Chapter 7
.o.o.o.o.o.
By morning the rain had calmed to a gentle drizzle. It made soft sounds upon the roof of Hagrid's hut. Draco knelt by the hearth and worked to rekindle the fire, hoping to return feeling to his fingers and a bit of warmth to the small, one room abode.
The fog had lifted from his thoughts and his mind was clearer than it had been in some time. His body felt strangely energized, brimming with magic that he supposed he must have stolen from Potter the night before.
Draco glanced behind him, to the messy bed that Potter was still sprawled upon and sleeping soundly. His glasses were askew, and his ratty T-shirt was stretched and torn, leaving his bare chest on display. There still remained a hint of wetness there, where Draco had drooled on him after spending the night with his head resting upon Potter's firm pectorals.
As far as he could gather, things had happened in a similar fashion to their last encounter. They'd unwittingly engaged in a strange ritual that involved the sharing of their magics. He knew he shouldn't have let it happen, but he'd lost control. He'd become intoxicated by the relief he'd felt by simply touching the other man.
Potter himself was the Horcrux. What a nightmarish revelation. And though Draco supposed it made a disgusting amount of sense, it also left him in a terrible predicament.
One of them needed to die, or they risked the return of the Dark Lord yet again.
And Draco had spent the better part of the last hour simply staring at Potter before he'd realized that he, once again, could not bring himself to kill the other man.
"You never were one to shy from an insult," Draco said, even though he knew Potter was sleeping too deeply to hear him, "Tell me I'm a fucking coward, Potter. Tell me I'm a soft, sheltered rich prick that gets queasy at the thought of spilling another man's blood. I was an unworthy Death Eater. I'll never be able to do the things that need to be done, even at the cost of my own life."
Draco threw another log on the fire, but he didn't stay to watch it catch. Instead, he went to the table which was covered in unorganized piles of essays and lesson plans. He found a scrap of clean parchment and scrawled a quick note. He then stole Potter's umbrella and walked out the door.
.o.o.o.o.o.
That single night spent with Potter only afforded Draco a short reprieve from his pesky symptoms. Soon, he was back to feeling dizzy and exhausted, and he knew that he was living on borrowed time. He forced himself to prepare for what was looking to be inevitable, and he went about putting his affairs in order. He needed to preserve what was left of the Malfoy assets as best he could. He hoped that his mother was still numb enough from his father's loss that she wouldn't completely succumb to grief after his passing. Draco took solace in the fact that her health was now relatively stable, and she had her sister and that whole blood-traitor side of the family to keep her company once he was gone.
He was still locked in his father's study when the wards began to chime. Someone had come calling via floo. As the man of the house, Draco was expected to answer.
His mother was at the base of the stairs, looking prim and put-together in a dark green skirt and matching suit-jacket. Her hair was drawn back into a perfect bun. She'd been absent from the manor quite a bit these days, ingratiating herself within new society circles with the limited contacts she had maintained.
"It's the ministry," his mother explained, "They sent an owl a few days ago, but you were out." Draco nodded, looking to the clock upon the wall. Half-past three. Hopefully whatever this was didn't run too late. He had another guest arriving at five.
Narcissa's brow was furrowed in concern as she stared at her son. "Darling, you don't look well," she observed, stretching out her hand to feel his forehead as though he was still a child, "You're feverish."
"I'll be fine, Mother," he lied as he brushed her hand aside and pushed ahead.
The visitor was shown into the parlor by Kreacher. Draco and Narcissa greeted the stranger and he revealed himself to be a ministry probate solicitor. The man was broad and fearsome-looking. Draco had a feeling that he might be an auror rather than the sort of paper pusher who would normally be sent to attend to these duties- a vulture that spent his days pouring over death certificates and deciding where the ministry might scrape a few galleons off estates and fortunes being passed down through the generations.
But why was he here? Surely Draco was not lucky enough to have suddenly inherited the fortune of another pure-blood family. The man began to speak as soon as they were all seated.
"Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, I have come today to discuss the will of Augustus Rookwood. As you know he was recently subjected to the Dementer's Kiss for his war crimes."
Draco did not let anything show on his face. They knew nothing. They could not know anything. Even if Rookwood had revealed that Draco had visited him in Azkaban, there was no way that Draco could be implicated. Delia Rookwood had promised to lie about the polyjuicing and Draco had no reason to suspect that she wouldn't keep her word. They were both bound by pure-blood oath.
"We had heard," Narcissa said slowly, likely still wondering what this had to do with their family.
