well. They had not spoken, maybe had not even had a silent conversation, but, still, somehow, the openly blank looks had faded away into cold stares before either had attempted to pretend to respect the other.

"Mister Cliffdale, remember you are addressing the Minister," spoke a lady from beside them, so quietly, as if informing them both of something they did not know.

Judas took a step forward and outstretched his hand, then, out of nowhere, and insisted, "I know who he is."

Lucius only looked down at Judas's hand, his own hands folding together in their black velvet gloves, and he did so thoughtfully, before promptly looking back up to Judas's face, again, almost as if to say that there was no way Judas would have wanted to shake his hand, and because he had gone to, it was only natural to assume that there was something behind the shake, something most unpleasant for him. He said this all just with one tiny smug smile at the younger man.

Draco was pretty impressed, he had to admit.

Judas didn't blink, didn't waste a moment, before he opened his lips and thoughtfully replied, "I'm glad you know your place, then, Minister," and whatever leverage Lucius Malfoy had thought he'd had, or whatever point he'd thought he'd made, had disappeared.

Draco's lips did part, this time, but more in a disbelieving way, and he kind of eyed the lady next to him.

She gave him the same look back. Lucius had just been one-upped by a teenager, and it had been epic.

Lucius pressed his teeth together, most unpleasantly, and he even made a noise, as if to insist that had been unexpected, and because he was the Minister of Magic, and, some said, not entirely a horrible one, to the general surprise of the public, and stepped forward while Judas took a step back, with his upper hand in a pretty package sitting atop his head, because Lucius seemed to be staring at it, willing it back to him.

Judas stopped, and then Lucius did. A silence settled between them before Lucius looked at Draco, with absolutely nothing in his eyes but intolerance, which probably meant he was going to have Judas thrown in the dungeons—although not really; it was just that Draco was his son, and therefore the mediator between them, clearly—and then back to Judas. He lifted his right hand then, and, in a painfully slow s and agonizing manner pulled the material off of each of his fingers. When his hand was bare, he put it out. Oh, it made a point. Lucius hadn't done that for anyone else, not even those who worked in the positions directly beneath him. It was a large gesture, mostly intended for the gathering of onlookers, and with a bastardly fearlessness only a Malfoy seemed to be able to foolishly wear on his face, he said, without one drip of compassion, "I'm sorry to hear about your mother and brother, Judas. They were a treasured part of our world."

Draco breathed in so hard, but the ice-like sound of disbelief it made was lost amongst the murmurs of those around him, and those were either out of those agreeing with Lucius or those who saw right through his words, like Draco did. He wanted to do something. He just couldn't. All he could do was stand there and grimace. It wasn't like he could even say anything to his father about the comment, or stand up for Judas. There were people around!

Judas tried to hold it in, he did. Draco watched him, the way he was staring at Lucius like he did only have his one head, but two faces—and he did, Draco thought—was very likely. Except, if their positions had been reversed, and someone had murdered Narcissa and Draco, and someone else had shamelessly rubbed it in like that, Lucius would have killed them dead. Judas at least showed some restraint, quite honestly.

"You," Judas breathed, finally, through clenched teeth, jaw set, "bastard," was all he could seem to manage, but he suddenly grabbed a hold of Lucius's hand, with a death grip, and stepped into him—more like stabbed into him—and the security wizards stepped a little closer, all alert, but Judas didn't seem to care as he got close, so no one else, really, but Draco could hear. "If you ever mention my mother, again, in my presence, I will kill you."

Perhaps, to those who were not close, it just seemed like a very (very, very) firm and tight, intense handshake between the two. It was clear that Lucius only tightened his handshake to make it appear that Judas's handshake wasn't as painful as it appeared, and he did a swell job of hiding the discomfort on his face. Flashes went off, by way of media, and Draco watched as the lights invaded the space between his own father's face and Judas's face. Although it blurred out most everything else he could have heard, and the reaction—of the applause or the uncomfortable mutters—blocked their words, Draco was not convinced nothing else had been said. It might have been best that way.

Their hands dropped, lightly. Lucius put on a tight, cutting smile, and Judas turned back to Draco.

"Do give your father my condolences when you see him," Lucius added, with a bit of a mocking wave of his fingertips, like the suggestion was merely an afterthought.

"Enough," Draco blurted, disgusted, towards his father, but was sure it didn't each his ears.

Judas had been looking at Draco, anyway, and though he stopped, at the words, he did not turn around or even do anything rash with his face. When Draco found it, Judas seemed as clear-headed as he could have possibly been. Draco could only offer the tiniest of sympathy in a fleeting moment when he thought no one was looking. It was full of, "My father is an arse," and, "I'm so sorry you're subjected to this, today of all days," mixed in with a bit of confusion, because Draco was still put off by the way his father had approached Judas—a sixteen year old boy who'd just lost his mother and brother, no less, that very same day? Besides, in public, when there were cameras documenting this, who was his loyalty to? In the public eye, it had to be his father, and he had to keep the inevitable disgust off. Sure, he wasn't his father's biggest fan, but he wasn't in favor of watching his father get axed off by a hormonal, devastated, scarily frightening seventeen year old in front of the entire world.

Draco did not look at his father again, but he was sure it didn't matter anyway. He just sort of tilted his head to the ground, to his left, and motioned Judas to come, to not give his father the satisfaction of getting a further rise out of him. Judas complied, and they walked, silently, without having to do much weaving, anymore, because people parted for them as they made their way to the entrance doors.

The doormen swung the doors open, and when they walked out, Judas more like… stormed.

When they were in the entry hall, which was just as crowded with gossiping attendants and happily chattering new arrivals, Draco didn't have to try hard to stay in step with Judas. He was fast, and he always had been. He was quick and agile, and he had the Quidditch skills to prove it, supposedly, but Draco wouldn't admit Judas had anything on him. Soon enough, he was right in step with Judas, again, in a more protective manner than he'd let himself be in the ballroom. His left shoulder pressed in against Judas's back's right shoulder blade, walking quickly toward the stairs of the house, as people turned to see the both of them, at the announcement of their names into the room. It was then that Draco realized that, perhaps, the two of them were probably the two most powerful and potentially influential wizards of their age in their entire world. Well, if it had been the day before, they would have been the second and third. Potentially.

Having a bit of trouble trying to keep up with Judas and still be seen as polite by not knocking into people, which would surely have gotten him in gigantic trouble with his mother, the next day, he finally actually looked at Judas, with a bit of What The Fuck Syndrome and bit, "Would you slow down? You don't even know where you're going."

"I don't care where I'm going, and the faster I get to wherever there is nothing, the better off I'll be."

With a scoff, both slightly amused and intrigued, but also still thrown and confused, Draco didn't stop to apologize to the people who had to spin out of the way to escape the fast-paced, powerful, strong strides that the two were taking, at least not this time. Draco's left hand grabbed at the back of Judas's cloak, on the center of his back, and he gripped the velvet cloth in a full fist and pulled on it.

"I hate to tell you this, but heading upstairs is not going to ensure you a correct head off to nowhere. You're not going to want to be here tonight," he said, under his breath, keeping his eyes on the stairs as they sprinted up, together, on the same steps at the exact same times, and the sound it made somehow bounced off of his hears like pins dropping on tins. "Hell, I don't even want to be here tonight."

At the top of the stairs, Draco led Judas towards the balcony, and Judas followed, "We should leave."

Draco turned around, a sudden smile capturing his mouth, and he lifted his eyebrows. Um, tempting, actually. He saw Judas sort of smile, too, but more with embarrassment. "We should leave? That wouldn't be at all suspicious, would it?"

"There are worse things to be suspicious about. No one would miss us." He paused, then, while they looked out over the mingling guests. "Then again, I suppose you're making a heartfelt speech about Harry Potter, tonight, and you surely wouldn't pass that up."

Draco's eyes lifted from the colorful collection of hats, wigs, and hairdos below, thoughtfully, but he said nothing. For a moment, he looked out the large arched window that looked out into the forest and into the night sky on the wall opposite them, thinking of this comment. He wasn't quite sure just what to make of it, but, well, it just fit in with all of the other things he didn't quite understand that day, either. He was sure he could file it away another time, and because of this, he turned to look at Judas. Not to say anything about the comment, but to look at him because of it.

