This story will not be Deathly Hallows compliant in any way as it was written before the book came out.
This chapter is darker than previous chapters. It contains violence and some characters meet an unfortunate end. If that bothers you, I advise you hit the back button.
Snape's Visit
Draco awoke the next morning with a throbbing headache. The sunlight streamed into his room, burning his retinas. Tilly flounced noisily into his room, greeting him with a sickeningly merry and overtly loud 'good morning, Master Draco'.
He sighed painfully as he rolled onto his back. He hadn't been nearly drunk enough before Tilly had removed all the alcohol in the vicinity. Consequently, he had been plagued by memories of her; of them. If only she had listened to him, given him a chance to explain. Stubborn, self righteous bint.
"Tilly," he groaned, "must you be quite so loud?"
"Tilly is sorry, Master Draco," she apologised, throwing the curtains open, causing Draco to cringe and whimper unabashedly. "Tilly is bad house-elf."
GGMGMGGMGMGM
Draco Apparated to his office for his morning meeting, his throat parched and stomach queasy, though thankfully, his headache had abated slightly. Throwing his briefcase on the couch, Draco cursed Tilly for hiding his potions as punishment for locking her in the kitchens, and had his secretary send in potions. He quickly read over the papers on his desk, hurriedly preparing for his meeting with Signor Scala.
He had a fragile relationship with Signor Scala Snr, the older man taking offence when Draco had shown little romantic interest in his daughter. Well, Draco mused, it was probably the littleromantic interest he had paid her that he took offence too. His animosity towards Draco had since hindered the acquisition of Scala Industries.
His secretary's nasally voice interrupted his musings to announce the arrival of Signor Scala and his entourage. Draco's head pounded in protest.
"Signor Scala," said Draco, with mock enthusiasm, forcing his lips to curve into a warm smile. Many torturous meetings had taught Draco that his usual cold indifference did little to weaken Scala's grasp on his company.
"How have you been?" he asked, reaching out to shake the man's hand.
"This old man can't complain," Signor Scala replied heartily. "I have my health, a wonderful famiglia and a flagging company that you are desperate to obtain."
Draco smiled tightly as the man in front of him laughed with gusto.
An hour later, Draco bid farewell to Signor Scala, no closer to acquiring Scala's company than when he first entered Draco's office. Draco sighed as he closed his office door, dulling the irritating man's bellowing voice. He sat at his desk working his way through a stack of contracts, making notes in the margin.
A knock at his door ripped Draco out of his state of concentration and suddenly made him painfully aware that he had not yet eaten.
"Greg," Draco greeted pleasantly. "How's Weasley?"
"Stop doing that," Greg huffed, throwing himself into the leather chair in front of Draco's desk. Draco simply smirked, reclining in his chair. Greg scowled and threw a folder at Draco's chest. "Scala is about to go into foreclosure, he can't hold out much longer. Next month Gringotts is going to seize everything he has. He'll be left with his wife's house and that's about it."
"His wife's house?" Draco questioned as he flicked through the comprehensive invasion of Scala's life.
Greg nodded. "She came into the marriage with two properties and a trust fund. The first property was a Villa in Italy that was sold 'bout three months back in a last ditch effort to revive the business."
"Find out anything else interesting?"
"Clean as a whistle," Greg replied. "Not a single mistress in the closet. No shady business contacts, far as I can tell. His son did marry a Mudblood, but he doesn't seem to care," Greg finished with a grimace.
"And he has received no further offers?"
"Nope."
Draco allowed himself a satisfied smile at Greg's answer. "Good." He withdrew his wand from the top drawer of his desk, it was hardly good manners to leave it in plain sight, and tapped the silver disk that sat to his right. Small emerald flames erupted from the slight indent at the centre of the disk, his secretary's face appearing seconds later.
"Mr. Malfoy," she said pleasantly, a smile plastered to her face.
"Have some morning tea sent in, and send a message to legal that they're to start on new contracts for the Scala deal. My instructions are in my outbox." With that, his secretary's face and the stack of parchment in his outbox disappeared with a soft whoosh.
"You need a new contract for Scala?" Greg asked as a plate of scones with jam and cream appeared on Draco's desk. "What's wrong with the old one? You spent long enough in negotiations with the man."
"I'm changing my offer to forty million galleons," Draco said, smearing a light glaze of jam onto his scone, along with a generous dollop of cream.
"Isn' te askin' paw pifty," Greg asked through a mouthful of scone.
