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And the Clock Keeps Ticking
Two
The iron gate of Malfoy Manor looked grand but decrepit. The chilly wind did nothing to help Harry appreciate the beauty of the estate—or the lack thereof. Harry had always thought that having a big house was creepy, and seeing the abandoned Manor now affirmed his notion. His memory of the Manor only added his distaste.
No light but that of the moon was there, so Harry had to depend on Lumos. He whispered a spell so the Auror wards could let him through, feeling lucky for the first time that he was part of the investigation team. The gate no longer automatically opened to guests ever since the Aurors stripped everything from the estate, including its magic. Harry climbed it cautiously, worried in case there were some kind of triggers that the Aurors had put in without his knowledge. Upon landing on the other side, he let out a relieved breath and continued walking down the driveway.
Half a year ago, Harry still couldn't walk into this place without suffering an overwhelming emotional turmoil. Tonight wasn't that different, except the excitement of potentially discovering where Draco Malfoy had been hiding all this time beat every other emotion. But if there was one emotion that could win over the excitement, it was anger—Harry vowed he would punch Malfoy into a pulp the moment he saw him. Harry wasn't here to save his own arse, and he wasn't here to save Malfoy's either. He was here to give the git a lesson.
Spelling another set of wards to open up for him, Harry pushed the front door open. A loud creak reverberated, creating a hollow echo throughout the empty front hall. Harry took in the surrounding area, and noted that everything was just like it had been the last time he was here. White sheets covered everything, dust and spider webs being the only things different to half a year ago. Eagerly Harry made his way along the long hallway, refusing to pause even when he realised he had no idea where Malfoy's secret place might be.
Something rustled behind him. Halting his steps, Harry turned around only to find empty air. But the rustling sounds continued, eerily whispering from somewhere behind the long walls. Harry frowned, intending to move nearer or just press his ear to the wall, when a loud clang made him jump. Whirling around, he squinted into the dark. There was something reflecting his wand light on the tiles—a small chandelier. Harry inspected the bronze, small table attached to the opposite wall of the hallway, his frown deepening. Someone had clearly pulled the white sheet covering it, leaving the fabric discarded and the chandelier to roll down the tiles.
"Malfoy," he hissed, feeling triumphant but also pissed off at the same time.
Throwing the chandelier with a rattle, Harry picked up his pace again, traversing ridiculously long hallway after hallway. "Malfoy," shouted Harry crossly, his voice rebounding endlessly. He slammed every door open, his stomach tightening with annoyance with every fruitless search. "Malfoy, you bloody git, I know you're here!"
A deep swoosh passed through him—with it came a strong wind banging a huge door open right before him. Gaping, Harry stood rooted to the floor.
Was that—?
Pulling himself together, Harry slowly headed towards the door. His breath caught in his throat as he realised he was stepping into the very place where Dobby was last alive. Fury bubbled inside him.
"Malfoy," he yelled, clenching his fist tight as his other hand waved the light on the tip of his wand almost savagely. "You fucking idiot," he growled, crossing the dusty carpet towards the middle of the room. "I swear, if I catch you, I'll kill—"
More wind knocked over him, and the next thing he knew, a large crystal chandelier crashed down from the ceiling, only inches from where his feet froze on the carpet. The deafening crash might have made his ears bleed, plus his arm burned, probably from where the crystal pieces scraped through his sleeve, but Harry could only replay how Dobby had destroyed the very same thing years ago.
And all of a sudden Draco Malfoy was there, glaring at him.
. . . or perhaps Harry's eyes were playing tricks on him.
". . . Malfoy?"
"Go the fuck away, Potter," said Malfoy in a low hiss. Harry was sure no one but Malfoy could spit out his name like that. This was the real Malfoy, the one and only, even though he was . . .
"Malfoy," Harry said, swallowing. "Are you a . . ."
"Ghost, Potter? Looks to me like I am," Malfoy sneered, extending his arms open as he floated into the air. His body, wrapped in what looked like an expensive black jumper and trousers, was silvery translucent, his hair the soft colour of the moon, yet his eyes could reflect cold anger even better than when he was solid. Harry's stomach lurched at the thought—Draco Malfoy was dead.
"When, how did you . . ." Harry licked his lips nervously. "Was it me? Am I too late to give you back your wand?"
"My wand?" Malfoy looked genuinely confused.
"Was it Voldemort?"
Malfoy winced, and Harry could feel it again—the strong wind swirling around them. The remains of the crystal chandelier jangled noisily, several white sheets blew off the furniture as they shook. A realisation hit Harry then.