"Would either of you say that you were close with Mr. Rookwood?"
"Not at all," Draco answered before his mother could say anything. "It was my father who knew him,"
"In what capacity?" the agent pressed, and Draco felt a twinge of annoyance. Would they really make him say it? That they'd been Death Eaters together?
"I'm not entirely sure," Draco sighed, frustrated, "Rookwood once worked for the ministry, didn't he? My father had many contacts at the ministry."
"I'm quite certain you know that Augustus Rookwood was a former Unspeakable and a Death Eater, Mr. Malfoy."
"An Unspeakable, you say?" Malfoy exclaimed, weakly feigning surprise, "Well, I imagine that might have been quite useful while in service to the Dark Lord." Narcissa shot her son a warning look.
"Indeed," the solicitor said flatly, not appreciative of Draco's attitude. He cleared his throat. "The day before Rookwood was scheduled to die, he had his will altered to include you, specifically, Mr. Malfoy. He has left you this." Here, the man removed something from his briefcase, something wrapped in a handkerchief. He opened the fabric and presented it to Draco. It was small and rectangular. Draco reached out his hand hesitantly. He was, understandably, worried about the possibility of a curse upon it. Surely the Ministry would have tested it for dark magic before they'd brought it to him... right?
He lifted the object from the hands of the other man. It revealed itself to be a prayer card. Disappointingly muggle, and the auror seemed to think so as well, for he appeared quite put out when the seconds ticked by and nothing extraordinary happened.
Draco examined it. The new age, monotheistic religions were mere muggle constructs- ways in which the muggles explained the occurrence of magical phenomena before the Statute of Secrecy became ironclad. However, they were so prevalent in the world that even the insular pure-blood wizarding families were not ignorant to their practices and most prominent figures. Over the centuries, even the holidays of Christmas and Easter had bled into the wizarding world, gradually replacing their pagan counterparts.
It was known that Rookwood had always harbored a strange obsession for muggle Christianity. The card in Draco's hand was a printed drawing of St. Mary, and on the back of the card was a prayer. However, scrawled at the very bottom were a few, handwritten words that appeared to have been hastily added.
Only the Blessed Mother shall access Heaven's Vault.
"Do you know why he has left this to you? Is there any significance?" the ministry representative pressed, eyes still watching the card closely. Draco flipped it to the front and set it down with his heart beating faster.
"I should think so," Draco replied, glancing back to his mother, who had decided to follow her son's cues. The auror leaned forward eagerly, and Draco's lips curled into a smirk. "Rookwood was a religious man, as I understand. Clearly he wished to save me." The other man's face darkened at this answer, not amused. He was getting sick of Draco's games.
"Did he ever speak about his research?" the broad man growled impatiently, "Did he perhaps say anything about the Department of Mysteries? Perhaps a way to unlock something?"
Draco filed away the information, now realizing the Ministry's interest. Rookwood had taken some secrets to his grave, and not just the secrets pertaining to Draco.
"Rookwood and I did not speak at all. In fact, I don't think I've ever said a word to the man in my life, nor has my mother," Draco growled. He was feeling extraordinarily unhelpful at the moment. "The person you should be questioning about this really ought to be my father, however..." Draco trailed off pointedly. He clenched his hands together in his lap, feeling his nails bite into his own skin.
Your ministry killed him... decided he was too dangerous to deserve a trial.
The auror stood, gathering his documents. It seemed he wasn't as dumb as he looked. He was aware that he was on the verge of crossing a line, and thought better of it. Apparently, he hadn't come to rile Draco up or arrest him or interrogate him. He had only come to gently poke around, see what he might dig up. That meant that the ministry had nothing on him.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Malfoy, Mrs. Malfoy. I've concluded my business here. Please notify us if you happen to remember any details, or if you notice anything strange about the object you were bequeathed."
"Certainly," Draco hissed from between his teeth. His head was throbbing now and he felt quite ill but he still had to endure this while the ministry lackey was shown to the floo. He was shaking and covered in a cold sweat when he turned back to his mother.
"I... think I'll get some air," he told her. He faltered in his next few steps and was forced to grab hold of the nearest wall while black spots danced in his vision. Narcissa shrieked his name when she saw this and ran to him immediately. She guided him back to the sofa and shouted for the house elf.
Draco breathed deeply until Kreacher appeared beside him with a glass of water.
"You must see a healer," Narcissa said sternly.