Draco wrinkled his nose at the sight of the half chewed scone swirling around Greg's mouth, a string of saliva joining his lips like a rickety bridge between two great cliffs. It worried Draco slightly that he had a perfect understanding of what Greg had just said.
"Yes, he is."
"Ven." Greg swallowed with obvious effort. "Then why would he accept forty? Doesn't make sense."
"Because he's desperate and I'm the only one interested in buying him out."
"So?" Greg asked confused, reaching for the small knife to spread the raspberry jam and cream across his third scone.
"So," Draco said slowly, a small, smug smile tugging at his lips, "he can't afford not take it. With the amount of debt he's in, if he doesn't accept, he will be worse than a pauper. He won't be able to support that famiglia he values so very much."
"Couldn't you cut your offer by more then?" Greg asked, eyeing the remaining scone with longing. Draco pulled the tray closer to himself.
"Theoretically, yes, but Scala is a respected man in many important circles. To, for want of a better phrase, screw him over, would be to lose standing in those circles and possibly lose many fruitful deals."
"Fair enough," Greg grunted. "That's a good move, Draco."
Draco inclined his head in recognition of the compliment.
"Have you made any further progress in the Weasley matter?" Draco inquired nonchalantly, sipping his tea with carefully measured movements. He replaced the cup on the saucer with a touch more haste than he intended in order to hide the faint shaking of his hand. A thin stream of tea slid down the patterned china.
Greg leaned forward in his chair, his elbow resting on his knees, thick fingers laced together. "I have every contact I have keeping an eye out. I've put the word out about the reward for information that leads to her whereabouts but, Draco, you have to understand, she's changed her name, wand, and could have taken any number of precautions in terms of her appearance. Neither you, her family, friends, or the Ministry, has any idea where she might have gone to. The chances of me finding her are slim."
"You didn't answer my question."
"No, Draco," Greg said with obvious pity, the large man never having mastered the art of concealing his emotions. "I haven't."
GMGMGMGM
Draco sat in what had been his Mother's favourite parlour, after dinner, eating his way through a hefty supply of chocolate frogs. He looked up expectantly as he heard boots clack briskly along the corridor.
"Professor Snape," he greeted, rising to his feet, wrappers and Wizarding cards falling to the floor. "What have I done?"
Snape raised an eyebrow at him.
"You only ever visit when you think I've done something wrong," Draco elaborated, gesturing for his old teacher to take a seat. "Last visit was the Scala harpy. Tea?" he offered politely.
Snape accepted with a nod of his head, and within minutes both men held fine china cups brimming with steaming tea, whilst exchanging stilted pleasantries.
"Please, Professor," Draco sighed, "What is the purpose of your visit?"
"Gregory Goyle is a particularly dense choice of confidant, Draco. Ridiculously easy to garner information from."
Draco shifted slightly in his seat, masking his movements by crossing his legs. Bloody Goyle.
"He informs me that you have developed a rather sensitive obsession over the disappearance of the Weasley girl. And today, I learn from your father's portrait that you have once again been drowning your sorrows in alcohol. I did rather hope you would have grown out of that particular coping mechanism."
Draco rolled his eyes and resisted the sudden urge to pout.
"Compounding this is that Tilly has informed me that your obsession stems from a…relationship," he put delicately, "that you and Miss Weasley engaged in."
"Bloody good for nothing, loud mouth, traitorous, lecherous elf," Draco cursed under his breath. "Know any good poisons for elves?" Draco asked Snape, brightening at the prospect.
"No. House-elves have proved particularly resistant to many poisons, though they experience many ill effects, death is rarely the final outcome. I did tell your father that, given her young age, Tilly would be a poor choice of personal elf for you. However, she did exceed my warnings quite spectacularly."
"She's a bloody menace, is what she is."
"I've often found she resembles you," Snape said. Draco scowled at him. "But that is not my concern. I am, however, concerned about your drinking. According to Tilly, it has not been this severe since your parents."
Draco's face hardened, his lips thinning in a hard line. Snape sighed, his head hung slightly.
"This is nothing like that," Draco spat at Snape, unable to remain impassive.
They sat in silence, a thousand memories running through their heads.
GMGMGMGMGM
For the better part of a month, Draco had been hiding from the Dark Lord. Snape had told him not to leave the ramshackle hut he had dumped him in, but he had just wanted to see his mother. He hadn't even gotten to the wards of Malfoy Manor before he was stunned from behind.
"You ran from me, boy," Voldemort said in a sickeningly pleasant voice that made Draco shiver. "Was it truly wise to run after failing me?"