"Wait, if you're a ghost, how can you—did you make this fall?" He pointed at the rattling chandelier, narrowing his eyes. "Did you want to kill me?"
Malfoy seemed to sober up—the wind stopped blowing at once. Silence stretched out oddly again, before he sneered, "As if the Chosen One could die merely from a falling chandelier."
"That's not the point," growled Harry.
"I only wanted you to go," snapped Malfoy. "Still do, actually. Shall I show you the door?"
"No," Harry snapped back. He took several deep breaths, knowing that he should process this new information—he couldn't imagine what he would say to Robards tomorrow. "Look, can you—tell me, how and when did you die?"
Malfoy's expression turned icy again. Harry could sense the wind picking up again, so he quickly raised his hands. "All right, I can guess, anyway! It's probably the same with all the other ex-Death Eaters!" Malfoy narrowed his eyes at that. "But we never found your body, so we thought you were—" Harry paused, feeling his throat constricting. "We thought we still had time . . ."
But Harry had never really wanted to help—had never really cared if they really still had time. He was only furious, betrayed—and those weren't enough.
"There's nothing to explain," said Malfoy at last, his tone pained. Harry looked up to find him scowling at the floor. "I just—one day I was in my bed, then suddenly I've already—" He swallowed, clenching his transparent fingers into fists. "I didn't even get to see my body."
"You didn't?"
"Perhaps my mother had buried me in the family graveyard for all I know."
"Oh."
Malfoy watched him carefully. "Why would—" He stopped himself, appearing to be somewhat unsettled before shaking his head. "Go away, Potter. You know I'm dead now, pity that you can't kill me anymore. Go and tell your little Auror friends out there and never come back."
Harry supposed it was exactly what he should do, but he still couldn't bring himself to go.
"Go away, Potter," Malfoy pressed when Harry didn't even move a finger. "My father wouldn't approve of you—"
"Your father's dead!"
"And so is yours," Malfoy sneered. "Long before mine, may I add."
"At least I'm still alive," said Harry spitefully.
Stronger wind roared around him—Malfoy's face contorted into pure rage as he grabbed blindly for something to throw. He swiped a ceramic vase, sending it to Harry in a powerful strike, but Harry was ready with a Protego. He smirked.
"Really, Malfoy, did you think you can beat me with only a—"
The vase broke through Harry's shield, cuffing him right in the head. Harry didn't even remember if the blow made him scream. The only thing his brain could supply in panic was that he still had Malfoy's wand in his pocket, and how repulsed Malfoy's eyes were. Then darkness took him under.
When he came to, Harry whimpered. His skull felt like cracking, and his stomach churned violently. The dream had come again. And this time Harry didn't have the energy to fight it. He peeked through one eye, and saw the darkness that was enveloping the road to Malfoy Manor. Malfoy must have thrown him outside then.
Harry held his head with both hands, panting heavily. How could Malfoy be that strong as a ghost? Why did the nausea and headache worsen now of all times? He whimpered, feeling the stickiness in his hair and forehead that could only mean blood. He wanted to call Kreacher—he needed the potion, he couldn't remember ever needing it more than now. But he could only manage a few incoherent syllables, before he vomited all over the ground.
He writhed, wet soil clinging to his skin and cloak as rain chose that very moment to pour down. Apparently even nature hated him. Collapsing with his cheek scraped against the gravel and the metal of his glasses digging into his skin, Harry could only stare listlessly at the silhouette of Malfoy Manor and the heavy drops of rain before he lost consciousness again.
. .
. .
The nausea was gone in the morning. Or was it afternoon? Harry blinked groggily, wondering where he was and what he had done to get his body all sticky, and why he was sleeping on gravel and soil. At the sight of one transparent Draco Malfoy, though, everything came crashing back. He sat up abruptly, hissing when the movement made his vision spin. Right, the git had hit him with a bloody vase. Fixing up his askew glasses, Harry gave Malfoy his best glare.
"Really, Potter, it was only a small vase—I'd assumed you'd at least know how to cast Episkey. Was it necessary to sleep all night in front of the gate? Or was the Malfoy ground really that comfortable? People would think someone murdered you, you see," said Malfoy dismissively.
"You were the one who threw me out, you prat," Harry said, with feeling. He fumbled around for his wand before trying his best to point it at his wound. Malfoy rolled his eyes.
"Episkey," Malfoy said with a wave of his hand. Harry sensed the dull ache in his forehead and arm vanish along with the hot and cold sensation he had grown accustomed to these past few years. Malfoy looked at him again, scrunching his nose up and spelling him clean. Ignoring the tingling feeling, Harry reached up, staring in awe at Malfoy as he touched the smooth skin of his forehead.
