Chapter 4
.o.o.o.o.o.
"I don't approve of your mask," Harry made it known as soon as they met outside their designated apparation spot. In the distance loomed the Macmillan manor, nearly as grand as Draco's own home, but sat upon much less acreage, and without the surrounding forest.
Draco knew exactly why Potter did not approve of his mask. It was part of his Death Eater mask, though Draco had made a parody of it by turning it green. He'd framed it with garish, blue and green peacock feathers. Not so many people would recognize it for what it was, as not so many people came face to face with Death Eaters and lived to tell about their masks.
And the people who would recognize it for what it was... well, those were the people that Draco meant to leave an impression upon.
"It's a sight more interesting than yours, at least. Honestly, Potter, owl feathers?" Draco drawled, gesturing to Potter's dull brown mask. He'd noticed that the other man had also applied several glamours. His skin was darker, his scar was hidden, and his hair was lighter and lying flat. Also, that scruff certainly couldn't have grown so long in only a matter of hours. Surely, no one would even recognize him.
"I thought the point was to be inconspicuous!" the Savior argued.
"Maybe for you. I want them to know who is under my mask. I want the wizarding world to see that even in disgrace, the name Malfoy is not to be trod upon."
"Whatever," Potter growled, clearly annoyed, "Let's just go in so that I can be away from you as soon as possible." He turned onto the long driveway that would take them up to the mansion. Draco fell into step beside him. The hedges lining the cobblestone road were immaculately trimmed, and little, blue fairy lights hovered above them, giving the place a haunted feel, surely on purpose.
Potter handed his gilded invitation to the wizard at the door, who waved his wand over it briefly to check it for fraud.
"Welcome, Mr. Owl, Mr. Peacock."
Upon entrance to the ballroom, both took pause. Potter because... well... the only way he would know class was if it were to hit him in the face like so, and Draco because he was like a fish reintroduced to water. These were his people, his own kind.
Potter and his awkwardness faded into the background as Draco left him behind to meld into the crowd. It didn't take long for people to notice him. Many stopped. Many stared. Clusters of party-goers even parted for him as he walked on through. There came whispers in his wake, but they were inconsequential. He found the two he'd meant to find easily enough. They'd stood themselves apart enough from the main crowd, so as not to be presumptuous, but they stood close enough to not be outcasts.
"Mr. Raven, Ms. Canary," Draco said when he'd placed himself before them. They exchanged a glance with one another, as if deciding whether speaking to him was worth the risk. Then, the darker skinned man stepped forward.
"I must say I am surprised to see you here," Blaise said with all his usual smoothness, "Which unfortunate girl did you hoodwink, then?" He began to scan the room, as if he might take a guess from those he could see.
"Shame on you, Mr. Raven. Perhaps I received an invitation of my very own," Draco replied in mock hurt.
"You are bold, Mr. Peacock," Pansy said with a low chuckle and a smirk, "I suppose, if you managed to garner an invite to this party, then you must be worth speaking to, after all. I'm afraid Mr. Raven and I are among those who must take care who they associate with nowadays. I'm sure you understand our hesitation."
"I would expect nothing less," Draco sincered, feeling the pride in his voice. They were true friends, friends he had to fight tooth and nail to remain worthy of. People like Potter might disagree, but then one only had to look at the leeches he liked to call 'friends'...
"How have you been?" Pansy asked, stepping closer and taking his hand, "Your father..."
"Dead and gone. Good riddance, wouldn't you agree? He really was the wrong sort," Draco scoffed with all the vehemence he could muster for the sake of any eavesdroppers. Pansy smiled a sad smile and then, unexpectedly, pulled him into an embrace.
"I just wish... we all could be here, you know? Like when we were young and we'd all come with our parents. Now we are all fractured and alone," Pansy whispered solemnly. Draco had to agree. Where was Crabbe? Dead. Goyle? St. Mungo's. Nott? France.
"I hear you are engaged," Draco said when she pulled away, for want of another subject.
"She is," Blaise commented quietly as he finished off his wine, "To that little shit. Not sure how she puts up with him." It was fortunate that Draco already knew that Blaise was referring to Zacharias Smith, because the manor's enchantment wouldn't allow him to say the name.
"All that Hufflepuff gold, I suspect," Draco smirked. Pansy returned the smile.
"I happen to love my fiance!" she replied, falsely scandalized as she swatted Draco's arm. She then turned to Blaise. "You're just jealous that your own half-blood wife isn't nearly so rich."