Draco just stared at the monstrosity before him. So human, yet so far removed from human that it seemed ludicrous that he was ever simply a boy. He exuded power. Draco could feel the magic crackling on his skin as the Dark Lord surveyed him, calculating his worth. It was the nose, Draco decided, that made him look so inhumane. His other features could have been passed off as human, but the nose. Those two slits that flared when angry in a way that would have been comic, had it not been for the sheer terror he elicited from all that looked upon him, bore no resemblance to the human race. The eyes, those red eyes, held Draco's gaze. He was unable to look away despite every instinct he had telling him otherwise. Draco couldn't look away. He looked into the Dark Lord's eyes and saw nothing. There was nothing behind those eyes. No soul, no conscience. Nothing but red.
"I had high hopes for you, young Mr. Malfoy," Voldemort lamented, twirling his wand between his long pale fingers. "A guiding light for your generation. A patriot," he sighed heavily. "But alas, you failed me, and a failing as great as yours cannot go unpunished." He paused as excited whispers erupted from the circle of robed figures that surrounded them. "Such thirst to see one of your brethren punished," the Dark Lord mused, amusement quirking his lips in a grotesque smile.
"His failure insults us all, my Lord," a deep voice called, the owner bowing his head piously towards Voldemort. Voldemort inclined his head slightly to the speaker in approval.
Voldemort returned his attentions to Draco who stood shaking slightly in fear. "You fear me, boy. I can practically smell it on you; rolling off you in waves. I make you sweat and quiver, yet you hold my gaze. It is… curious."
"I'm sorry, my Lord," Draco said, quickly looking away. Voldemort raised a hand, dismissing the statement.
"I would be too if I were you, but it shows courage if nothing else," he said distastefully.
"It is only fair, Mr. Malfoy," he continued, Draco's eyes drawn almost unwillingly to Voldemort's again. "That I give you the chance to defend yourself. Have you anything to say that may save you from my wand?"
"I-I'm sorry, my-my Lord," Draco stuttered. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "I never meant to fail you. I would have killed him had Professor Snape not intervened." Draco continued to stare directly at Voldemort, praying to anything that would listen, that the Dark Lord spared him. A sudden sardonic smile covered Voldemort's face.
"You are a skilled Occlumens," Voldemort praised slowly. "But not good enough. Do not lie to me, boy. You were lowering your wand, ready to disown me, your Lord, for the protection of that old fool."
Draco's eyes widened. He hadn't even felt Voldemort enter his mind.
"Yes, Mr. Malfoy. You can hide nothing from me. Had Severus not been there, all would have been lost."
"I'm sorry, my Lord," Draco started desperately, fear driving his words. "I'll do better next time, I promise."
"And still you lie to me." Voldemort shook his head and raising his wand, uttered his curse of choice; Crucio.
Draco felt his body contort in ways he never thought possible as he writhed and thrashed in a vain attempt to escape the all consuming pain of the Dark Lord's wand. For what felt like hours, he heard himself scream, as pain abated and returned with renewed force. The blood that began trickling from his nose only heightened the pain wracking his body.
"Bleeding already?" the Dark Lord questioned, giving Draco a small respite.
Draco took great heaving breaths, choking on his own blood and tears as he sucked in great gulps of the air he craved.
"Weaker than I thought."
Draco howled in pain as he was hit with the curse for a second time. The curse ended abruptly. Draco curled himself into a ball, shocks of pain still ricocheting around his body.
"Look at me, boy," Voldemort commanded. Draco didn't move; he couldn't. "I said look at me."
Draco gave a choked cry as Voldemort cast a powerful Stinging Hex at him. He looked up tentatively, bracing himself on his elbows, breathing heavily.
Voldemort beckoned to the man at his right. The man scurried forward. "Your arm, Wormtail," he demanded.
Without hesitation Wormtail held out his arm. Draco watched as, with a flick of the Dark Lord's wand, the sleeve rolled itself neatly up Wormtail's arm. Draco flinched as Voldemort touched one long pale finger to the man's flesh, and felt his own arm tingle as if it was his arm Voldemort used to call forth his follower.
"Now, scream for me."
Voldemort held the curse longer this time, prolonging the agony. When he finally relented, Draco sobbed his relief. He lay helpless on the ground, fearing the next attack.
"I apologise for my slow reply, My Lord."
Draco heard his father's voice cut through his head and felt his heart swell with hope. It was all going to be all right, his father would save him. He would convince the Dark Lord to let him go. It was all going to be all right. It was all going to be fine.
