47. Anniversary
He sat in the library. Rain was thrashing against the windowpanes.
It was the first anniversary of Crabbe's death. At least, he thought it was. He wasn't entirely sure whether Crabbe had died before or after midnight.
Draco's Dark Mark had gone hot a quarter to eleven on May 1st, but he had soon lost track of time as events came thick and fast. Around dawn, Potter had emerged victorious. How Potter had pulled it off Draco didn't know. He hadn't been there.
He had been hiding.
No, hiding wasn't the word. He had just sat in the disused bathroom, waiting for the inevitable. His last remaining hope had been for death to be quick and painless.
What had happened before?
Thomas had locked him into a classroom on the second floor, or, perhaps, on the third one. Draco didn't really know. Anyway, the Gryffindor had locked him in. That had been well after midnight because it had been after the second attempt of the monster to lure Potter out of the castle.
Hearing the evil entity making that second speech had had an unprecedented effect on Draco – terror and despair had suddenly turned into white-hot rage: By then, the battle had already gone on for what felt like hours, they all had been doomed to die – people on both sides! – and the fucking coward of a monster hadn't even deemed it necessary to enter the scene itself! To top it all off, it'd had the gall to accuse Potter of having others fight and die as stand-ins! The cheek of it... the hypocrisy, the blatant disregard for anyone's life, the out-and-out wickedness...
Draco had known he was out of his mind. He had known it with stunning clarity, and it hadn't scared him. For a short span of time, he hadn't even wished to calm down. He had acted on that madness – fully aware of what he was doing and yet not in the least frightened by it. Wider awake than ever before in his life, he had sprinted down the corridors trying to find Potter or somebody who was close to the Gryffindor git. Thanks to the temporary cease-fire, no fighting parties had blocked his path. He had leapt over a body lying on the floor; a jet of light had narrowly missed him. He had dived around a corner and practically crashed into Thomas.
Thomas had wrestled him bodily through the nearest open door. The Gryffindor had been rough and angry, but Draco had offered no resistance. Instead, he had blurted out the terrible truth: That so-called Dark Lord is not human it is a monster it will spare nobody don't let Potter go it is a trap...
In typical Gryffindor fashion, Thomas had been slow on the uptake.
Draco remembered starting to yell and then choking as Thomas had nearly strangled him. Their faces had been mere inches apart. Draco had seen the delicate pattern in the other boy's brown irises.
How do you know? Since when do you care about Potter?
He had pleaded, he had stammered. His voice had cracked when he had realised that he had nothing to prove his words, nothing to make Thomas believe him. Thomas had been one of the captives Greyback had brought to the manor... Then again, the Gryffindor having been in on that mission alongside Weasley and Granger surely meant that he belonged to some sort of Inner Circle...
Please, you're close to Potter... I'm not lying. Once he is dead, we're all done for... TELL HIM IT'S A TRAP!
Although Thomas had kept saying he had no reason whatsoever to trust a Malfoy, he had eventually agreed that telling Potter would not hurt.
Draco hadn't relaxed but sagged. He had felt the courage born of black despair and helpless fury drain away at top speed.
Thomas had ordered him to stay put and, using his bare fist, had dealt him a blow to the stomach that had made Draco double over with pain. The punch had taken his breath away long enough for Thomas to nip outside and lock the door.
With the unparalleled bout of bravery and determination gone, Draco had felt wretched and abandoned. He had fumbled for ages with an alien wand. The damn thing – not even back then had he been sure as to where or when he had picked it up – hadn't obeyed him. His hands had shaken so badly, he hadn't been able to aim at a perfectly steady lock, and his voice had quavered so much, he hadn't got out the simplest incantation accurately enough to be effective.
Had he really wanted that door to open? He honestly couldn't tell.
His brain had been in no condition to produce coherent thoughts. Not even his fear had been focussed. It had paralysed him from within and engulfed him from without.
Eventually, the door had creaked open on its own accord; perhaps Thomas's spell had worn off.
Draco had shuffled closer to the threshold and peered out into the dust-filled hallway. Nobody had been there; all had seemed strangely quiet. He had still been standing in the open door, undecided what to do next, when the monster's voice had suddenly boomed across the grounds. Realising the consequences of the first four words of the announcement, Draco's mind had finally shut down. The all-encompassing fear that had made him tremble from tip to toe had abruptly given way to a numbness that had likewise been all-encompassing. That numbness had lingered – at least partially – for weeks afterwards, weeks when the dread of being eaten alive by Greyback had been replaced with the dread of being sent to Azkaban.