"How many times must I tell you that it's nothing?" Draco said in a tired voice, "The Hogwarts caretaker is a slavedriver. I've been overworked."
"What sort of fool do you take me for? You've been keeping secrets from me, Draco, and I don't appreciate it," she huffed. Draco only let out an annoyed sigh as he reached for the glass that Kreacher was offering. "You're pregnant, aren't you?" She suddenly blurted.
Draco inhaled the water he was drinking. His mother glared at him with her arms crossed as he sputtered and coughed.
"I've taken note of your symptoms. You're light-headed and nauseous, you won't touch your plate, and apparently you are very keen to avoid the scandal of anyone else knowing. Was it on Halloween, then? You never did tell me his name, darling."
"Mother, it's not what you think."
"It's exactly what I think," she replied harshly. "Was it planned, or was it accidental? While I know you must feel under pressure to continue the bloodline, I can't imagine you would be so intentionally reckless. Will this mystery wizard be taking responsibility for what he has done?"
"You are jumping to conclusions."
"The matter of your marriage was still to be decided. Unwed and pregnant! I thought your father and I raised you better than this. Who will have you now?"
If she had the headspace to be concerned over such trivial things, Draco realized that she must truly be returning to her old self. He couldn't possibly burden her with the truth. She was back to living the vapid life of a rich, pureblood woman, and Draco wanted it to stay that way. When thinking of Draco's future she was now thinking of a beautiful witch or handsome wizard on his arm and a blonde-haired child between them. She was not thinking about him being lowered into a grave. Nor should she have to, yet.
Even if I wasn't already slated for death, no one would have me anyway with this mark on my arm, Draco wanted to tell her, but he kept this from slipping out. He didn't want to ruin her fantasies.
"Don't you have a party tonight, Mother? Shouldn't you be getting ready?"
"We will discuss this," she insisted, and Draco put his head in his hands, momentarily overwhelmed.
"There is a potion. I will handle it, Mother," he said to her, deciding it was in his best interest to run with the lie. It was at least a tad bit lighter than the truth.
"A potion that would render you sterile for the rest of your life!" Narcissa hissed.
"I will take care of it!" Draco snapped, "This is nothing you need to worry about." His mother was staring at him indignantly, eyes blazing and nostrils flared.
"There will be no potions," she told him with a parental certainty that really shouldn't work on him anymore. "It is clear that I shall have to sort this matter myself."
Draco just wanted her gone from his sight. His head felt as though it would soon split from the pain. Apparently, his mother had no more choice words for him and she glided out of the room, haughty and resolute, with her heels clicking smartly on the polished floor.
.o.o.o.o.o.
Harry couldn't define the anxiety that he felt as he left his classroom on Friday evening, turning and locking the door behind him. In the hall, the students scurried around him, exuding excitement for the coming weekend. With the holidays fast approaching, the castle had suddenly become festive, full of tinsel, christmas wreaths, and mistletoe.
Harry wanted nothing to do with the annoying holiday spirit he felt building around him. Instead, his attention was focused upon the scrap of parchment in his pocket. A scrap that contained Malfoy's elegant handwriting.
Friday. 5pm. The manor. I will show you everything.
Although Harry wasn't at all certain what had been meant by "show you everything" he knew at once that he would not refuse the invitation. The promise of seeing Malfoy again was just too sweet to ignore. Casting a quick tempus charm, Harry realized that he was on the verge of being late. At this rate, he would not have enough time to travel all the way to Hogsmeade by broom, nor did he relish the idea of asking McGonagall permission to open the floo to Malfoy's manor. Since he was alone, he climbed the staircase to the room of requirement, where he utilized the secret passage that would take him out to the Hog's Head.
Tripping his way into the rank pub, Harry was not surprised to find it completely empty, with Aberforth calmly wiping down his filthy glasses with a filthy rag. Relieved, Harry made his way to the pub's floo without even a nod to the old man.
"Floo's for paying customers. I don't care who you are," Aberforth called, looking less than impressed with Harry's entrance.
"Put it on my tab, then," Harry called, even as he remembered that he'd kept forgetting to pay it. He never needed to have galleons on hand while at Hogwarts.
"I'll be taking no more credit from you, Potter. You haven't paid me for that last crate of butterbeers, you lousy drunk."
Harry pretended that he hadn't heard anything as he grabbed a fistful of powder.