Judas was staring at him—well, he was, but quickly shifted his eyes down onto the celebration of mourning—and it wasn't a particularly friendly, thoughtful, or teasing state. He could not blame Judas for saying or thinking anything. They barely knew each other, quite frankly, on a level that friends did, but they knew enough. He knew they had battle scars from playing when they'd been six, and they'd laughed at night, when they'd been eight, over a game of exploding snaps. They had history, and he couldn't help but laugh when he looked at Judas, expecting to see the eight year old version, and found that he was still there, just had developed cheekbones and a jaw. He draped his right around Judas's shoulders, lightly, suddenly, and sighed, but there was no awkwardness from Judas. The way his mind was working, suddenly, he knew his eyes were sparkling in response

They both looked down at the silent crowd below.

Extremely smug, and gazing very happily at his hopefully brilliant new Something-Or-Another, for the summer, Draco lowered his head and gave him an answer, just because it seemed to be what he wanted, "I think you're onto something."

Judas's eyes shot right to his, "You're going to fake condolences?"

Draco looked away from him, then, with widened eyes, and couldn't help the exasperated and slightly amused, slightly sour smirk, "Ouch!" He insisted. "You read the papers, obviously."

Judas laughed, though suddenly. He smiled a brilliant, at-ease smile, and Draco was happy that he'd caught it. It was the first time he'd seen it, and he approved long enough to watch it speak, "Not really, I just know history and the rumors. Who doesn't?"

Who didn't? Draco feared the world to believe him to have hated Potter. There was nothing so cruel, especially on that day. Had they known the year, mostly, he'd shared with Potter, and the duels, and the laughter—although bitter and always after a rough fall—they wouldn't have thought so. What he'd never-had with Potter had been complicated, and so he just said, to put it out of conversation, now, and get it over with, "I never wanted Potter to die."

"Sure you did," Judas retorted, as they looked back down at the silent crowd, still examining them.

Draco decided not to tell him what an ass he was, and he said, instead, "I did."

It was silent for a long moment, and then Judas faced him, fully, not even awkwardly pausing to do so, "Are you really trying to tell me that you're not slapping-your-knee happy Harry Potter is dead?"

Draco could only laugh. For someone whom he had assumed had never met Harry Potter, and hadn't known Draco Malfoy since Draco Malfoy had met Harry Potter, he was sure opinionated on what was what. The thought that Judas Cliffdale might have been a fan of a do-gooder like Potter was too amusing to get upset about, "Actually, yes. That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Oh, okay," Judas suddenly responded, like he clearly had no other choice but to believe Draco, and that Draco would not lie to him over something so serious as the matter, and stood up perfectly straight, like he Draco was a conviction and Judas was supporting it. He was a glorious sight, like no other young man Draco had ever been able to honestly place, or at least not used to having so close. The reaction of Judas was amazing, to Draco. He unwrapped his arm from around the broad shoulders beside his, as Judas turned into him, with very interested, impressed, friendly brown eyes. The form of Judas Cliffdale was almost identical to Harry Potter's. He noted this, but then scolded himself for even comparing the two. Potter was dead, the end.

"What?" Judas questioned.

"You believe me, just like that?" Draco asked, squinting with awe and suspicion.

Judas stepped backwards and away from the balcony, "I saw the way you were looking at your father in there, so you can't be entirely one-sided, can you? I'm in."

"You're in?" Draco asked in a high, bewildered voice. He laughed loudly, at once, as he began to follow Judas away—again, Judas had no idea where he was going, but this time, Draco didn't bother to tell him so. "You haven't even heard my idea enough to be "in!" And you wouldn't be involved in my statement anyway! You're mad, Cliffdale!"

"Oh, no," Judas insisted, at once, with his hands out in front of him, like he was rubbing at some material in the air between them. "Mad is Draco Malfoy making a speech about Harry Potter. The look on your father's face, however, when you do so will make my week."

Eyes alit, Draco turned around to him, so he was walking backwards, and said, thoughtfully with an index fingertip resting at the corner of his mouth, "God damn, Cliffdale; I like the way you think."

"We're both evil, Malfoy, but we're the good kind of evil. We might as well use our talents for evil's good."

"I never knew there was such a thing."

Judas wrapped his arm around Draco's neck, this time, as they turned a corner, coolly, and thoughtfully reminded him, "You've never met my father."

Draco had never met Gregarold Cliffdale, it was true, but he was still hung up, "Right, whatever—back to this evil-can-be-good thing?"

"Sure, if you look in the right places," Judas laughed, though quietly, as he explained this, and he laughed like it was the most obvious thing ever, which left Draco wondering just what kind of kids Judas had known after he and Draco had parted ways. "Don't you ever think about it? You grew up on Voldemort's take of the Dark Arts. I grew up with the Dark Arts, devoid of Voldemort's influence. Voldemort is hardly the worst thing that can happen to any wizard, any man—even any mortal man," he proposed, slowly, as their pace heeded until they were stopped and facing each other, because, yes, what he had said was true.

Judas looked around, almost paranoid, before lowering his voice and continuing, "The Dark Arts aren't meant for killing or purposely doing only terrible things. They're an art form, and I grew up not relating the Dark Arts to Voldemort, not to sweeping out mixed blood and whatnot. There's nothing that attaches the two for me, and so The Arts aren't evil to me. They're good to know, so when evil does come along, like Voldemort, you know how to battle evil with what's behind evil. Evil never expects to have its roots thrown on it. It's like battling certain diseases. You kill the disease with it's own disease at the earliest deformation of a cell's breakdown. You wait until evil is in it's best moment, and, then, it's like it's written in the universe—something good comes out of the high-point, and usually because bad-evil was pushed down by another evil, an evil put out in the universe to keep itself from destroying the world. They cancel each other out."

By the time he was done whispering, they were in Draco's room with the door closed, "Evil is good."

"I think so, to a certain extent," Judas urged, but then half-smiled. "The worst thing that can happen to a man is when evil takes him over—the call of it—bad-evil or good-evil. It's always been said that everyone has a good and a bad side, but... the devil side, it isn't necessarily bad. It's a good evil, it's such a good evil that the good side is able to calm it, to put it at ease, because sometimes the bad side does good things—but, when a bad-evil comes along, it pulls the good right out of the innocence that your devil side may have, and your good side is placed on the back-burner, but not because it's gone or because you can't hear it, but rather because an impure evil drifts into the soul of the devil side, and the karmic balance is gone. The sole PURPOSE of evil is to destroy whatever it comes in contact with, and it has been that way since the beginning of time. It's purpose, just like the purpose of light, or good, is important. You choose what you want to be—not that you don't struggle with it, but you do get to choose."

If there was anyone who needed to hear it less, it was Draco.

"My father, then," Draco whispered, as they looked out his bedroom windows and into the cool breezy evening. "Do you think he's gone?"

"No," Judas responded, honestly, quietly, and then they looked at each other. "True evil is rare. Your father loves you. His love for you would come above all else."

"I don't know, sometimes, honestly" Draco sighed, his eyes locked back onto the gardens. "He's definitely getting there."

"Every evil has a weakness, you know that. The Devil to God. Voldemort to Potter. And vice versa. There is evil in good, just as there is good in evil. It just happens to be more prominent in evil. For obvious reasons. Evil in good, you know, it's selfishness and vanity. It's for self-advantage. You can only take evil so far in good and good so far in evil. However, good, in any case, when it's in evil's form, it's usually about destroying something else evil, like revenge."

Draco smiled to himself, then, hung his head… and then laughed before lifting it and smiling, fully, maybe for the first time in the past year in a half, because it ached at his cheeks and jaw like he'd been smacked multiple times with a quaffle, "I'm glad you're here."

"Yeah," Judas laughed, under his breath, meeting the friendly eyes, though he seemed almost hurt by them. "I think I am, too. I just wish the circumstances were different."

Draco's eyes didn't falter, and he pushed himself up a bit, because they were both leaning over the thick stone window ledge, both of their arms having been wrapped in front of them. Looking over the grounds seemed to give a great deal of relief to Judas, just as it did to Draco, and that was a good sign. Remembering, now, why Judas was there in the first place, and how distraught he must have been, Draco wrapped his left arm around his old friend's shoulders, once more, and looked back out over the gardens, and with Judas, "I really do, too. I never really got to know your mother, but she was lovely to me when we were little. My mum has never spoken so highly of any one person in her entire life, and no matter what you've come to think about my mother, or my father, know that my mother has never held anyone so dearly to her heart," Draco assured, under his breath, allowing himself to find his own vulnerability to show to Judas. Judas was fragile, now, as Draco turned his full attention to him. "I'm so sorry, mate. Life is truly unfair, maybe even more-so unjust."