"The wards of Azkaban are still-" he stopped abruptly, a sharp gasp leaving him as his eyes fell on Draco. Blood trickling from his son's ears and gushed down his chin, staining the Hogworts' uniform he still wore. The blood vessels in his eyes had burst leaving his irises swimming in blood. "Draco?"
"I thought it only right that you be here for his punishment, Lucius," Voldemort stated, looking around the circle of eager followers who had edged forward as Lucius Apparated beside them. "Perhaps you have a suggestion as to what his final punishment should be."
Draco closed his eyes as Voldemort raised his arm again, not waiting for his father's reply. Pain shot through his body, every muscle contracting simultaneously. Suddenly, the pain left his body, and he heard an outbreak of excited murmurings from the circle of Death Eaters. Draco looked up to see his father towering over Voldemort, his fist clenched in front of him.
"Get your wand off my son," Lucius snarled. He pointed his wand at the fallen Dark Lord menacingly, flicking the Dark Lord's wand across the room.
Lucius raised his wand to curse Voldemort; to finish him. Lucius let out an angry cry as his wand flew from his hand. With unprecedented grace, Voldemort rose to his feet, Lucius' wand held almost delicately between his fingers. He reached his free hand up to his face, wiping away the drizzle of blood from where Lucius' fist had broken the skin of his bottom lip.
"You're siding with that whelp over your Lord?" Voldemort snarled. Lucius took a step to the left, hiding Draco from Voldemort's view.
"You will not touch him," Lucius growled. Draco pulled himself up to a sitting position.
Voldemort chuckled sadistically. "What makes an insignificant excuse for a wizard like you, think you can best me? You couldn't even best Potter and his little band of do-gooders." He twirled Lucius' wand in his hand and smiled sardonically. "Killed with your own wand, what a legacy to leave," Voldemort hissed and with a flick of his wrist, cursed Lucius. Lucius fell backwards, screams wrenched from within him.
The Death Eater surrounded them laughed as Lucius writhed on the ground.
"Still think your father will save you, boy?" He released Lucius from the Cruciatus Curse briefly, before recasting the spell. "I'm disappointed in you, Lucius. You were once one of my finest assets."
Draco watched as the curse was repeatedly cast on his father, unable to move, unable to stop it. Unable to take it anymore, Draco squeezed his eyes shut and clasped his hands over his ears. He didn't care how weak it made him look, he just couldn't take it anymore; couldn't watch anymore. It was all his fault.
He could still hear his father's muffled screams and the jeers of the increasingly excitable crowd.
"Lucius, look at the boy. Is that what you are enduring this for, this cur? This disgrace?" Voldemort look at Draco with distain, aiming his wand at him, and with a pointed look at Lucius, cursed him. Draco's back arched with the excruciating pain, fresh tears streaming down his cheeks. Draco's body was given sudden relief, the curse lifted, his father's screams replacing his own.
"Lucius, you surprise me. You have never been willing to take on pain before, let alone someone else's." Voldemort bent down, coming to Lucius' level. Voldemort grasped Lucius' chin, pulling it up.
"I'm sure Fenrir will enjoy him," he hissed maliciously, "He does so like young boys." Throwing Lucius' chin from his grasp, he said flippantly, "Sectumsempra,"
Lucius let out a choked cry as his stomach split, blood gushing from the wound. Draco too, cried out in shock, crawling over to his father in a panic, trying desperately to stem the flow of blood with his hands. Lucius head turned slightly away from Draco's frantic face and then suddenly, he grasp Draco's arm, his fingers digging into the still pained flesh. Draco was thrust into the stomach lurching sensation of a Portkey and landed painfully on soft grass.
"Father," Draco cried hysterically, pushing his hands harder still onto the wound. "Dad!"
"Listen to me," Lucius choked through the blood that gurgled up from his lungs. "Run. Severus will tell you where, just run."
"No, no, no, no. I-I have to get you to Saint Mungo's. Oh God, I don't have a wand, I can't Apparate."
Lucius hand came up, grasping Draco's cheek. "You will be a fine man," he began, forcing himself to keep his eyes open, blinking back death.
"No," Draco interrupted resolutely, shaking his head furiously. "No."
"No father could be prouder of his son." Lucius smiled slightly at Draco, a single tear escaping out of the corner of his eye.
Draco's own vision was blurred by tears, his face streaked with tears; old ones, and new ones mixed like salty rivers flowing down his cheeks. "My boy," Lucius breathed as his eyes lost their focus. His hand fell from Draco's cheek. Draco could feel the blood on his father's hand smudge as his palm pulled across his face.