"How did you do that?"
"With all you've done all these years, Potter, I would have thought you had known about magic."
"No, you git, I mean why were you able to do that?" Harry paused, taking in his surroundings, and said, "How could you come out of the Manor? I thought ghosts were supposed to be tied down to a specific location by the Ministry! Besides—" He leapt on his feet and caught Malfoy's arm.
"Wh—" Malfoy jerked backwards, his arm dissolving into air for a moment before it appeared again. "What are you doing?" He looked disgusted, while Harry let his fingers open and close in contemplation.
"You can make yourself solid or intangible as you wish," Harry said.
"You touched me to prove that point? I've cuffed you with a bloody vase, Potter."
"But can ghosts do that?"
"Well, I don't know about the other ghosts, but I've always known I was special," said Malfoy, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. At Harry's look, he sent a sidelong, doubtful glance. "If you have any ridiculous theories that suggest otherwise, feel free to voice them, Potter."
Harry gritted his teeth. "No theories and I don't need your permission to talk. But with the many impossible things that have happened in my life, I wouldn't scratch the possibility that maybe you're not a ghost."
"And with the many things that have happened in my life, I wouldn't think anything good could possibly take place at this point."
Harry was a bit taken aback, but for once Malfoy wasn't taking the piss. He just . . . looked tired, and perhaps wary. Maybe later when Harry had already showered and had breakfast, he would ask himself why he could read Malfoy's expression when he was that colourless, but . . . he figured he just could, and that was all right for now.
"Look, you can touch things—and be touched, and you can go wherever you like, and you can do that wind blowing thing, and that magic thing. Even Peeves can't do magic," Harry said, trying to rationalise his own thoughts even though he didn't really know what those thoughts were. "Isn't that weird?"
Malfoy's body was stiff, but Harry now recognised the way he stood—floated, actually—from the dreams. All straight back and smooth movement, something that was born from endless practice and lessons. "I suppose it's not normal, but . . ." Malfoy hesitated, looking up to Harry's eyes, "does anyone know anything—any news about me?"
"Just that you've been missing for half a year?" Harry said, his mind reeling.
"Figured," said Malfoy quietly, throwing his glance towards the Manor. "I knew that's why they kept coming. At one point they just stopped, though. That's when I assumed they'd found out about my death."
Harry frowned. He didn't really understand how it felt to be trapped, waiting for the news about your own death, but that wasn't what was important now. He reached into his pocket, taking out the bundle of satin. The wand inside wasn't glowing, it seemed, and maybe that was why Harry didn't wake up with the nausea. Putting it on the ground, Harry sat and exposed the wand with a simple spell. He lifted his face to see Malfoy's reaction.
As expected, Malfoy's eyes were wide and his mouth opened slightly in stunned silence. But that only lasted for a few seconds, before those eyes narrowed and his lips pulled into a sneer. "What the fuck, Potter? You never thought of giving me back my wand when I was alive, but now you're showing it off?"
Harry resisted flinching at that. He swallowed the guilt—and yes, there was a possibility that if he had thought of returning the wand earlier, maybe Malfoy wouldn't . . .
Pushing that thought aside, he said in as steady voice as possible instead, "This wand is feeding off my magic because it needs your magic. If you were dead, it shouldn't have done that. It still senses your magic." He looked up again to find Malfoy hesitating, staring at his wand.
"We all know that magic won't die," said Malfoy. "The Hogwarts founders and the Da—"
"—Voldemort," Harry cut him off. Malfoy didn't so much as wince, but he looked even paler. When Malfoy spoke again, his voice shook a little.
"Maybe it's the same with me."
"No." Harry shook his head. "Voldemort left a curse, the founders left their magic in the castle—they're just dead magic, you know? But your magic needs a wand. It's as if your magic is alive."
"As if I am still alive," said Malfoy, his eyes widened in realisation. "Bloody hell, am I still alive?"
"Maybe," said Harry. "Why don't you test first if our assumption is correct?"
Malfoy stared at him, unsure and—there it came again, the flash of fear on his face. He then eyed the wand for a long time and swallowed. "What the fuck are you planning, Potter?" he asked loudly, his voice shaky. "Giving me hopes and then what? Laughing your arse off when it turns out that I'm indeed dead?"
"Ha-ha. Yeah, that'd be the funniest thing in this world, your death," said Harry sarcastically. At Malfoy's heated glare, Harry clenched his jaw. "Look, it's not just you. Your wand is eating my magic, and I'd die, too, if you can't take it back."
"The Boy Who Lived dies at the hands of his enemy's wand? Merlin forbid," snapped Malfoy. But Harry could see the way his shoulders relaxed slightly.