Judas looked back at him, silently, and just nodded his head and looked away again.

Although this was another very strange moment that he filed away with the two he'd already somehow put in the same mental filing case, Draco couldn't help but find a small laugh at the reaction, in case he'd taken it the wrong way. He wouldn't express such concern just yet. He flicked a fingertip at Judas, leaning against the sturdy stone of his window, "You can cry, you know. We were raised the same way, by our mothers. I wouldn't tell anyone."

Judas laughed, too, his whole face lighting up, before looking down at the ledge, "If I start, I won't stop."

Draco squeezed his shoulder, lightly, with his left hand, and just nodded, because he understood. What he had meant when he said that they were raised the same way was that they were both children of their mothers' rather than their fathers'. It had been obvious when Judas had walked into the ballroom, for the very first time, that he had been similar to Draco in a way most young Wizards were not groomed to be, much-less in their circles. His appearance was flawless. He was well-groomed, well-spoken, and the way he had addressed women was more formal and appreciative, even affectionate, than the way he had addressed men he had run into or who had been trying to get his attention. This was normal, anyway, yes, but the reason Draco knew it to be true was because, really, he knew, their fathers were busy men, and because of this, their mothers had taken to raising them. They were lucky, because others had been stuck with nannies.

Still now, Draco knew that Judas was holding back tears in case Draco was opposite of him and was brought up not to show emotion in the form of tears. This saddened him, but he didn't say how much. No, he did not go around crying. No, he did not cry often. But he knew it was okay to. He sniffed a bit, then said, quietly, as to not step on Judas's toes or get too overly emotional, "Well, least of all things to worry about are options. You have quite a few: I can take you to your guest room and you can spend the night in there, get settled, and just... be. You can come downstairs and enjoy watching me give a speech about Potter to the worldwide audience of Wizards and Witches. Then we can find my mother, as I'm sure she'd rather spend time with you, if you want to talk, than spend time mingling. Or you could... go out, if you'd like. If you have a death wish, that is. You could take a walk around the grounds, then, as an alternative, and live to see tomorrow morning. I'd go with you, if you want. You know, you can do anything here. Don't let anything hold you back. Do what you want, no one will expect anything from you, not right not, and not anytime soon. I want you to feel at home. It's big and generally not very personal, but in my wing it is, and my mother's, and you're welcome to find a room in either."

"Christ, Malfoy," laughed Judas into his hands, elbows on the cold stone ledge, with watery eyes.

Draco laughed, lightly, a little embarrassed on being called on his sensitiveness. Judas was still looking at him, but, even still, Draco didn't feel defensive. The eyes were too friendly, too surprisingly touched, to have meant anything but awe and understanding. He felt himself shrug a little, because he felt okay enough to do so. "You're pretty much all I have, this summer, and I barely even know you, anymore," he admitted, almost as if assuring Judas that they would be becoming fast friends, once more, while Judas was staying there. But this wasn't any sort of forced declaration, because their bond was so connected that things were already very friendly and easy between them. It was a natural connection, which was nice to have that day, of all times, when he was mourning Harry Potter in his mind. He needed something to keep his mind off of Potter, and having Judas there would probably help them both in the same goal.

"In that case, if I'm all you have, you're all I have, and I need a laugh..."

Draco grinned, as Judas wiped his hands over his eyes, almost like a child, "A laugh?"

Judas stood up, straight, and lightly elbowed Draco, "This speech, what did you have in mind?"

Draco grinned, evilly—but a good evil, of course!—as he stood up, too, "Nothing that mocks Potter, if that's what you mean. I have no intention of saying anything..." and his voice trailed off. It was almost as if something had come along and stolen in. It had just gone away, and he quickly fought to find it, again, because of the very searching, still-same touched look Judas was trying to hide.

"Of course not," Judas agreed. "You want it to be heartfelt. You'd want… something real, then."

"Something real, yes. I could say, as a preface, before reading, to the world, that I'm against Voldemort, his crew, and his efforts, and therefore my words, no matter what tabloids that witch read at the Five and Under says, are true, thoughtful, and meant to be respectful. I would not want to come off like my father, who is obviously delighted. I would like to announce to the world that I am against the man—thing—who killed Potter, but I suppose that'd only make him laugh. He would remark that, of course, I had to turn it into something about myself." He flicked at the air, this time, remarkably deadened, inside, and casual about it.

"You're against him?"

Draco shot a long side-eye at him, after the long silence had been interrupted, because that had been entirely too suspicious, as well, and this was the fourth mental notation that he put away on file. Still, though, he ignored it and sighed into his hands, leaning back down on his elbows and letting his eyes lift back up to the sky, "Yes. I hate. I hate. He makes me hate, but I don't feel as badly as I should, as it's only the person who makes me feel hatred whom I hate."

"Wow," quietly came back at him, again after a distanced and distracted, disembodied silence where Judas had been looking in the complete opposite direction of the gardens than Draco had, who had, this time, watched him, because, well why not? "I'm sorry."

"That's exactly how people would react," Draco told him, and Judas did look back at him, again, and this time with the promise that the attention would stay. Draco dropped one hand, then, at the fact, and breathed out a bit of frustration. "If you looked around tonight, which I'm sure you did, you probably noticed who the people were in the ballroom. All of his supporters, the people who have watched me grow up, and the people whom I've grown up with—yes, I know they are only a few compared to the people, here, tonight, who loved Potter. Even still, I cannot walk out there, even if I wanted to, and tell them all, on an international platform, that I'm against Voldemort, against all of them—I would put my father on blast to those who already know he should be. More importantly, I would make myself a target."

"You would not," Judas hit back with, maybe a bit breathless. "To Voldemort you might be, but not to the rest of the world."

"You say that like it's not something I should be concerned with."

Judas shook his head and squinted out at the forest. He seemed to be struggling to find the right thing to say, but the thing was—he seemed to know exactly what to say… like, perhaps, he'd been thinking about it for a long time. Suddenly, he pushed his chest up a bit more, with his elbows, and told him, "Draco, there are worse things that can happen than telling the world that you're not a supporter of someone like Voldemort." The way he said it made Draco turn away from the windows he was looking out of. The way it was worded did make it seem a little ridiculous. "I know who your father is to Voldemort; so does everyone else. I know who you are to Voldemort. I know that it would make you a target, but don't you figure that saying nothing will make you more of a target?"

"No, not at all," Draco immediately replied, with a hardened laugh, but not because he was amused or at all unafraid, but because the idea of living past a renouncement of the Malfoy ways was laughable. "If I stay silent, I won't be as big of target. I know it sounds ridiculous—and cowardly—yes, I can see that on your face." Judas didn't go to argue with him, but gave him a look to assure that yes, he did have that look on his face. "The only thing I would do, by renouncing it, is make a big mess and get innocent people hurt—my mother, for instance."

"No, you're wrong.

Draco turned around but only met Judas's back, as he was still looking out the window, not comprehending how Judas could tell him he was wrong about that, "How do you figure?"

"Draco, who do you think killed my mother?"

Draco blinked and then opened his mouth to answer. But, then, he fell silent, "I haven't thought about it."

Judas turned around but didn't meet Draco's ever-friendly eyes, as they were foreign to him—very foreign, and he carefully and thoughtfully formulated a memory and spoke it softly, "Don't be a pawn, Draco."

Not offended, yet, Draco shifted his weight, "I'm not a pawn, Judas," he retorted.

"You are being a pawn, Draco. Don't be a pawn. You're not a pawn. You should know better now."

Draco immediately squinted at him and filed away mental notation number five.

Judas turned away from him and started walking for the door. Alarmed, and suddenly very confused about why Judas had looked at him this certain way and having it suddenly send chills up and down his own spine, quite reminiscent of the way Harry Potter used to affect him, he followed a few feet behind the young man, watching him with narrowed, panicked eyes. Something was not right in Judas's words, "I'm not a pawn," he spoke, loudly, and it came across sharply, almost like a knife skidding across the floor beneath them. He was not a pawn. He wouldn't be a pawn.

Judas turned around, about ten feet from the door, "I know you're not. Don't act like one."

"I'm not acting like a pawn. Frankly, since you keep overtly throwing the word in my face and telling me I am not one, I'd like you to go ahead and explain yourself—your reasoning, even—as to why you keep insisting that I'm acting like one."

Judas blinked a couple of times, hesitant.