"Dad?' He shook Lucius lightly. His eyes were open. They were still open. He was fine. His eyes were open. "Dad!"
GMGMGMGMG
An hour later, Severus Snape found Draco curled up in the middle of the overgrown garden, his face buried in his knees. He glanced around, his eyes falling on the bloody body of Lucius Malfoy. He closed his eyes, forced to look away, shaking his head. He made his way over to Draco. He would deal with Lucius later.
"Draco," he said softly, kneeling in front of him.
Draco's head snapped up. He looked terrible. Blood stained his face, a clear path of tears running through a bloody hand print that marred his cheek; blood caked around his ears, covered his chin and shirt, his hands stained. He was pale and quivering, his eyes frantic and, yet, dull. It was like something had been taken from his very being. A piece of him was missing. And even though it was impossible, he seemed somewhat thinner to Severus.
"His eyes are open," Draco whispered. "He's still alive. His eyes are open. Right?"
Severus didn't answer. He helped Draco to his feet, and began leading him the short distance towards the house.
Draco looked at the house as though he hadn't noticed it before. "Where are we?"
"My home."
"Home," Draco repeated. Snape simply nodded, unwilling and unable to say anything.
"I want to go home," Draco said with sudden strength. "I want my mum. I-I need to tell her."
"Draco, we can't go to the Manor. The Death Eaters will be waiting for you."
"No, I want to go home. I want my mum!" Draco stopped allowing Severus to lead him and pulled in the opposite direction.
"Draco," Severus began, tugging on the boy's arm. He was too weak to put up a proper fight, but true to his stubborn nature, he gave it his best shot.
"No," he screamed, resisting the tight grasp Severus had on his arm. "I want to go home." And with a horrible squelching sensation, he was home.
Severus groaned as he took in his surroundings. The familiar parlour of Malfoy Manor looked back at him. Severus took a quick inventory, checking that all of him was there, satisfied and relieved when he felt everything in the right places. Severus couldn't believe it. Draco, despite his weakened state, had managed to spontaneously Side-Along Apparate them past the complex wards into Malfoy Manor, without Splinching either of them.
Draco took advantage of Severus' shock and bounded up the stairs determined to find his mother. "Mum," he called. "Mum!"
Severus followed him, frantically trying to grasp hold of him and pull him from the Manor, but every time he got close to the boy, he was repelled; knocked off his feet. Severus stepped in front of Draco as he scoured the many rooms of Malfoy Manor and grasped his shoulders.
"Dra-" He was forced backwards and landed painfully, meters up the hallway. He grasped the knob of the door to help himself up, and felt it give beneath his weight, sliding inwards. He let out a gasp at the sight. He heard Draco approach behind him and quickly turned, clambering to his feet, trying to shield Draco from the sight that lay inside. But it was to no avail; Draco could see past Severus despite his efforts of body him from the door. Draco fought to get in the room, his arms reaching over Severus shoulders as he screamed for his mother.
When Draco's back hit the wall, and he slid down sobbing. Severus moved away, quickly shutting the door to Lucius' study where the body of Narcissa Malfoy lay; her robes hitched up around her waist, her face bloody and bruised; her eyes as open as her husband's.
GMGMGMGMG
Draco sat numbly in a place he didn't recognise. It was dirty and old and draughty, and it smelt funny. He was still covered in blood and his body shook with the after effects of the Cruciatus Curse. He could hear them all yelling in the kitchen; Yelling about him like he couldn't hear them.
"He is a Death Eater," someone yelled furiously.
"He is a child." He heard Professor Snape thunder. He had never heard him yell like that. He was usually so calm. Biting, rather than deafening. "He is a scared boy who just watched his father tortured to death, and came home to find the body of his mother."
He heard a woman gasp and cry, "The poor dear," and heard mutterings from others that he couldn't make out.
Without warning the door swung open, a rounded, red-headed woman storming out towards him. He could hear the muttering clearly now the door was open. No one wanted him here. He was a Death Eater, he had gotten Dumbledore killed, and he didn't deserve their help.
The woman sat down beside him and wrapped her arms around him. He stiffened in her hold and then proceeded to attempt to wriggle out of her embrace. "Oh you poor boy," she sighed, looking at him with pity. "Come on," she coaxed, pulling him out of his seat.
She was stronger than she looked, Draco thought absently. Or maybe he just wasn't trying very hard. He was so tired. He just wanted to lie down and sleep, never to wake up.