"I didn't need a rich one. My family didn't have to pay any reparations. I just needed to show them I wasn't biased," Blaise scoffed, "The things we do to survive..." He grabbed another drink off a servant passing with a tray, and then levitated two more over to Draco and Pansy. He lifted his glass to them both.
"To survival," he said.
"To money," added Pansy.
"To what makes us Slytherin," said Draco, "Now and forever."
The hours slipped by painfully fast, aided by the burning spirits. Draco found himself laughing more than he was talking and more than once he lost himself for a while; forgot how old he was, how the outside world had changed even if this damned masquerade hadn't.
Luna Lovegood was the first to approach their trio and join their conversation for a time, looking strange as ever in a garish purple dress and a pair of strange spectacles serving as her mask.
"Hello Mr. Peacock. I haven't seen you in a long time," she opened with her weird cheeriness. They hadn't spoken since she'd been a prisoner at the manor. How awkward.
"No... I don't get out much these days," Draco answered for lack of anything better to say. Blaise coughed in the silence that followed.
"Did you ever get rid of that nargle infestation in your basement?" the girl pressed on, as if that had been the biggest issue with her stay in Draco's dungeon.
"I don't think so," Draco answered slowly, feeling as though he was speaking to a child. Or feeling perhaps like a child, as he was uncertain as to what a nargle was.
As short and awkward as that interaction was, it did open the floodgates for all the rest. Marcus Flint and Adrian Pucey happened over shortly afterwards with their dates in tow, apparently deciding it was now safe to approach. They spoke to Draco briefly, reminiscing with him over their days on the school quidditch team, what felt like a lifetime ago. Millicent came after them, chatting mostly with Pansy but not failing to acknowledge Draco respectfully.
He was beginning to feel like the prince he'd once been when Astoria Greengrass and her elder sister stopped to speak with them on their way across the ballroom. Daphne's husband maintained a cold distance, as did Astoria's date (some Ravenclaw). Speaking with her made Draco realize that his old life might not be out of reach forever. He could claw his way back up to the top and claim all that was rightfully his, including Astoria Greengrass. This one night was proof. Yet did he want it anymore? Where was the line between what Lucius Malfoy had wanted and what Draco Malfoy now wanted? Had it ever existed?
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, but I know that'd be asking for too much," came a dark comment from behind. Draco turned to meet it, finding himself face to face with a mask of white swan feathers.
"Ah, the weaselette," Draco drawled, realizing he was far drunker on wine and ambiance than he'd intended to be at this point in the night. He felt the magic tingle around his tongue at his last word, it being so close to the girl's true surname.
"Maybe you thought no one would notice the sick little game you're playing, but you're wrong," the redhead continued, absolutely lit with righteous fury. Draco glanced behind her, noting that the man she'd come with was unmistakably Dean Thomas. "If you don't take off that horrid mask, I'll make sure you're removed. You and whoever was stupid enough to bring you."
Do it. I've had my fun, Draco wanted to say, but he took a moment, sipped his glass and thought of something better.
"Where's the precious Savior?"
"He doesn't come to these things."
"Don't be so sure. I know for a fact he arrived with someone else. Did you tire of him the same as all the others? Or did he finally come to his senses and decide he didn't want to settle for something so cheap?"
The resounding crack of her palm against his face was loud enough to cause everyone nearby to turn to them. Draco's mask flew from his face and landed on the floor. The Weasley girl promptly crushed it under the heel of her white pump.
"You're a disgrace to the name of wizard," she hissed.
"We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard," Draco sneered, reaching up to stem the blood flow from the gouges her nails had left on his jaw. Ginerva seemed to think she'd come out on top, and stalked away haughtily without a response, all but dragging her date along with her.
"The little harlot has gotten quite uppity," Pansy said, once the attention had shifted away from their group again. She produced her wand and the pieces of Draco's mask melted together again before flying up into Pansy's hand. She sealed his cuts and positioned the mask back over Draco's eyes. "Though I hope she doesn't have the power to make good on her threat. This party will be dreadfully boring without you." Pansy downed her entire glass and set it onto a nearby table. She then took Draco's hand.
"Come," she said, "You owe me a dance. For old times' sake."
"You'll send your doting suitor into a terrible rage," Blaise noted with some amusement, chancing a discreet glance back at the other end of the room where Smith, in an eagle feather mask, seemed to be watching Pansy for suspicious behavior.