Concentrating back on his wand, Malfoy took a deep breath—or at least it looked like that, Harry didn't even know how he breathed anymore—and lowered his feet to the ground, resting on one knee. His hand gave away a tremor as it paused for a second right above the wand. Then slowly, his fingers curled around it, the black colour visible through the outline of his fingers. At once a very bright light shot up that Harry had to shield his eyes from with his forearm. It was only there for a moment, yet Harry could still see spots in his vision thanks to the brightness.
"Well?" Harry asked when Malfoy only watched the wand in his hand.
"I don't feel anything in particular," Malfoy admitted. "I can use magic without my wand, but this still responds to my magic, I suppose," he said as he sent a rainbow spark into the air. He looked at Harry and pondered, "What do you think it means?"
"It means I don't have to have a headache anymore. It means the wand's yours again."
Malfoy shot him an annoyed glance. "Is that all you can tell me? Still not very bright, are you, Potter?"
"At least I figured it out myself." Harry scowled. "The book only told me that if you need your wand badly, it'd suck my magic dry unless I return it to you."
"But I don't need it badly," said Malfoy before he paused, frowning. "Perhaps . . . the fact that my magic runs free means I need something to contain it in . . . because I don't have a body," he said, his eyes widening. "I think I have read a ritual where one's soul can be separated from one's body!"
"You mean, like, your body is in coma or something?" Harry asked.
"I have to admit I'm still not sure," said Malfoy, attempting to school his expression, but it was clear that the hope and enthusiasm were too huge for him to handle. "But my mother must know something. She must have been the one who performed the ritual," he paused for a beat, uncertain, "although I'm not sure why she did this."
Harry was also unsure why he was still there. He had done his share—the wand was back, he had given clues to Malfoy, and now he didn't need to help Malfoy with anything more. But . . .
"There must have been something—a reason for her to do this. Something important, I reckon," Malfoy said, his eyes unfocussed and Harry could see the fleeting hurt and doubt Malfoy tried so hard to mask. "She wouldn't do this to me if there weren't . . ."
"'Course she wouldn't," Harry said even before he could ask himself why he felt the need to reassure Malfoy. "She bloody lied to Voldemort for you."
Malfoy stared at him for a moment, before he looked away and nodded. "Yes, that's what I thought. But we still have to ask her. I mean, I'm sure she has a good reason, but I still want my body back."
"Malfoy—"
"She never comes home lately, but since the Aurors kept coming, maybe she chose to stay somewhere in the Malfoy summer house or—"
"Malfoy, your mother—"
"I can find her myself, Potter," said Malfoy, louder and faster than necessary. His lips pressed thin and Harry could see his neck rigid as he glared at Harry. "As you can see, I'm capable of going out by myself. I can find ways to visit my mother, I just need to decide which house I should visit first."
Harry watched Malfoy staring at him with something akin to a challenge in his eyes, and somehow Harry couldn't bring himself to utter the words that were already on the tip of his tongue. Malfoy tore his eyes away, fumbling with his wand. After a couple of beats, he said, "Don't go near the Manor again, Potter." He subsequently flew through the gate, not bothering to glance back at Harry again.
Harry sighed, scrubbing at his nape wearily. Of course he didn't want to go there again, but . . .
He shook himself, making sure he had his wand and wished desperately for a comforting hot bath. But as he left Wiltshire and arrived in Grimmauld Place, he didn't have time to do anything other than quick wash before grabbing his Auror robes. His whole body ached from sleeping on the ground, yet that wasn't what made him tired. Somehow, everything was jumbled inside his head, and Harry didn't know what had possessed him when he didn't even mention anything about Malfoy in his meeting with Robards that afternoon.
. .
. .
"All right, Harry?" asked Neville as Harry slumped on his desk, face buried in his arms.
"Fine," he said, didn't even bother to look up. He had barely come in on time for his stakeout with Ron, and they had spent eleven hours hiding in a crate to ambush some illegal potions dealer making their transaction, but in the end the information they got had been leaked and the dealer had fled elsewhere. The only evidence left in the room was a map of England with a random blue mark on it. Another futile work, another bad impression. Another rain of spittle from Robards.
"At least you still got the Rowle case, mate," said Ron limply from his own desk. "You can capture Death Eaters and all."
"Ah, I'll be in the team, too," said Neville, smiling good-naturedly when Harry leaned back to his chair. "Briefing is tomorrow, right? The other team arrived in South America this morning."
"You're in the team?" Ron squeaked. "Bloody hell, should have forced Robards to put me in, too!"
"I heard they'll assign as many Aurors as they can to track Malfoy down," said Neville awkwardly. "He's the last one after all."