"Let's get you cleaned up," she said, her arm wrapping around his waist to lead him up the stairs. Every step hurt. It hurt his head, his legs, ears, eyes. It just hurt.
She led him into a bathroom and turned on the water, checking with her arm to make sure it was the right temperature.
"There you go, dear, why don't you hop on in."
She left the room then, the water still running. He just stood there. He heard a loud knock at the door and turned his head. The door didn't open immediately. He just stared at the wood with its peeling paint and rusting knob. Slowly, it opened and the woman came back in.
"I have a nice warm dressing gown for you to wear after your-" she paused realising he was in the same state as when she left some minutes earlier. "Come on dear, you have to shower."
He continued to stare at her. She sighed, a look of understanding coming over her face. She bustled up to him and began undoing the buttons on his shirt. She talked quietly to him, telling him her name and where he was. The Order of the Phoenix. Snape had taken him to the Order… but he was a Death Eater. And she was a Weasley. She was Mrs. Weasley. He barely noticed as Mrs. Weasley finished undressing him and ushered him into the shower.
The water was soft and warm as it flowed over his body, circling the drain in a crimson swirl. He looked up into the spray letting the water beat down on his tired face.
He stood there, his face turned towards the water until it stopped. He looked down to see Mrs. Weasley's arm at the tap and felt her take his hand and pull him from the shower. She wrapped the dressing gown around him, pulling his arms through the holes and securing it tightly round his waist.
She grabbed a towel from the rack and began towelling his hair dry, the fluffy towel making light work of the thin strands. Again she led him, arm around him, down the hall to a bedroom. He stood there while she got the bed ready for him, turning down the sheets and blankets.
"In you get, dear."
He crawled into the bed and allowed her to tuck him in. A sharp crack saw a house-elf appear with two vials. "Thankyou, Kreacher," the woman said sincerely. The elf looked familiar to Draco, but he was too tired to find out how.
"You're welcome ma'am," the elf squeaked, "Dirty, Blood Traitor sullying my mistresses home," he added as he bent in a low bow as if his proximity to the ground blunted the sound of voice, and disappeared with a loud crack that rang in Draco's ears.
"Here you go, dear," she said, softy pushing the vial to his lips. "So you have a nice long sleep without any dreams."
He drank the potion obediently and the one after that and began to feel drowsy. He closed his eyes, and felt the woman smoothing back his hair from his forehead.
GMGMGMGMG
Much to his chagrin, he had awoken the next morning, confined to the room. Soon after he woke, he sat rigidly on the wooden chair in the corner of the room, wearing ill-fitting clothes that had been left at the end of his bed. His head snapped towards the door as the wood scraped noisily across the floor.
"Draco, dear," Mrs. Weasley greeted cheerily. "I wasn't sure what you would feel like so I brought you a selection."
Draco raised his eyebrows at the five plates she had crammed precariously onto the shabby wooden tray, the floral pattern peeling.
"I'm not hungry," Draco said stiffly.
"Now, now dear, you have to eat." She placed the tray on the rickety desk beside him, the plate of scrambled eggs wobbling, the treacle running off the pancakes. Draco just scowled at her. "How about I leave it here for you and you can choose what you want." He nodded.
For the next week this routine continued; Mrs. Weasley bringing too much food for him, though she did manage to cut his serving down to two plates, three times a day. He didn't see another soul for that week, though occasionally he thought he heard shouts floating up the stairs.
Once when she brought his lunch up, she asked for memories. She was muttering something about 'emotional distress' and 'fragile minds' as she watched him draw memory after memory from within himself.
They wanted the Dark Lord giving him his assignment to kill Dumbledore, the vanishing cabinets, when Snape killed Dumbledore, and when the Dark Lord had him and his father. They wanted it all. He took the memories from within his mind, trying valiantly not to dwell on them. It felt better with them gone, but by dinner that night, they were back, and he couldn't help but dwell on them.
"They made a copy, dear," she told him, correctly interrupting his look of surprise when she told him he could have them back. He tried to leave the memory of his parents in the bowl, but she wouldn't let him.
"It doesn't do any good to delay the pain," she said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and ignoring his wriggling attempts to free himself from her grasp. Why did she keep doing that? "Best to deal with them now, it will only be harder later."
Bollocks, he thought, later had never seemed like a better time to deal with something. So he shuffled them around, and filed them away; locked them up in the dusty confines of seldom used spaces of his mind.