Draco, with his hands on his sides, annoyed with the silence and reluctance, and with mental notation six quickly filed away, stepped forward, "Well?"

"You know why I called you a pawn. Frankly, you won't become something, because you're afraid—"

"Become what?" Draco asked, immediately, before something else could arise in the conversation.

"Nothing, Draco! You won't become anything, EVER, if you refuse to renounce Voldemort to anyone but your father who does not give a damn what you say anyway! Pawn!"

"I am not afraid of Voldemort!" Draco retorted, loudly, but inside, he was quivering at the words. Fuck. Judas had made him say it that way, loudly, so the name thundered around them, because whenever Draco had said it, it had been very quiet. Judas had clearly noticed this, as well. It was purposely, too, in some way. Judas just stared at him, knowingly, now, even as Draco narrowed his eyes at himself for having just bellowed the name. He did hate the name. It did scare him. He was still afraid he was going to turn around and POOF, there Voldemort would be, like a genie summoned by name.

Judas had been waiting for him to say it, or something like it, but he knew that Judas knew that he wasn't not afraid of Voldemort. Like the brunette had said before, Draco grew up being taught that Voldemort was his future, his destiny, and he had seen people try and escape it, and those people had either disappeared or they'd been destroyed into nothingness by their families and friends and pushed far, far away from his society's status. Therefore, Judas had a point. Draco had no reason to argue with him, or even deny him, so he just threw him a look, "Okay, fuck you, because fine. Fine. Fuck you, I do fear him, because I love my parents, and I don't want them to be targets. I don't fear him for what he'd do to me."

"Draco! Merlin, you are so dense," Judas laughed, out of no where, and Draco stared at him like he was mad, and, this time, he was serious. This was not the Judas he'd just been talking to the few minutes before. As he approached Draco, and then wrapped both of his hands around Draco's elbows, because his arms were at his sides and stagnant there, and gave him a slight shake, as if Draco could suddenly snap out of some state. But Draco wasn't in a state! He didn't understand what Judas was trying to say to him. He heard him, but he didn't understand the way he thought it was easy as pie to renounce Voldemort to Voldemort and come away without someone having been directly hurt and more indirectly hurt—important people whom he loved, no less!

"Voldemort is nothing without your father, you prat. He can do nothing without him, now! If you publicly announced that you didn't support him, he wouldn't kill you! If he touched you, your father would kill him. Why do you think that you're still safe, Draco, because, last I heard, you're the oldest young-generation member to not have been forced to take The Dark Mark? He'd try to pull you back in. Your parents would not be targets. You would be, perhaps, but he wouldn't kill you. Your father is not replaceable to Voldemort, and if something happened to your father, thereafter, the world would know what happened and who did it. All it takes is ONE person, and you're always going to be too fucking AFRAID to be that one person!"

"What do you mean ALWAYS? It's one damn time! You're so fucking insane, Cliffdale!"

"No, listen!" Judas insisted, giving him another shake. "Harry Potter was murdered this morning."

"What does that have to do with me saying I don't support Voldemort?"

"Everything," Judas almost cried and gave him a hard, rough shake, and he looked nearly like he was ready to hit Draco. Really hard. "You've been brought up FEARING this man. He's a MAN! Draco, if your mother was murdered, and your brother, and your best friend, and your best friend's family all within two weeks, and your little sister watched, with you, as someone sliced a curse through your mother, you would UNDERSTAND that there ARE worse things than Voldemort! DEATH, Draco, once it happens to you, you die, inside, and it doesn't fucking matter what is good and what is evil and what will harm you and what won't. He's EVIL, Draco! EVIL! He wants to kill. Innocent people! And, when you say nothing, out of fear, you're encouraging him! If he murders you, the entire world will rise up against him, against your father, and he NEEDS your father's influence as the Minister. God, why am I even trying? You're brainwashed. You always have been!"

MENTAL NOTATION SEVEN! EIGHT! AND NINE!

"And you're trying to force me into saying something I'm not sure I agree with!"

"So, then, you do support him?" Judas asked, backing away, his hands thrown up in the air in frustration.

Draco's head was in a million places, "No, but...! But..." But what? He stopped, blinked, and then coughed.

"Forget I said anything. I thought you were serious about a speech, about making sure it mattered."

"I am."

"Obviously not, if you support the man who killed Harry Potter enough to shrug and let it happen to someone else."

Draco's eyes finally started to narrow, angrily, and he seethed this time "I don't support him, Cliffdale."

Judas turned away, darkly, and walked, slowly, toward the windows, before he growled, "Pawn."

Draco watched him, "Why do you want me to say it, Judas? The word."

"Your father."

"What about my father?"

Judas turned around, "I want to see what his face is like when he loses a loved one over a few words, and perhaps everyone else would like to see what kind of man he really is."

Draco closed his left eye, then his right, and then opened both, at the mention of his father. When he lost a loved one? Draco, however furious and angry with his father, was not ready to let his father out of his life. This was one other reason he would not renounce publicly, not yet. He loved his father, whether or not he admitted it. He'd die for his father, without a doubt. It was true loyalty, and Draco knew that, deep down, his father had the same loyalty to Draco, and if Draco did renounce, he knew his father would not send him away in shame, or renounce him, but rather, he'd push Draco away. It was true that while all of Draco's friends had been inducted and introduced to the Death Eater's inner circle at an earlier age, his father had never forced him. When his father had cornered him on it, and Draco lit things on fire to put off the conversations, his father had not been angry. He had never pushed Draco into it. He hadn't EVER insisted that Draco be in the circle, though it had always been implied. It was certainly obvious to his father that Draco hadn't wanted to pledge.

Slowly, Draco stepped forward, feeling his heart thud with remorse of Judas's wish. It was a cruel wish, seeing as he had just lost his mother and brother, "Why would you want to see that?"

"Because he never got to see my face."

"Why would you even care if he saw your face?"

Judas looked at him, strangely, but then looked away, "No reason. I suppose I'm just twisted."

"Up until you said that, I was following everything you were saying. Wait a moment; where are you going?"

"I don't know, but I don't want to be around you anymore."

Draco's lips slowly parted open. He felt the punch on his heart, "What did I do?"

Judas looked back at him, once, before he opened the door. He walked out, closing the door behind him.

It was sometime later that night, about an hour later, maybe, that Draco took a seat beside Judas, who was sitting next to his mother, at one of the many round dining tables covered by elegant silk, candleholders, an array of dishes, and eight utensils. He had, admitted, calmed down, at first, but then at watched, from the back of the room, for about forty-five minutes, as Judas and his mother had talked. The affection that came out of his mother amazed even Draco. There were people all over trying to see Judas, or trying to peek at him—even speak with him—but she would shoo them all away and scold them. There were times when he had had his face hidden with his hands, and Draco had been sad to know it'd probably been because he'd been crying, especially by the way his mother had rubbed Judas's back during these moments. But, Draco, no matter how hurt and offended he was by the conversation he had had with Judas, last, still hadn't a resentment towards him.

At the table with Draco's family, and Judas, would be the Zabinis. Why? Who knew; they weren't entitled.

At long last, everyone took their seats and Lucius stood up and walked towards the front of the room.

Draco grinned as Blaise slid into the seat next to him, carelessly, not really paying attention to the unfamiliar guest at the table. It appeared as though he hadn't seen Judas, which had been okay and understandable, because Judas was so darkly intense that just looking at him was depressing, Draco had to admit.

"Where've you been?" Draco whispered, though he and Blaise were supposed to be mad at each other. Though Draco was furious with him, it was hard to try and just forget his best friend in a matter of, oh, four or five hours. It was hard to stop caring. Impossible, really.

"Talking with Goyle. We had our first assignment last night," he said, stiffly, and did not look at Draco.

"Yes, my father told me a few minutes ago. I was surprised that you hadn't mentioned it earlier, but I understand, now, why you got so mad," he admitted. If Blaise had already done his first assignment, hearing Draco talking about getting out, about not pledging, had probably made him want to throw Draco out a window. "He was with you?"

"Mmm," Blaise agreed, but he kept his eyes down on his plate as he put his napkin in his lap

Awkwardly, Draco squinted at his friend's profile as the room darkened into shadows and spotlights, and then the contours on his face were lost, "It was nothing bad, was it?"