Harry was silent at that. Malfoy wasn't really the last one—if anything, Rowle was the last. Malfoy had been dead for half a year, if Harry's calculation was correct. Or in a coma, or . . . whatever Mrs Malfoy might have done to him. Or . . . was it Voldemort? Had the bastard planned something by using Malfoy? Harry also wouldn't put it past Malfoy to have some dirty plans, but . . . he didn't look like someone who knew anything. And Harry had had his own share of regrets for having nearly ki—for having injured Malfoy because of his skewed perception in the sixth year. Was he ready to risk making the same mistake?
"Harry?" Neville called, looking at him worriedly. Ron mirrored his expression, while Harry tried not to mess his hair in distress.
"Hospitals, graveyards . . . I think we need to look them up again," said Harry. "We always thought Malfoy was abroad like the others, but . . ."
"Whoa, do you think Malfoy's dead?" Ron asked.
"The likelihood was always there," Neville said. "We don't know when the curse takes action. But we've got that covered, mate."
"Yeah, but we always focus more on monitoring Portkey registries, Floo connections, Apparition trails, Muggle transportations . . . what if Malfoy didn't really leave? What if he hid somewhere and then the curse activated and he's in a hospital now? Or worse, dead?" Harry strived not to show how he almost cringed at the word.
"If that happens, Harry, people would have told us. The death is not exactly normal, even Muggle media would make a big fuss if someone was found dead with his arm burnt," said Neville patiently.
"But we don't really know, do we?" said Harry. "What if whoever found him didn't want to report it and just—I don't know, buried him somewhere, or sent him to a Muggle hospital and then he'd be cremated or buried as a John Doe? Or what if he's still alive but still in a hospital? A Muggle one?"
"John who?" asked Neville.
"No, I mean—that doesn't matter. It's just, how if any of those things I mentioned happened to him?"
"Do you know something we don't, Harry?" asked Ron slowly, his expression suspicious. Harry swallowed, rubbing his nose just to mask his anxiety.
"I just think we need to check again. More thoroughly this time."
Neville and Ron stared at him for a long time, and then Neville said, "All right, I'll tell Hannah. She's good at collecting information, and she also has this Muggleborn friend who's an expert on this thing called a computer. We don't want Robards to know, do we?" He smiled knowingly.
"That'd be brilliant. Thanks, mate," Harry said, blowing out a relieved breath.
"Do we want Hermione to know?" Ron asked, his expression doubtful. Harry couldn't help but laugh.
"I doubt she'll agree, but if she does, maybe she can help Hannah," he said. "And it's about time you two made up."
Ron groaned at that. Neville and Harry laughed harder.
At least now he had a start. Finding Malfoy's body would be a good step to start this whole investigation—although he still had this nagging feeling about not telling his friends. But first things first, hence Harry shrugged and let himself forget about Malfoy for a while.
That night, Harry thought he would have the best sleep he had had in months without the dreams. But when his head touched the pillow, his treacherous mind decided to wander unwittingly. To Malfoy, to the fucking curse . . . to the possibility of Malfoy really being dead. When sleep finally came to him, it was already almost dawn.
. .
. .
Harry was standing outside the Manor gate again. He had been briefed for his mission to South America, and since he would likely be staying there for days or even weeks, there was one thing that he thought he should do beforehand. Harry just hoped his patience was enough to deal with Malfoy after an irritating day meeting with Robards and a bunch of Senior Aurors.
He climbed the gate and jumped to the other side, swearing when he realised how stupid it was not to bring a broom. The path to the front entrance was so far and it was wasting his time, when he could be catching up on his sleep with an early night. Once he arrived at the door, he cast Lumos, pushed the door open, and was immediately greeted by a sneering Malfoy.
"Back so soon, Potter?" The way Malfoy enunciated his name—Harry swore he had never thought it was possible for Malfoy to say his name with a whole new level of contempt.
"Just want to tell you I've begun searching for your body," said Harry, shrugging. It wasn't exactly true, but his real reason for coming tonight was a bit harder to say. Malfoy watched him with indifference, and something prickled Harry's mind—like something was definitely wrong but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was exactly.
"Yeah, well," said Malfoy as he floated dismissively further inside, disregarding Harry. "No need to trouble yourself, you know. It's not like I would thank you."
"What do you mean?" Harry bristled. "I'm just—"
"I'm dead, Potter," said Malfoy flatly, as if he was reading a script, his eyes apathetic.
"We've talked about the possibility of you being in a coma!"