On the ninth day he had been confined to the small room, which thankfully had an adjoining bathroom, the door was thrown open to yells of: "Molly, be reasonable...the boy's a murderer."
"Yes exactly," Molly cried. "The boy! The child. And I will not have him cooped up for a moment longer, do you hear me, Alastor?"
"He tried to kill Albus and Snape succeeded! Rosmerta, that girl, your own boys, Molly," Mad Eye Moody thundered as he limped into the room, his wooden leg clacking loudly on the floor.
A thin balding man Draco recognised as Mr Weasley followed Moody through the door; followed by a vaguely familiar woman with bright pink hair streaked with blue; Professor Lupin his robes as shabby as ever; Professor McGonagall, her face flushed and her lips thinner than Draco had ever seen. A tall black man in Auror robes that Draco had never seen before crammed into the small room after them and by a red headed man with what looked like orange goo slopped across his face almost rammed into his back. They jammed themselves into his room, all seeming to be held at bay by a furious Mrs. Weasley.
"You leave my Bill out of this," Molly shrieked. "Children make mistakes. Nothing will ever excuse what he did, but you saw Albus' memories, you saw Harry's and Severus' and even his own, the boy couldn't do it."
"Doesn't change the fact he tried, Mum," the red-headed man stated. Mrs. Weasley looked past the people in front of her, zeroing in on her son. The man stood his ground, squaring his shoulders. "Doesn't mean he didn't succeed in letting Death Eaters into the school; letting Greyback into the school."
"Charles Weasley," Mrs Weasley screeched. Everyone cringed. "I will not neglect a child so desperately in need of care."
She grabbed Draco's arm and hauled him off the chair. The small crowd of people parted easily, allowing them through. Mrs. Weasley, with more force than Draco thought her capable of, dragged him down the stairs and to a sitting room filled with mismatched and moth eaten chairs. Thunderous footsteps followed them.
"Now, Draco," she said, forcing him into a particular hideous arm chair. "You may go where ever you please and the kitchen is open to you, though it's not safe to go outside I'm afraid. Wards are weaker without a fixed structure."
Draco sat there for a few moments as the six people made their way past him to the kitchen. He saw Lupin throw up a ward and silencing spell, before the kitchen door swung closed. Silently, Draco got to his feet and walked back upstairs and to his wooden chair in the small room and waited.
It was a week later again that he saw her. Her freckled face was peering cautiously round a corner, trying, he assumed, to catch a glimpse of him. She didn't turn away from him when he caught her, simply stared at him, wide eyed. He was the one to look away. She wouldn't understand; he didn't want her to.
He closed the door to his room, cutting himself off from her. He didn't open his door till late that night. Everyone was asleep except the night guard on the front porch. He trudged away from her down to the kitchens. He had found a hearty supply of Firewhisky behind the pre-made cake mix in the pantry. Apparently, that was one place Mrs. Weasley would never think to look. It helped. Made the dreams go away, forced his parents from his mind, and banished the conjured images of his mother's violent death. It was better when he couldn't think.
Pulling out a half empty bottle, he poured himself a glass, and then another, then another, until he was forced to rummage around for another bottle. He couldn't quite get the lid off, and was just about to magic it off when the kitchen door swung open.
"Malfoy?" she gasped shocked, crossing her arms over her chest. She was wearing an old shirt over just her knickers. She approached him slowly. "What are you doing?"
"Drinking," he grunted, a smirk plastered on his face as he watched the shirt ride up her thighs as she moved.
She sighed as she saw the empty bottle of Firewhisky on the table. "How much have you had?"
"This much," he said, holding his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. He leaned forward conspiratorially. "About ten times." He snorted, amused to no end at his own wit.
"Come on," she said, pulling the bottle from his hand. He reached for the bottle as she moved it, but blocked him. "Let's get you to bed."
She grabbed his arm in a way that reminded him strongly of Mrs. Weasley, and he let her pull him up from his seat and begin to lead him out the room.
"My bed is that way," he said, pointing wildly behind him.
"That's the pantry, Malfoy."
"Oh, well it's this way!"
Stumbling up the stairs, he noticed that she smelled really good; a strange, intoxicating scent of apples and flowers. He liked apples.
She flopped him down on his bed, hauling his legs onto the mattress with difficultly. Silently, she turned and began to walk out the room.
"Don't you hate me?" he asked suddenly, his expression serious and sombre. She stared at him from the door way. "I hurt them. I hurt them all."
"That," she said softly, giving him a soft smile, "would make me a hypocrite. Get some sleep, Malfoy."