Blaise looked at him, and immediately it was as if he was begging Draco not to ask about it. Feeling sick to his stomach, Draco had to turn his head away. There he was, that morning, talking about how he hated his father, and Voldemort, and Blaise was thriving under their lead. Feeling shaky at the fact that, yeah, it'd probably been bad, as it'd been his first mission to prove his loyalty, of all things. Draco turned his eyes away from Blaise, shaking his head. His father had told him that he had been with Blaise on his first assignment. Apparently, or so it had always been legend, first assignments were never killings, at least that was the official "line," his father had always told him, but when he had asked his father if, really, it was the first assignment, he hadn't gotten the response he'd wanted.

"Tonight… we come together from all corners of the earth: here in the ballroom, in living rooms where families are crowded around and afraid, in churches, even, and schools set up as temporary housing for those of us who've lost our homes. We come together not just for the annual Minister's Ball, but we gather here, tonight, to face the brave new challenges we face, and to say, in the face of those who push us further down and pick apart out differences, that we are all really one in the same. In light of the tragic news… the… tragic," and the Secretary's voice cracked, genuinely, before continuing, "news of the passing of Harry Potter, the Minister of Magic would like to share some words before we begin to discuss the issues at hand."

Draco's eyes lifted up, knowing the Wireless Press Conference had just started. He turned his eyes to Judas, who was looking up at the ceiling, idly. Past Judas, he saw his mother look up, too, as if searching to see something that Judas might have been looking at. But the only thing on the ceilings were the paintings, paintings she had examined thousands of times before, and with him, too, when she'd been rocking him to sleep as a child. Draco leaned a bit closer to Judas, then, too, out of curiosity, and asked, "What are you looking at?"

Judas didn't answer, just finally brought his eyes down and settled his attention onto Draco.

Draco looked away, slightly entertained with the silent game. From the distance, he saw his father looking right at their table, and right at himself, Judas, and then Blaise. He was still being introduced, but it was clear, by his frantic eyes, that something was going on somewhere. Draco looked over both of his shoulders for any signs of trouble, but he found nothing. His father was an expert in public speaking, so it was not nervousness or anxiety—he did Press Conferences every day, from many countries, no less! So his eyes settled back on his mother, to ask her if she knew what was wrong with his father, but, instead, his eyes just happened to catch sight of Judas. The young man was slowly moving closer to the table, just barely, his eyes darkly and lethally ignited, his dark eyebrows narrowed. His mouth was twisted. He was looking right at Blaise. Draco quickly looked back at Blaise and elbowed him.

Blaise looked back at Draco, clutching his arm, as if to say, "Ouch, you bastard!" but his semi-smile went limp, and the rest of his body—muscles, skin, everything—seemed to follow.

Draco looked back at his father, who was running his hand thought his hair, clearly panicked at the situation which, yeah, apparently was at their table? He quickly looked back at Judas, his own eyes panicked, because he was between them and had no idea what was going on. His eyes flew between Judas and Blaise. When attention started to come to the table, Draco saw a few fellow Death Eaters begin to raise up from their seats, but then sit down, and then stand, again. Looking back at his father, once more, for answers—guidance, even!—his father was hurrying down the steps, after having held a hand up to tell the Secretary to delay introducing him, and dashing out of the spotlight.

Draco swallowed a hard lump in his throat as a very long, very lean, spotless wand crossed in front of his face, right under his nose. It was steady, and didn't shake a millimeter that he saw. His eyes shifted to the left, to Judas, feeling his veins quiver. This was not good. No. He could feel the fury in the wand. Everyone at the table was staring at Judas, too, he saw, as his eyes lifted from where they were staring straight down his nose at the sleek wand.

It was completely silent at the table.

Draco's eyes shifted to the right, finally, to Blaise, who was staring at Judas—or rather, the end of his wand, maybe—with widened, pale, deadened eyes. Oh, Draco realized. Oh.

Draco moved his head back, then, finally to get out of the way of the wand, and pushed his back all of the way to the back of his chair, swallowing, and looked at Blaise, fully, hardly allowing himself to breathe.

Judas stood up, and the sound of his chair being pushed back was the only noise in the entire room, now, as even the Secretary had fallen silent in attempt to stall. There was clearly a situation, here, and nearly all Ministry officials, who'd even bothered to attend, that night, stood on their feet, nearly at once, and pointed at the table, and, in fact, Judas.

His wand was pointed, perfectly immobilized and positioned, at Blaise, and Draco swore that he could hear the blood pulsing through Judas's body—perhaps it was blood in his own ears, though. Past the tip of the wand, Draco saw his father running his hands through his hair, while two or three Death Eaters had joined him, but kept a distance, as they all flocked toward the table. His father demanded that the network be shut off, and Draco knew it was more of a threat than a command. But his father stopped, ten feet away, and Draco could hardly believe it when his father tensely wrung his hands together. Draco's head shot to Judas's form, and he stared.

Judas's eyes did not budge from Blaise, nor did his wand. He just asked, "Is this your family?" Blaise's family.

"Judas, what are you doing?" Narcissa could barely manage, about to cry, clearly.

The tip of Judas's wand was glowing red, a trademark Cliffdale killing preconception that hit the wand before the spell was cast. It had been legend, but no one had every really seen it. It wasn't myth anymore; that was for damn sure. Draco felt himself inching back, as quietly as he could, in his chair, and saw that everyone else had been doing the same.

Judas, ignoring Narcissa, asked, "What's your name?" There was no answer. "Draco, what's his name?"

Draco gaped at him, but he did not give him his answer, but asked, instead, the obvious, "What are you doing?"

"I swear on your mother, Draco," Judas exploded, "if you don't give me his name!"

Draco blinked, "Blaise."

Narcissa covered her face.

Judas still didn't even so much as blink away from Blaise's eyes, "Blaise, is this your mother?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, your mother. Do you love her a lot?"

Draco looked at his own mother, as if for instruction on what they should do. She was crying, both of her hands over her mouth, and she was looking at Lucius to intervene, as was most everyone else, but Lucius was still staring at Judas, and his eyes were latched onto the tip of Judas's brightly glowing wand. Draco, at first, did not understand why no one had yet to Stun him, but… then he saw it. An orange light was slowly becoming larger, pulsating over and over, hard. Perhaps the wand was conveying the pounding, aching beats of Judas's obviously already tortured soul. Slowly, Draco's eyes lowered, because it was starting to make sense. Why wasn't his father doing anything? Why was... why was Judas pointing his wand at Blaise, and why was he asking about Blaise's mother? Suddenly, the wand moved, and Judas pointed it right at Blaise's mother, who gasped, her eyes about to bulge out of her head.

Draco looked at Blaise, immediately, feeling disbelief. No, no. No, it couldn't. God, no... just... no.

"Is your son a fine man, Misses?"

"Zabini," Draco aided Judas without a second thought, staring at Blaise like he did not know him.

"Is your son a fine man, Misses Zabini?" Judas asked, loudly, his voice hardened.

Blaise's mother nodded her head up and down, her eyes so widened with tears. She was too terrified to speak.

Judas suddenly moved behind Draco, quick as a fox. Draco watched as he walked behind Blaise, who was shaking, and then past Blaise's little sister, and then stood between the sister and Blaise's mother. He leaned down, a small bit, the wand pressed down the shoulders of Blaise's mother and toward her dress-covered lap. He looked at the little sister, "You know, I have a little sister your age," he said, quietly. She was crying. "Don't cry. You have nothing to cry about. I would not hurt you, nor your mother," he whispered, getting very close to her face. Her little eyes and cute little face were so terrified. He turned away from her, because she was so scared, and it clearly affected him. He, then, looked back at Blaise's mother, and kissed her cheek, as if, somehow, to apologize for what her son had done to him. "Your son murdered my mother," he whispered, then, in her ear.

Draco covered his mouth with his left hand, because he'd been close enough to hear.

Blaise's mother sobbed out, but then covered her mouth and closed her eyes. Tears fell down her cheeks.

"Don't do it, Judas," Draco blurted out, standing up. "Don't do it, she's innocent."

"That's funny," Judas whispered, back, still looking at Blaise's mother. "My mother was innocent, too."

Blaise suddenly pushed his chair back and stood up. Judas's wand was pushed against his throat within seconds, and he was pinned down on the table before he even so much as had his hand by his pocketed wand, and Draco almost felt the need to laugh at how bad his reflexes were. Within those few seconds, Blaise's mother had grabbed Blaise's two sisters and pushed them into the crowd, and Blaise's father tried to push her away, too, but she wouldn't go. She was shrieking right beside the table. No one was seated, now, in the entire ballroom. Yet, no one had approached the situation, not even security wizards, even though they were all standing right there.