"My mistake. I jumped to conclusions because a certain someone put ideas into my mind," Malfoy sneered. "There's a huge hole in my hypothesis, you see, and it's the fact that a soul without a body wouldn't be able to perform magic."
Harry blinked, a sudden nasty sensation tugging in his guts. "What?"
"I've done some research, although I can't do much since your little team of Aurors have taken away more than half of my family's library."
"We only took the Dark Arts books."
"Last time I checked, separating souls from bodies is still a Dark Art. So you should understand where I'm coming from."
"Well, then how can you be so sure that your theory is wrong?" Harry said indignantly. "You said yourself that you don't have the books!"
"There's one," said Malfoy lazily, "that's been left in my father's study. There's a little description about the ritual."
Harry was at a loss. Malfoy looked so—blank, lethargic, like he had given up everything, even hope. This time Harry couldn't really ignore the guilt of having made fun of Malfoy's death two nights prior and immediately felt ashamed. But again, Malfoy didn't make it easy for Harry to be sympathetic, and Harry wasn't sure if he really wanted to be sympathetic to Malfoy.
"I—I'm just—"
"Forget it, Potter, if you feel sorry for having given me false hope, then you should be," said Malfoy with a wave of his hand. He stopped floating and landed on the carpet, walking across the entrance hall to one of the hallways. Harry bit the inside of his right cheek, then followed him quietly.
There was no way Malfoy didn't know Harry was following him, but it seemed like he couldn't be bothered to notice Harry. For the first time, Harry thought he preferred the Malfoy who was obnoxious, arrogant and childish. At least he could hate that Malfoy with passion, unlike this Malfoy. In the end, when the silence became too much to bear, Harry said, "I still think there's something different about you."
"Yes, yes, different, but still dead," said Malfoy without turning to face Harry.
"I wouldn't be so sure."
"I don't care what you think."
"Let me help you research," said Harry before he could stop himself. Malfoy halted his steps at that, regarding Harry.
"Pardon me, but I think I misheard what you said."
"I can get access to the books we confiscated at the Ministry, and I've already had Neville and Hannah checking hospitals and graveyards—"
"Graveyards, Potter? And you said you believe I'm still alive."
"—and since we can't confirm it with your mother, there's nothing wrong in researching further."
Malfoy's face looked stricken all of a sudden, his shoulders tensed and his fingers clenched tightly. Harry held his breath when he realised what he had just said.
"About your mother—"
"She must be somewhere in the other houses—"
"—she died at the same time you went missing," Harry finished, knowing there wouldn't be any right way to say it. For a moment Malfoy didn't react—he just stood there, wide eyed and stiff and looking so transparent that he was barely visible by the light of Harry's wand, but at that moment the angry wind whirled around him. Harry staggered, protecting his eyes from the various vases, chandeliers and other knick-knacks barraging him.
"Why must you say it?" Malfoy's voice was low at first, before he screamed, "Why must you say it, Potter?"
Harry was slammed to the far end of the hallway, the wind roaring in his ears and his back burning from being dragged over the torn rugs. He strived to keep his glasses on, but it was so hard to see with the wind attacking him from every corner and tears welling up in his eyes. "Fuck, stop it, Malfoy," cried Harry as a picture frame almost collided with his head. But Malfoy was having none of it—it seemed like forever that Harry was in the middle of a typhoon, constantly having to dodge things when it was hard enough even to keep his eyes open.
When the wind finally died down, Harry felt his head throbbing and his limbs hot from scratches. He rubbed his eyes from the tears, and fixed his glasses. Malfoy was nowhere in sight, but it wasn't like Harry expected otherwise. He took a shuddering breath, stood up shakily and went to pick up his still lit wand. With another deep breath, he strode back along the hallway.
Malfoy Manor was too big for Harry's liking, though. It took him nearly an hour just to check the rooms and hallways on the ground floor, and still Malfoy was missing. The only sign that he was still there was the way white sheets blew about the place and furniture slid and tumbled by. Harry followed the mess that led to the stairs.
On the first floor, the rooms were bigger, the doors were farther apart. He kept searching, silently wondering why the hell he even cared. But the more he wanted to leave and write it off as another fight with Malfoy, the guiltier he felt. He should have known from the way Malfoy hadn't wanted to let Harry talk—it was as if Malfoy himself had suspected what had happened to his mother, but refused to believe it. Now though, Harry had said it out loud, and there was no way he could take it back.
Sighing, Harry rubbed his forehead against the dull yet insistent ache. He stopped in his tracks when he felt a breeze. It wasn't like Malfoy's mad, angry tornadoes. It felt gentle and cool like ordinary night air. He slowly turned a corner and saw Malfoy standing in front of an open window, hands clutched tightly on the white-painted sill. Harry took a deep breath, bracing himself for more confrontation, but Malfoy didn't even want to look at him.