"I'm counting on it," Pansy replied, pulling Draco into the swirling mass of people gathered upon the dance floor. Her dress of gold satin and layers of shimmery chiffon was striking against the mostly darker colors of what the others were wearing and he'd no doubt that the pair of them would quickly steal the show. The wine had him pleasantly buzzing. Draco had never been much of a drinker. As a child he'd turned his nose up at the taste and as he aged... well by the time his parents would have deemed him old enough to become properly sloshed the Dark Lord was already coming and going from the manor. Only his father had been bold enough to become inebriated in the Dark Lord's presence, and that was only after he'd lost favor and decided there was little else worth living for.
The musicians played a classic German piece which called for a waltz. Draco led Pansy in the slow steps, holding her and twirling her as the music commanded. There was giddy laughter on the tips of their tongues and they were both soon breathless, even simple as the dance was. They were making a spectacle of themselves, as few others were putting in so much enthusiasm, but that was the point, wasn't it?
Draco allowed Pansy to spiral away from him, only to find her promptly locked in the arms of another man. Zacharias Smith glared daggers at him from beneath his mask and soon led Pansy back to his conceited, little Hufflepuff crowd, one that included Ernie Macmillan, and Draco knew their time was spent.
He stood, alone, on the dance floor. Though it had been expected, Draco felt very empty all of a sudden.
"I could take her place, you know."
He turned around to see Potter holding out a waiting hand. Draco cocked his head to the side, considering. The music had changed. Now the musicians plucked out a lascivious, Spanish tune and a waltz simply would not do. He invited Potter to dance more fitting, sliding forward with one arm arced over his head. To his immense surprise, Potter mirrored him, albeit less gracefully. They came together, locking arms and intertwining legs.
The magic hit him full force this time, and Draco realized he had completely forgotten why he'd been so careful all these weeks to not touch Potter. Potter growled, low and feral, burying his face into Draco's exposed neck. Their dance was not interrupted, but it did change. It became wild and passionate and messy. Potter insisted on leading, much to Draco's frustration. The rest of the world seemed to disintegrate around them until they were the only ones in it.
There was something both horribly right and horribly wrong about this. Dizzy, Draco found himself lowered into a dip and he stared up into Potter's green eyes, into the dark depths he found there. Harry was kissing him, lips questing over Draco's own after their steps led them together again, and for a moment Draco was distracted, for a moment he gave in and his hands lifted to run themselves through Potter's glamoured hair.
"We're leaving. Now." Potter panted, and Draco found he couldn't find it in himself to argue, but there was a tiny part of himself that was fighting, that was aware. It just wasn't strong enough to be anything other than an annoyance.
They left the manor and Potter side-alonged him back to Hogsmeade. It must have been the sudden disorientation of it that left Draco clear-headed for a moment.
"Potter, what is happening? What is this?" he said weakly, his voice sounding far away even to himself. Potter ignored him and began to drag him down the dirt road that would lead back to Hogwarts.
Ten minutes later, Draco realized he was still stumbling along after Potter. There was a force urging him on, a force not allowing himself to break the hold that Potter had on his wrist. He wanted something, and his more logical thoughts were telling him this would only lead to a drunken shag in Hagrid's filthy hovel.
But that wasn't quite right. He wanted Potter, but he didn't want him. He didn't want his body, nothing so shallow as that. It was his magic. Inescapable. All-consuming. His deepest desire was to drown himself in it. He wanted it to own him, to claim him, to make him whole again in a way that he hadn't felt in so long, or perhaps ever.
Potter's magic... was calling to him, seducing him, dragging him down into darkness...
"Enough." Draco finally wrenched himself free. They stood in the swaying grass of the pumpkin patch. The air was cold, the temperature having plummeted once the sun had gone down. The night was clear, with the full moon huge and tinged with red, hanging low in the sky.
"Don't deny me again," Potter warned. He said it with his back to Draco, but suddenly he whirled around, and the wand that was in his hand was raised. Draco stared at the holly wand only inches from his face. If he hadn't yet been convinced that there was something off about the other man, he was certain now. Potter, Merlin bless his soul, was too good for this.
But Draco was, of course, unarmed, and now at the mercy of a man who was not in his right mind. His own focus was slipping. It was as though things were happening too fast for him to react. He might have blamed the wine if he didn't already know better.
He turned to flee, even as the magical presence that had taken hold chanted for him to stay. The yawning depths of the forbidden forest were not so far. Perhaps, for once, it might provide him a safe haven. His legs were unsteady beneath him.