"Judas," whispered Narcissa, very quietly, "your mother would not want this."

"With all do respect, Misses Malfoy, you hardly knew my mother after you turned your back on her."

Draco watched as his mother's eyes welled with tears, and she looked back at Lucius, furious.

"I'm not going to kill you right here," Judas hissed, nose to nose with the frigid Blaise. "But I will kill you."

"He killed your mother; he deserves to die. If you don't kill him, I will."

"DRACO!" Narcissa and Blaise said at the same time, and Draco heard Lucius's gasp trailing theirs.

Draco just stood beside Judas, staring down at Blaise, in disgust, because… because… he killed someone's mum! Someone's mum! Someone's mum who had never even done anything to him! An innocent woman! A life—gone! And he'd done it, "How could you?" He whispered, almost crying. "How could you kill someone's mother?" He asked, leaning down to be closer to Blaise, watching Blaise's eyes spring tears. He hadn't been able to look at Judas, and he had been staring up at the ceiling, his whole chest pounding, and everyone could see it. Now, though, his breath was quickening as Draco neared him. "What'd you do to her?"

"He didn't kill my mother," Judas whispered, staring down at Blaise, who was still silent, "He helped, but he didn't kill her. He killed my brother."

Draco turned to him and scowled, about ready to punch him, "I thought he killed your mother."

Judas let go of Blaise, completely, and backed away from the table. Blaise immediately scrambled off of the table and landed on the floor. Though he wasn't hurt, he didn't move. He had no where to go. He could run, but he knew if he ran, Judas would attack him. On the floor, Draco watched, along with Judas, as Blaise's body shook furiously. He was sobbing, silently, having pulled the arm of his dress robes over his head. He looked pathetic, like a crying child. Draco's eyes slowly lifted to Judas, watching him as he allowed Blaise's mother to go to him, down on the ground, with her arms, and wrap them around him. Still, Judas didn't move, nor did he point his wand. He looked back up at the ceiling, and, Draco, too, because what was so goddamn important that he kept looking up there for, "If you saw who killed your brother, then you probably saw… who killed your mother?"

Judas's eyes found him, almost dazedly, "Please don't be a pawn, Draco."

"I'm not being a pawn."

Draco followed Judas's eyes, however, a few hesitant seconds later.

The eyes led him right to his father.

The memory hit him. When they had been young, they'd had a motto. Every son is a pawn of his father.

Draco was left staring at his father, not having been prepared for what he'd just suddenly been informed of at the same time as he set his eyes on those that were suddenly staring right back at him. He grabbed for his wand, in his pocket, and once he had it in his hand, he—lost it. It was gone. He looked beside him to see that Judas was holding it—holding it away from him, no less like a toy. His left hand, on instinct, grasped for it, but Judas pulled it out of reach, silently, and with an edge of patience.

Draco watched, in awe, as Judas pocketed his wand, pointedly, and turned away. Within seconds, he had disappeared into the dark crowd. The crowd seemed to split in half, but he had already merged in with the people, and wherever he seemed to show up, by the time the crowd was done parting for him, scared and terrified of him or what he was angry enough to do, that they'd heard and could empathize with, he had already moved on and was lost to sight.

Draco, however, without his wand, and left in complete and utter shock of what had just happened, turned his eyes back to his father, who was watching him, too, but… differently. Differently, yes, because everything about his father was now different. His father had killed Maureen Cliffdale?

As his father started to approach him, Draco began to step backwards, shaking. His cool was gone.

It was at that very moment that Draco knew his father realized that Draco knew.

Lucius stopped, "Draco," he said, softly, in the silence of the huge room. "Draco."

Draco continued to take heavy, dazed steps backwards, staring at the mass that was his father. He turned, then, into the crowd, and darted between so many people that his head spun, but it'd already been dizzy. When he got to the entry doors, he was met by a body that hurled beside his and helped him burst the entrance doors to an open, letting in streaming light to the ballroom from the cheerful, brightly lit entrance room of the estate. He turned to his left, as they headed for the stairs, at a run. He said nothing to Judas. Why was Judas Cliffdale so familiar? Why did he seem like he wasn't Judas Cliffdale? Why, when he spoke a certain way, did it sound forced? Why, when standing in the presence of the two men who'd killed two of his closest family members, had he been able to keep that cool? No one was that practiced, not even a Cliffdale.

God, his father had killed Judas's mother. How had Judas even been able to contain himself before? That was why his father had been so hesitant to acknowledge Judas. He must not have known that Judas had seen the whole thing from under the invisibility cloak. He knew, now, that Judas had seen, somehow. Furious, Draco stormed up the first five stairs. His left palm burst open, expectantly, "I want my wand."

"I'm not giving it to you until you calm down."

"You're fucking insane. You should WANT my father dead. And it's my wand; give it to me!"

"I don't want your father dead," Judas laughed, as they hurried toward Draco's room. "I want Voldemort."

Draco turned around to him, finally, and shoved him, frustrated, and just blurted out something he knew of which's reaction to would make or break Mental Notation Number Nine, "No one can kill him, not even Potter could."

They looked at each other.

Draco set his eyes firm, indignant.

Judas leaned in very close, out of nowhere, and grasped the sides of Draco's face in his fingertips, but with such a softness that it left Draco feeling drained. Draco did nothing and said nothing, staring at him through familiar silver-gray eyes, and he did not offer anything to stop Judas. Judas's arms rested beside each of Draco's shoulders, his hands moving, instead, to grasp Draco's finely slicked silk strings of hair, right behind his ears, the bump of his thumbs settling comfortably under the angle of Draco's jaws directly under his ears. His nose pressed against the side of Draco's, and he nuzzled it, just to make sure Draco was still alive, staring eye to eye with him. He watched Draco's eyes enlarge, finally, in disbelief, like he had never seen before, not once in seven years of seeing him every day. He then pressed his lips right against Draco's ear, his arms tightly squeezing Draco between them, because who knew who could be listening or who could be using an upstairs bathroom and therefore privy to hear things no one was supposed to know. His nose pressed right below Draco's temple. It had to be quiet, almost non-existent.

For a long moment, it was silent, as Draco's hand grasped the back of his neck, very hard, too, and squeezed.

"I am Potter."

The response was a very tight hand leaving his neck, and a very tight arm wrapping around his shoulders, instead. Like earlier in the day, Draco's large hand opened up, and then tightly fisted over Harry's shoulder. Draco didn't have to be convinced—Mental Notation number ten was just the admission period. There was a reason Draco had felt so connected with Judas when he'd known little about Judas. It hadn't been a normal bond. It had been more natural, more deep. There had been more there, soul to soul, but he hadn't chalked it up to be anything out of the ordinary. It had explained the look of shock when he had talked about not hating Potter, about being miserable about Potter being gone, about how if he made a speech, it wouldn't be to mock Potter. It explained the way that Judas always sounded so forced, to Draco, when he was speaking, like it wasn't natural to Judas, though Draco damn well knew Judas Cliffdale spoke very properly. And he'd been right. Harry wasn't formal with his words, no matter how hard he tried. He had always been quite relaxed conversation-wise, and he'd given up being proper, with Draco, as Judas, a couple of minutes after being reintroduced to Draco. It explained so much, indeed, like why he had been so uncertain of the "pawn" thing, like he had somehow gotten it wrong when, really, it'd been Draco who hadn't remembered.

And as they had stood there, eye to eye, the brown eyes of Judas Cliffdale had lowered, and then risen as the familiar green eyes of Harry Potter, but only in Draco's head. Very, very familiar green eyes, indeed, that he had never seen up close. He said nothing, and he didn't want to. He couldn't. He couldn't acknowledge it, which was obvious, by the way he'd been told. There were a million questions that Draco had, but there he was, without one question to blurt out, because none of them were more important than the fact that he was squeezing the God-damned life out of Harry fucking Potter. Fuck, he had never been so happy to hug one person in his entire life, either, and he didn't even know what to do with himself.

"Where is Judas?" Draco asked, against his ear, with his hand cupped around it, barely even hearing himself.

"It's… complicated, but he's with Dumbledore." He paused. Neither knew what to say, now. "Everything is true—Blaise, Maureen, Lucius... it's all true."

Neither of them moved for a long time. It was scarier, now, that the truth was out. Very, very, very scary.

"Boys," came Narcissa's voice, timidly, from down the hall, and it was so soft, like she was sorry to interrupt, like she figured they must have been having a heart-to-heart or something.