"Um," Harry said, hating himself for not knowing what to say. "I'm sorry about your—um, mother."
Malfoy didn't answer, keeping his back towards Harry.
"I didn't mean to—you know. It's just—well, she saved me, so it was a shock for me, too. She wasn't even a Death Eater . . . and I'm sorry for telling you that, but I just—you know, thought you should know."
Another silence stretched between them. Harry dug his fingers into his palms and tried not to make too much noise with his nervous breathing. Malfoy didn't even move, and Harry hated the way he couldn't read this Malfoy. It was as if Malfoy was really a ghost—and maybe he was—without any signs of emotions displayed, all translucent in the soft glow of moonlight and the stars peeking through his silhouette. Harry pressed his lips together and was about to give up, when Malfoy said in a low voice, "I hate being dead."
Harry stared, having no words to say to that. He cut the distance between them, slowly inching forward to Malfoy's side. Now Harry could see the way Malfoy's eyebrows were drawn together, how his lips pinched tight. Malfoy blinked and blinked his dry eyes, and he looked so wretched that Harry couldn't help but feel something weighing his chest and clogging his breathing.
"Can't cry?" Harry asked despite the fact that his voice seemed to almost desert him.
"Tears are overrated," said Malfoy tightly. "I don't need them any longer."
"But you want them now," said Harry.
"One of the perils of being a ghost. Wonder if Myrtle feels like this every time she wants to cry."
"She's got all the water in the bathroom as her tears," said Harry as lightly as possible, but he couldn't stop himself from watching Malfoy carefully. Malfoy appeared to be blowing out his breath, his parted lips quivering, and Harry had to force himself not to bring his fingers there to sense whether Malfoy was still breathing. "I'll still search for your body. Just so you know."
"For the last time, Potter, I don't need your help."
"I'm not helping you. Believe it or not, it's actually important for our investigation."
Malfoy scoffed. "Figured. Hoping to send me to jail if I turn out to be alive, are you? I'm dead, Potter."
Harry shrugged. "There's no instruction to capture you. We just need to solve this whole chaos Voldemort left." Malfoy stayed silent, only keeping his eyes far below, on the dying garden and who knew what, so Harry continued, "Do you still have it—even as a ghost?"
"The Dark Mark?" Malfoy gave a bitter laugh. "It tortured me when I was alive, it might be what killed me, and it's following me even after my death. How brilliant is that?"
"You brought it on yourself."
"Yes, because my family—who are all dead now—were fucking important to me, Potter," said Malfoy. Harry swallowed and kept his mouth shut, gripping his wand tighter.
"Right, okay. I just want you to know that I'm sorry about—well, about your mum, and I'll keep you updated if I find your body. That's all," he said eventually. "And it'll be a lot better if you can tell me where the Malfoy graveyard is . . ."
Malfoy looked at him with visible tiredness, as if he couldn't fathom why he even let Harry stay this long. "I'm not telling you anything. Not now."
"But you will?"
"Most likely not," said Malfoy, dismissing him again and going back to staring outside. "Can you go now?"
No, Harry wanted to answer, but instead he bit his tongue and nodded. Malfoy had just received a massive blow from Harry's clumsy attempt at telling him about his mother, Harry should at least give him time to cope with it. No one should have their parents killed, not even Malfoy. The image of his own parents flashed in his mind, and he swallowed back a choke. "I'll keep you updated," he said again as he stepped back, grateful his voice didn't waver much.
Malfoy shrugged one shoulder, his expression not visible to Harry now. Turning back the way he came, Harry spent the whole time walking out of the Manor and to the gate thinking about the grey lines of Malfoy's fingers that never once loosened from around the window sill as they talked.
. .
. .
"How did it go, lads?" Williamson asked, trudging past Harry and Neville. He eyed the metal door that separated the narrow corridor and the path to the interrogation room. A Brazilian Auror, Belmiro, nodded at him, dragging the heavy door open for him.
"It's been six hours," said Neville, although Harry was sure Neville knew Williamson didn't really expect an answer. Williamson shook his head slightly before he disappeared behind the door. Belmiro rolled his eyes at Harry, and then he showed off a dazzling smile that reminded Harry of Lockhart.
"Sure it'll take a lot more than six hours. Why not take a little break?" Belmiro offered.
"Sounds good. We could use some coffee, right, Harry?" Neville nudged Harry's shoulder.
"I want to go inside again," said Harry, glaring at the metal door. "I want to . . ." find out what exactly killed Malfoy. ". . . I mean, he should just let us know what happened if he was smart."