"Incarcerous," came Potter's rough voice. Draco managed to duck beneath the first spell, but the second one hit him square in the back. He stumbled onto the dirt, mask slipping off of his face. The vines of the surrounding pumpkin plants came to life and curled around his limbs. Draco thrashed about, flipping onto his back and eyeing Potter's approach with trepidation.
"Potter, get a hold of yourself!" he hissed, "Don't do this!" As he spoke, he felt the ground beneath him grow warm. A circle had appeared around the two of them, stamped into the grass and glowing with runes and symbols.
The same conjuration circle that had been in his nightmares for many months now.
"Do you wish to serve me, Draco?" a phantom whispered, a shade of the old nightmare. Panic seized him, rooting him in place more effectively than the vines ever could.
Potter was peering down at him, head blocking out the moonlight, face cast in the night's shadow but lit from below by the soft glow of the conjuration circle. The glamors had all faded away and the breeze blew the dark hair out of Potter's face for a moment, allowing Draco to see his scar.
He swallowed thickly, knowing with clarity that this was no nightmare. This thing between him and Potter, it was most definitely magic. Magic left over from a time during the war. Magic that was most definitely not Potter's. It was not possible.
"You're a monster!" Draco yelled hoarsely, dread settling into the pit of his stomach as he glanced away, unable to look at those eyes any longer, burdened with this new revelation. "And you've been among us all this time! You belong in a cell... or dead!"
Potter was not listening to him, caught up in the throes of what Draco could now only assume was a form of demonic possession. Potter clamped a hand over his mouth before he could expel more useless insults or allow his cries for help to be lost to the autumn winds.
He felt it as the left sleeve of his dress robes was yanked up to his elbow and his Dark Mark was bared to the night air. Fingers caressed his skin, sending fire and magic into his veins. He was burning. He was screaming. The pain was not something the Cruciatus even held a candle to, because the Cruciatus was not a malevolent force in itself. It did not thrust into one's soul and deposit its horrors. It did not linger and marvel at the perfect desecration it had caused.
Draco recalled the first time he had felt this agony in a spike of fevered memory. A vision of himself, lying upon the floor of the Lestrange manor, gritting his teeth whilst his blood left his body at an alarming rate. He'd watched as it filled the grooves of the conjuration circle, making orderly, red lines in the white marble. He remembered holding back his screams as the magic did its work. He could reveal no weakness. There had been a voice speaking above him, unconcerned with his suffering.
"Impressive, Draco. You show more fortitude than your father ever has."
He'd felt weak as he'd struggled to look up at the Dark Lord. Breathing had been difficult. Unconsciousness had been creeping in.
"You are being entrusted with the most crucial of tasks. My last line of defense. Should all else fail, you will provide me... a way back."
.o.o.o.o.o.
He regained consciousness at dawn, when the first rays of morning shone in the eastern part of the sky. He didn't remember when he had succumbed, but it had been a mercy.
Every muscle in his body was trembling with fatigue. His dress robes were drenched in perspiration and now he was freezing in the November, morning air. The world around him was frighteningly peaceful. Dew was glistening on the ripe pumpkins clustered off to the sides. A bird cawed somewhere overhead. In the distance, the night's fog was parting to reveal Hogwarts in full splendor.
Potter's holly wand was lying in the grass right within Draco's line of vision. Slowly, he lifted his head and found that Potter himself was lying a few meters away, unmoving aside from the slightest rise and fall of his chest. No evidence of the night before remained.
Draco clenched his hand around the holly wand as he stumbled to his feet. His breath misted in the crisp air, partially obscuring his vision as he pointed it at Potter.
Potter was darkness incarnate, though perhaps not in the same way the Dark Lord had been. Draco had been around darkness long enough to recognize it when he saw it. Killing Potter might just be doing the world a favor.
"Draco, Draco, you are not a killer," Dumbledore's voice taunted him in his head, "I don't think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe. …" His hand tightened on the wand. But that innocence was what started this in the first place. If only he'd been a little less innocent, things would have been so much different. He would have saved himself so much humiliation. He would have saved his parents so much shame on his behalf. He would have spared himself from whatever had gone on last night.
"You're a coward Draco. You'll always be a coward." No, Dumbledore had never said those words. Those were of Draco's own making, but they weren't any less true.
He heard himself let out a disgusting sound. Something between a snarl and a whimper.
The holly wand fell onto the grass once again. Draco took a step backwards. Then two. Then he was fleeing to the edge of the Hogwarts grounds and apparating away.
.o.o.o.o.o.