Harry was the first to pull away, but he didn't do so with haste. It had not been a particular relief to share the secret, but it had not been out of the question going into the situation, either. He had a part to play, and he had to play it for as long as he needed to. He couldn't let anyone else find out. He was allowed to tell Draco, if he felt that he could trust Draco, which he had been sure he never could have before. But, he did. For some Godly reason, that Harry did not yet know, he trusted Draco Malfoy with the secret that would throw every person in their world into dangerous territory and up in arms. It was a secret that would harm everyone close to Draco and everyone close to Harry, but it was best that Draco knew what was at stake for his family. "I have to leave."

Draco's eyes were heavy, as he watched Harry, "I'm so sorry about your mother." It had just spewed out of his mouth before he could stop it!

Harry turned around, slowly, and met Draco's eyes, vulnerably, for the first time, "What?"

"Your mother, I—I never got the chance to tell you. I know things, er—for whatever reason, I haven't been able to know you in recent years… you lost your mother, and I'm sorry."

Draco had told Harry, or Judas, that he was sorry for his loss, but Draco had never told Harry that he was sorry for the loss of his mother. Well, now he had.

Harry, not sure what to say in the presence of Narcissa—or even at all, really—when he was supposed to be trying to figure out what to do, just nodded his head, in a thankful way. Everything during the last day and a half had been more clouded, more foggy, and more of a lie than anything had ever been, and that was so much of an understatement that knew not to bother trying to understand it all just yet. He had more important things to worry about, and reflection had to be saved for a later time, place, and date. So much had happened, and it had all happened very quickly.

It really had not been supposed to be like this. There hadn't been supposed to be a sort of… invisible bond between them, but it was there. Of all of the things in the last day or two that could have surprised him, hearing Draco Malfoy give him his condolences about Lily Potter, his real mother, was easily the most rewarding thing to be told, because it was based on something real. Though, Draco Malfoy hugging him, rather than punching or hexing him, at the news, had turned out to be quite the relief of surprise, too. He had known Malfoy was onto him, which was, perhaps, why he hadn't flipped out. He seemed to know Potter mannerisms better than he knew most anything. Harry hadn't tried very well to keep it secret, either.

"Come on, now, Judas! Please don't leave. Where—where would you go?" Narcissa followed him down the hallway, hurriedly, a mess.

Draco followed them, half-smiling for himself and half-pitying his mother for not knowing the truth.

"Mother, you can't honestly expect him to stay here!" Draco urged, strongly, catching up to her.

Narcissa turned around, "Why? This is the safest place for him. I promised his mother, Draco, remember?"

Draco saw Harry clutch his hands over his face, behind his mother. It was obvious, now, for the first time, that Harry felt like he was going to hell for lying like this. Potter, of all people, having to LIE about EVERYTHING? Oh, it was too much! The joke potential was endless! But no, because Draco knew it must have been painful to be putting on someone else's life when… when… well, where was Harry Potter's body? The truth was, Maureen Cliffdale really had died, and so had Alex Cliffdale.

Turning his eyes away from Harry, Draco looked into his mother's eyes and saw that she had not realized the truth about Lucius having killed Maureen. Then, again, it hadn't been announced, and when he and Harry had been talking, before Harry had led Draco's eyes to his father, as the guilty party, it had been quiet and no one else had known what they'd been talking about or how Draco had found out. Oh, no. He couldn't do this. He couldn't look at his mother... and tell her that... her... husband… was the one who had killed Maureen, her childhood best friend, and her life's best friend, even after they had stopped talking so much. Oh, God, no, he couldn't. He couldn't. He had to? He had to make sure she was safe. Being there, now, was not safe.

"Mother," Draco started, under his breath, in a very hesitant tone, "there's, um, something you should—something you need to know."

Narcissa looked back at Harry, worriedly, "Can it wait, Draco?"

"Uh, not really," Draco then stepped to the right, as she went to turn around, and succeeded in holding her attention so she didn't complete her turn. When he looked back down the hallway, Harry was already about thirty feet away and quickly approaching his bedroom. What! Harry Potter was heading toward his bedroom. Feeling like he was in an alternate universe, or had fallen asleep in a strange dream, thrown and relieved of some of the truths that turned out to be lies, that day, he calmly outstretched his hands. "Mother, I don't really know how to tell you this, and I don't really think we should be standing when I do."

"Draco, would you please just tell me? Judas needs us right now."

Draco breathed, painfully, through clenched teeth. Oh, this was awful, "It's about Maureen."

"What about her?" Narcissa asked, her eyes still warmly on Draco. She was very worried about Judas.

Draco took her hands in his, "It was father."

Narcissa blinked, "What was Lucius?"

Draco choked on the words. She wasn't even putting it together. "Maureen. It was Lucius."

"Draco, what are you saying?"

Draco cleared his throat, staring into her eyes, worriedly, "Lucius... was out all night?"

"Yes, he had a business meeting," Narcissa replied, searching Draco hurriedly for answers.

Draco tilted his face down a little, heart dropping to his toes, as he replied, "Yes, with Blaise, on assignment."

"Blaise ended up... last night he... the... Maureen... Lucius was out with Blaise. Oh."

Draco watched her eyes flush over with pain, "Mum," he said, under his breath, though with a big of demand, "breathe."

"Oh—oh my… God—I! Oh, Merlin, oh NO," she cried, loudly, her hands shaking over her mouth, having pulled right out of Draco's protective and anxious hands. She turned away and started to take steps down the hallway. Draco hurried right after her, as she shook, crying out, in shrieks, words that Draco couldn't even understand, and parts of stories about Maureen that she couldn't finish. It was all a bunch of gibberish as she ranted down the hallway until she reached the front steps. Too afraid to stop her when she was like this, because she was too powerful to hold back, he carefully trailed her down the front entry staircase. But once they were halfway down, his father appeared at the bottom.

Inhaling his breath, quickly, Draco hurried in front of his mother, as she stopped.

The crying had stopped, too.

Lucius stepped up one step, his eyes large with honest worry, "Narcissa, what is it?"

"It was you!"

Draco didn't stop it. He couldn't. It was bound to happen.

"What?"

"You," Narcissa repeated, loudly, bypassing Draco, and hurried down the steps like a steam engine on the move.

Draco watched, his mouth falling open, as his mother opened her palm and knocked his father right off of the first couple of stairs. He, then, landed on the floor. She hurried right back up the stairs, screaming her head off, even in front of all of the guests, about hating him, his whore of a mistress, hating the way he ate, hating the way he spoke, hating the way he hated everyone in the world unless he was getting something from them. She didn't stop ranting until she had passed Draco on the steps and was storming furiously past the huge balcony, while people stared up at her, completely flabbergasted, as she screamed about divorce and hating his mother more than she hated having sex with him, which, apparently, was quite a lot. Not that Draco really needed to be hearing about the sex life of his parents...

However, she stopped, and looked back at Lucius, who was still laying on the floor, on his elbows, his hand resting over his cheek, while his mistress was sitting beside him, shrieking for help, which was crowded around him in the form of security wizards. Yet he did not look away from Narcissa, not even for one second. He pushed away his mistress and the help surrounding him and scuffled back to his feet, though disheveled and unsettled. He started up the stairs, taking them two at a time, "Narcissa, I swear on my life!"

"Your life is NOTHING to me, Lucius! I'm going to Dumbledore."

"Narcissa, don't you dare," Lucius demanded at her words.

Draco stepped in front of him, standing one step above him. His father met his eyes, but Draco looked away, "You're not going to follow her," he assured, without looking at his father, too appalled to do so—oh, and terrified, too. He had his hands behind his back, though, coolly. But, really, he was just protecting himself, and his hands seemed best served behind him. If they were in front of him, he would have been able to do something out of the heat of the moment, and he didn't feel like having the press getting pictures of the Minister's son strangling him or trying to push him down the stairs. "She will kill you, you know, if you try to go after her. She has the motive, the talent, and the skills."

Lucius didn't look at him, just down at the stairs, "Draco, I don't want to hurt you. Please, move."

"You won't hurt Draco," responded a voice from the top of the stairs. "If you do, everyone will see."

This time, Lucius took three steps down, quickly, while Draco stepped aside, "Don't do anything rash."

Harry took a step downward, pulling out his wand. He handed Draco's over to him, without a word.

"Gee, thanks," Draco replied, bitterly. Harry Potter had taken his wand from him as if he were a child! At least he had given it back.