The austere living space that was the manor was as unwelcoming an atmosphere as ever. To Harry, even Grimmauld Place seemed to have its own, dark charm. The Malfoy's manor was big and empty, full of cavernous rooms and sparse decor. Everything about it felt cold and lonely, and Harry wondered if this was the exact reason Voldemort had apparently felt so at home here.
"Kreacher bids Master Harry a good evening," the old house-elf said with a stiff bow as Harry stepped out of the fireplace, "Master Draco awaits you in the cellars." A knot of apprehension formed in Harry's stomach at the words, and he had a fleeting idea that perhaps this was all a trap to lure him to his death.
Old habits, Harry chided himself, If he wanted me dead, he would have killed me back at Hagrid's. This lingering sense of self preservation had no place now that the war was over and Harry was yearning for death to come claim him.
Harry was led through the corridors and down a staircase that took him into the cool, stone foundation of the manor. He passed the cells that had once held his captured friends, empty but unchanged. He thought of Dobby, and he thought of Hermione's screams as she was tortured.
Malfoy stood alone at the end of a long enfilade. There was an ornate mirror in front of him, allowing Harry to see the front of his bowed head. Below this was a carved marble statue of Morgana holding a large basin over her head. This basin was filled with a shimmering substance that was not quite liquid and not quite gas.
A pensieve.
"I realize it must not be comfortable, coming down here," Malfoy began quietly after Harry approached and Kreacher wordlessly excused himself. Pale eyes stared at Harry from the mirror, but Malfoy did not turn to him yet. He twisted the wand at his temple and pulled on a strand of memory. "Forgive me for not attempting to spare your feelings, but the wards are thickest here, and my mother refuses to descend those stairs." Malfoy guided the memory into the bowl and finally turned to face him. He looked gaunt and tired, with unhealthy circles under his eyes. "When I came to you that night, you told me a secret that could ruin you," Malfoy said, "Saint Potter, the Savior, the Chosen One, and also… a remnant of the Dark Lord himself."
Under the weight of the wards and the privacy charms, his voice felt hushed and intimate. Harry's eyes were drawn to his lips, and then to the fingers upon his left hand, which gently slid over the rim of the pensieve.
"There is… a chance," Malfoy continued after a deep breath. He wetted his lips nervously, "That the Dark Lord may have an avenue in which he could return, and I need your help to stop it, Potter."
"That's impossible-" Harry replied, but was quickly cut off.
"It's not, and I will show you why. I will share with you everything I know, but first I need a guarantee." Malfoy stepped down from the raised dais that elevated the pensieve. Once on Harry's level, he extended his left hand with his mother's wand held in his right. "An Unbreakable Vow, Potter. I won't reveal your secret, and you won't reveal mine."
Harry stared at that hand for a while. Malfoy's sleeve was pushed up, displaying his Dark Mark. He wondered why Malfoy was coming to him of all people. Were there not others, closer to him, that he could turn to? How had this 'avenue for the Dark Lord to return' not come up during Malfoy's interrogation or his trial?
Skeptical, and yet morbidly curious, Harry already knew that he would agree. Anything to do with Lord Voldemort was his prerogative, wasn't it? He braced himself for the inevitable pull on his magic that seemed to happen every time he touched Malfoy. Then, he grasped the forearm that was presented to him, his thumb digging into that offensive tattoo. Immediately, Draco shuddered and his stance wavered, but Harry steadied him by putting his opposite hand on his shoulder. Minutes passed while they waited for the magic to calm somewhat, and then Malfoy held his wand over their locked arms and began to recite his vow. When he was done, Harry copied his words and the fiery bonds snaking between them finally sealed.
This, apparently, had somehow been too much effort for Malfoy, who immediately sagged to his knees. Harry did not let go of his arm, however, and continued to feed the hungry void left in Malfoy's magical reserves.
"That… feels good," Malfoy breathed and Harry felt a jolt of inappropriate arousal at the other man's sudden unguardedness.
"Will this memory you are about to show me explain…this?" Harry asked him, staring down at their still-linked arms with magic buzzing between them. Malfoy only nodded. Harry waited in silence for a time, and after another few minutes, Malfoy got to his feet. Together, they approached the pensieve.
"I know this changes nothing, but I… am not proud of this memory, Potter. I've always regretted… that I did not possess an ounce of your stupid courage."
Harry wasn't sure what to say to this. He'd never imagine he'd be complimented by the man standing next to him. He tightened his grip where he was still holding onto Malfoy's arm. Was it reassurance he was offering? Or was he simply impatient for what was to come?
They plunged inside.
.o.o.o.o.o.