Neville sighed. "I think he knows that we won't be able to help him even if he told us. I don't suppose he knows anything more than us, though, Harry. He just looked so . . . lost."
Maybe that was true. Rowle didn't even put up a struggle when Harry, Neville and Williamson cornered him in his small house. Dawlish, Savage, Belmiro and other Brazilian Aurors whose names Harry didn't really care enough to remember were on standby, hiding behind the bushes and trees and utilizing all the Disillusionment Charm variations they knew. But it was all for naught. Rowle wasn't even surprised to see them. His huge frame was hunched, hair unkempt—he looked completely defeated. But that didn't make the interrogation any easier. Rowle seemed to be extremely loyal to his mad leader, even when his own life was on the line.
"Still, there should be something—anything. Even Horcruxes can be destroyed," said Harry. "If Hermione was here—"
A heart-shattering cry cut through the metal door, and then there were uproar and the sounds of furniture being upended. He exchanged alarmed glances with Neville. Belmiro shouted in Portuguese and slammed open the door. Harry and Neville were hot on his trail, storming through the short, even narrower hallway. The bright Muggle neon lamps heightened the surreal atmosphere, and Harry could feel his mind spinning in panic. Once they broke through another metal door, Harry froze before he could even step inside.
Rowle was writhing on the floor, his left arm bright red, blood trailing like snakes over the Dark Mark. His right hand was clawing over the raw skin. Dawlish, Williamson and Savage were all staring in terror, as though they had forgotten that their mission was to keep the last survivor safe. Rowle's harsh cries soared louder and louder, until at some point his voice broke and heavy breathing was the only thing Harry could hear. The sudden quiet broke Harry out of his shock, and he rushed over to where Rowle was making a mess of his own arm.
"Fucking do something," yelled Harry at the other Aurors, before he strived to remember some spells, anything, that could help the last living human who might be able to bring Malfoy back. "Aguamenti!" He tried, washing all the red lines off Rowle's arm, but from the way Rowle jerked in spasms, Harry could tell it didn't work.
Dawlish and Savage were holding Rowle's upper body, while Neville and Belmiro tried to keep his legs from kicking around. Williamson barked orders to some witches through the Auror communication line, asking for emergency help from the local Wizarding hospital. Rowle's eyes were rolling to the back of his head, the sickly whiteness of his eyes making Harry wince and swear. Rowle couldn't fucking die now, just when Harry had finally found a reason to help. If only Hermione was here, maybe she would know something, even if it was only how to lengthen Rowle's life for another day. If only Malfoy was—
A gurgling sound vibrated in Rowle's throat, white foam seeping through the parted lips. Belmiro was talking endlessly in Portuguese, Dawlish and Savage swearing in what seemed like seven languages, their wands sparking colourful lights as they cast the spells that they already knew from the briefing would be futile, but still tried anyway. Neville was about to say something to Harry, opening his mouth, when Rowle's left arm flared with blue and yellow flames. The four of them jolted backwards, staring in horror as the fire engulfed the skin of that arm, crinkling any trace of life away with every lick, until the convulsions were gone from Rowle's body. Then the fire died out.
"Merlin," Savage managed a whisper after what seemed like an eternity.
"I think he's dead," Williamson said in a defeated tone, already giving up on calling for help. He shuffled over, tentatively searching for a pulse on Rowle's neck with his fingers. He nodded in confirmation after a while.
". . . what should we do now?" Neville asked, still staring at the corpse and not quite succeeding in overcoming his shock, if the way his voice trembled was any indication. Savage and Dawlish were already engaged in heated conversation about what course of action they thought they should do now that the mission had failed. Only Belmiro put his hand on Harry's shoulder and shook him out of his passive observation.
"Are you all right, kid?"
Was he all right? He certainly was, because it wasn't like it was his first time seeing this kind of gruesome scene. It wasn't like Rowle was someone he held dearly to him or was even worth his sympathy. But somehow, he couldn't help but imagine—if that was Malfoy who writhed on the floor, if that was Malfoy who screamed his voice hoarse, who was helpless and pale and beyond help with foam at his lips and the greys and blacks of his eyes disappeared to the back of his head. The thoughts made Harry's lunch threaten to escape from his mouth and something wet formed in the corners of his eyes. It was like someone had just kicked him in the guts and it hurt so bad.
Because Harry had done nothing to help. Because when he wanted to, he had failed.
"I don't think I am," said Harry quietly.
. .
To Be Continued
. .
Thank you for reading! So, things will get complicated now. Is Draco really a ghost? What do you think? Lol. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter and please stay tuned for the next one! :)