Harry ignored him, "Do anything rash?" He asked back, at Lucius, who had pulled his own wand out. Harry's eyes glazed over with anger. The last time he had seen Lucius with a wand was the last time he had seen Sirius. In fact, the last time he had seen Lucius with a wand was the last time he had even seen Lucius prior to that day. After all, for a few months, Lucius had been in Azkaban. Of course, that was only before the dementors had freed the prison—whoever said their World wasn't corrupt clearly didn't understand the significance of having a Prisoner of Azkaban becoming the Minister of Magic a few months later. "No; I'd rather duel you."

"I don't duel with Cliffdales."

Draco watched as Harry stopped about five steps down. Ten steps separated the two men whose wands were pulled out and pointed at each other. He knew how his father stood when he dueled, and he looked ready to attack, or he at least looked like he was on the defensive in case a hex was tossed at him. But Harry, Draco recalled, funnily enough, had been an excellent dueling partner in second year AND a brilliant one in sixth year. He had dueled with Harry until they'd both been bruised and beaten, battered and bitter.

Unsuccessfully, though he had never told anyone, he had never beaten Harry at a duel… and had never come close to even saying it could have been a draw, either. Harry was an excellent dueler, as was Draco's father. Nervously, Draco stood and watched from the balcony as Harry spun his wand in his fingers. But he did it so smoothly and coolly that it just looked like the right thing to do. It spun right into his palm and was instantly pointed, dead-set, on Lucius.

"Why not?" Harry asked, interested.

"I dare say it's not fair—too many unknown hexes."

"I want to duel you to the death, Lucius Malfoy. I have no doubts I will succeed without any unknown hexes."

"You've never seen me duel, son."

Son? Harry grimaced and took one step down, "I know how Malfoys duel. Legend."

"Did you read it in a book, then?"

"Don't flatter yourself, you're not in any worthwhile books at my estate."

"Your estate? You're just a little boy living under your father's namesake."

Harry grinned, "You've obviously never seen me duel. Ask your son, he knows. Remember his scar?"

Lucius glanced at Draco, and then at Harry, his hand slightly faltering, "The face scar?"

"I put him in Crucio when we were four," he recalled what he'd learned, and he hurried down four other steps, towering over Lucius's figure in shadows that sprinkled the walls, their figures tall and lanky, deep in color and an aqua-hued black outline. Actually, it was true. Judas had put Draco under Crucio, though it had been extremely weak and tickled more than hurt. Draco had broken out of it in a fit of giggles, or so Judas had told him the morning before. "Then, when we were running away so you wouldn't find us dueling, Draco tripped over that snake statue of yours and smashed open his lip. I remember how mad you were that your statue was broken. There was blood everywhere, and all you cared about was that damn statue. Draco hated you for it."

"That's not true."

"It is true. He knew it then. He would always be second to Voldemort."

"Don't you say that name when talking about Draco," Lucius hissed at him, taking two steps up, quickly.

Harry, inwardly impressed and surprised, took another step down, "Draco hates Voldemort."

Lucius's eyes turned into slits of anger, and he threw his wand forward, "Don't."

Harry took one more step down and pointed his wand right back at Lucius, "You don't like hearing how much you've ruined your family."

"I'd advise you to hush your smart mouth, and sooner than later."

"I'd advise you to stop pretending I give a shit what you have to advise! You help kill innocent people and except your family to turn the other cheek? There, I said it—someone said it, everyone knows it—and now no one has to be afraid to admit it to themselves." His voice boomed through the silent, grand, beautifully shocked room a few seconds later, as he pointed his wand at Lucius. "MURDERER!"

When his eyes returned to Lucius's, from Lucius's still-immobile and inactive wand, he couldn't help but notice that something had burned Lucius's eyes to a close. For a long moment, he wondered when the hex would hit him, but Lucius's hand fell to his side, as did his wand. His eyes slowly reopened, and he started up the rest of the steps. Harry stepped aside while Lucius passed, silently, his shoes shuffling, loudly. It was all done. Harry had said it. In front of everyone. And, Lucius had not denied it. No, he had not.

Harry knew it was all too good to be true, so when he turned around, Lucius's wand was pointed at him.

Harry looked away, silently.

"I should have killed you when I had the chance."

Harry turned his eyes back to the older man, who had the wand pressed to his throat, "When was that? You never had the chance," he laughed, but then stopped, immediately, when he saw the flash of anger shine through the nearly white eyes. They were so angry that the red from his broken blood vessels was more overpowering than his actual eye color. He lightly pressed the tip of his own wand against Lucius's leg and couldn't help but give a smile, just because. "Out of curiosity, could you tell me? Who killed Harry Potter?"

Lucius didn't hesitate as he said, "Voldemort," and his lips twisted into a smile.

Harry smiled back, but wryly, feeling liberated, "Oh, so close," he whispered, but then shoved his wand against Lucius's stomach. Lucius froze at the hard shove, giving Harry a chance to hop up the next step and stand eye-to-eye with the man. "He's standing in front of you," he whispered, "and you dare lie to him about who he killed to suit your own loyalty to Voldemort?"

"You?"

Harry frowned, not agreeing, "Funny, I never actually read a death certificate for Harry Potter."

Lucius stared at him, "I didn't, either."

Harry grinned, "Here's the funnier thing, I'm not going to kill you, but Judas Cliffdale will."

Lucius blinked fury and spewed, "Aveda—"

"Aviada Lumona!" Harry whispered right back, without wasting so much as a millisecond.

The whole room went pitch black. Harry gasped, in pain, as he fell onto the stairs that surrounded him, weak. He had never done the spell before. It stripped his immediate body of power. Somehow, as screams of fear erupted from every person in the entry hall, and even in the open-door entrance to the ballroom, Harry pulled himself up with the help of Draco, who he could identify by the nearly light-like appearance that his hair created in the dark. They hurried up the steps as fast as they could, Harry stumbling and tumbling. Before Draco could throw him off of the balcony, Harry turned around, his hands out in front of him, defensively. "It wasn't what you think it is. Dumbledore has him now—he'll give him a chance to help the Order."

"What the fuck!" Draco was clutching his hair and forehead at the same time, so distressed he felt sick. He paced, at once, in a tiny little circle, and then demanded the only question he could fathom, throwing his hands out. "Potter, what the fuck are you doing?"

"I know what I'm doing, okay? A new Minister will be appointed. A new election."

"I wouldn't count on it," Draco hissed. "What about you, in the meantime? They all think you just murdered my father!"

"They didn't hear the spell. The room went dark. They'll think he muttered a candle curse. It is his house, and they did hear what was said!"

Draco shoved him, again, frustrated, even more than ever, as they hurried down the hallway, "Merlin!"

Harry ushered him into his darkly lit bedroom, and Draco closed the door, "They'll think he bailed in the dark and ran. He never denied it to them. He didn't even try. They know about him, Malfoy, they're not dense. Most people voted for him out of fear." When Draco clutched his head, even again, not at all eased or convinced, Harry couldn't help but have a moment where he finally realized that… shit, he was standing in Malfoy's bedroom, and their wands weren't pointed at each other, either. It was a miracle. Though, he blinked away his amazement and concentrated on the issue at hand, because he'd be doing a lot of that. He'd been advised to put the old Harry Potter's life in the past, at least until this was over—if… if it was ever over and he could… return.

After getting over the slight surprise at how distressed Malfoy was, he offered an olive branch, "I won't even be a suspect."

Draco stopped and deadpanned, "You're awfully sure of yourself."

Harry shrugged.

Draco's lips parted and he pointed, accusingly, at Harry "You're just as fucking arrogant and smug as ever!"

"I'm arrogant and smug?" Harry whispered, quietly, feeling inwardly flabbergasted. "Me, Harry?"

Draco couldn't help but smile, suddenly, and he laughed, overcome, because… because the whole situation was outright ridiculous and Harry Potter was standing in front of him, but as someone else, all wounded like a puppy, and it somehow made Draco back off. Still, though, so he retained some semblance of normalcy, he couldn't help but tease, as he pulled a suspiciously pleased face, "What's that, Potter? You sound a little... hurt."

Harry reached out, with both hands, and gave Draco another small shove, "Do not even start, Malfoy."

Draco felt his face light up, and then his eyes, and he slowly returned the shove, and after he watched Potter stagger a bit, he smiled and said, "You know, Potter? You're actually kind of... brilliant."