GMGMGMGMG
Draco sat swirling the as yet untouched whisky around the glass, the liquid warming in his hand. Carefully, he placed the glass on a coaster atop the table in front of him. Snape was right.
"So," a familiar voice said from behind him. "You've finally decided to stop brooding over that Weasley girl?"
Draco turned tiredly to the portrait of the country side that hung on the wall of his study, his mother's likeness standing in stark contrast to her surroundings; her elegant robes and fine jewels out of place with the outdoor setting.
"I wasn't brooding," Draco denied softly.
"Yes, I quite agree," his father said, strolling into frame, "Pouting would be a more appropriate label for your behaviour of late."
"I wasn't pouting either," he said hotly, rising to his feet.
He crossed the room to stand in front of the painting, scowling faintly at the carefully configured oil. He understood now why Muggle paintings didn't move. He thought sometimes that they had the right idea, though he quickly quashed that thought. Seeing them, talking to them, was torture. They were so close, so very close, to being real, yet they were so far from it. He wished he could burn their portraits so he would never have to endure talking with them, but never telling them a word, never hearing a word from them. He had even lit a fire and taken one of his father's portraits down once, but he couldn't do it. He had tried and failed at so many things. What was one more failing? What was one more reminder of his shortcomings?
"I blame your Mother for this weakness of your character. She always did coddle you as a boy," his father continued sombrely.
"I coddled him?" Narcissa asked, a pale eyebrow raised in an speculative expression so like her son's.
"Yes," Lucius replied with conviction, a slight frown manipulating his pointed features. "You constantly insisted that I was too hard on him, and regularly sent him sweets at school, despite my explicit instructions to the contrary."
"And was it me that allowed him have Tilly back despite the fact she was becoming increasingly rude and difficult to control?" Narcissa asked her husband, in a voice Draco recognised as the one she always used before she received a new addition to her jewellery collection. "Was it me who buckled the second his lip quivered and personally went down to the kitchens to retrieve her?"
"I was simply anticipating your desires, Narcissa."
Narcissa chose not to dignify Lucius' words with a response, instead focusing her attentions on Draco. "You never answered my question, Draco. Are you quite finished drowning your sorrows in your father's finest whiskeys?"
"Yes, Mother," Draco whispered, staring at the edge of the ornate plaster frame. "I'm quite finished."
GMGMGMGMG
Draco woke, for the first time in months, without any residual effects of alcohol consumption. He felt refreshed; his head clear and body light. It was an odd sensation to not harbour the overwhelming need to throttle Tilly as she served him breakfast. Though, he mused in good spirits, a hang over wasn't necessary to inspire his ill will towards the spiteful elf.
He sat calmly at his overly large breakfast table, sunlight shining through the windows brightening the space, bouncing off the marble floors. He unfolded the paper beside him, casually pulling his forkful of eggs towards his mouth.
"Tilly," he called, placing his fork on the side of his plate. Tilly appeared by his side, looking up at him with a smile. "Where's the front page?" he asked, turning the newspaper towards Tilly. Tilly's smile faltered, her long fingers curling into a tight fist, the tips digging painfully into her calloused palm.
"Tilly lost it."
Draco held out his hand to the small elf. "Is that cashmere?" Draco asked in reference to Tilly's makeshift clothes, as she reached into the front of her crude shirt to retrieve the folded front page of the paper. Tilly nodded solemnly in answer to his question.
"Tilly could not get a stain out of Master Draco's jumper," the elf said, wringing her hands. "Tilly had to iron her hands before Tilly made her clothes."
Draco nodded absently. He really didn't understand Granger's claim that elves were mistreated. The healed faster than any wizard, so really their self inflicted punishments never lasted long. It would be counter productive if they did.
He unfolded the front page carefully his eyes drawn to the bold print of the headline like a shark to blood. They glared up at him, daring him to react.
GINNY WEALSEY SPOTTED IN DUBLIN
…browsing the antique store, her telltale red hair was a beacon to anyone who knew her. The former friend of the war time hero, Megan Jones, says that the youngest of the Weasley brood, fondly known as Ginny, rushed out of the store after exchanging a few, quick pleasantries. In an unsettling sequence of events, Ginny was followed swiftly by a large man, whose face was obscured by the shelves. Concerned, Miss Jones followed Miss Weasley out of the shop only to hear a strangled cry and find no trace of her on the street. For more details turn to page four.
Scanning quickly, Draco took in the rest of the article, his hold on the paper tightening with every word, until his fingers burst through the grey paper.
GMGMGMGM