Back then, however, in the early morning hours of May 2nd, he had trudged through the wrecked castle without caring where he went. His feet had found the way to his favourite hiding place all on their own. He had slumped down on a toilet seat, and – exhausted and hopeless – he had waited.
Soon there had been the clamour of fierce fighting again. He hadn't understood why people carried on even though their sole hope had been wiped out. Perhaps grief and despair had rendered them insane...
The raging battle had come to an abrupt end. In the eerie silence that had followed, Draco had been beset by mental pictures of Death Eaters rounding up survivors. In his mind's eye, he had seen the mercilessness on their faces and the terror on those of their victims. He had dreaded the moment when the punishment would start.
Instead of the piercing screams of tortured people, he had heard a single, loud crack that had shaken the very walls of the old building. He had idly wondered whether some Gryffindors might be desperate enough to try to blow up the whole castle.
However, the ceiling hadn't come down on him. Jubilant cries of joy and victory had erupted.
He had not known what to make of it. Death Eaters would never, ever cheer like that. But the Phoenix lot couldn't have won, could they? Whom had they left to stand up to the most horrible monster that had ever roamed the earth?
He had sat there, his mind blank and his legs limp, for an unknown length of time. Then, suddenly, the Ghost Girl had risen out of the sink, squealing, "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead! He's dead! Dead, dead, DEAD! Come and join the celebrations!"
Her excited voice had reverberated off the tiled walls, multiplying the cry of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead. She had already vanished back down the pipe again when Draco's tired brain had finally caught on.
...
48. China Peacock
He sat in the library of a Muggle establishment called a university, listened to the rain pounding against the windowpanes, and surveyed the sketches he had done in the course of the day. A few featured a pair of brown eyes. Most pages were filled with Chimaera-headed flames, and one picture showed an elegant china teacup adorned with the ancient Malfoy coat of arms. The teacup puzzled him. Where was the link between an old tea service hardly ever used and the night of the battle?
...
Once more, his thoughts went back to the last hours he had spent at Hogwarts.
He had ventured out of the Ghost Girl's bathroom, maintaining a tight grip on the alien wand in his pocket. The hallways had been littered with broken furniture and smashed gargoyles. Whole stretches of wall had been missing, stairs had become lopsided, flagstones had been cracked.
Trying to ignore the bloodstains everywhere, he had negotiated his way through the debris. The pair of double doors that led to the Great Hall had stood wide open. He had entered unnoticed.
Potter had been there, alive and breathing.
Draco's sluggish brain had had some difficulty processing that piece of information. After a while he had reached the conclusion that the monster's proclamation must have been a plain lie and that, seen in this light, there was little wonder in the battle having resumed shortly after...
Potter had been beleaguered by admirers. For sure, their number had risen tenfold... Draco had paid no more heed to the people intoxicated with their victory than they had paid to him. He had scanned the two long rows of bodies, dreading what he might find. He had gazed at the still faces, unable to comprehend the enormity of the death toll. He had been far to numb to feel anything beyond nausea at the sight of his aunt, of Casper Warrington and Lillian Moon, Rookwood, Dolohov, Mulciber, Agatha Avery and her son, and the many other people arrayed on the floor. There had been strangers and acquaintances, schoolmates whose names he hadn't been able to recall, a Weasley and a shockingly young boy in Gryffindor robes, a girl with plaited hair... Lupin, his cousin by marriage and former teacher, had been placed next to Nymphadora. Crabbe, of course, had not been there.
The very moment he had spotted the carcass of Greyback, both his mother and father had appeared on either side of him. He couldn't tell until today whether the surge of relief had solely been due to seeing his parents alive. Being at long last rid of the stalker might have contributed as well.
His mother had been effusive about having been looking for him for the better part of the night. So, without listening to her actual words, he had known how worried she had been. His father hadn't said much besides complaining about the deceased not yet being respectfully covered with blankets. He had worn an expression of contempt, and Draco hadn't been sure – nor was he sure now – whether this sentiment had meant him.
...
His last conversation with his father so far had taken place the morning after the battle, about two hours before the Aurors had come to arrest them.
"I cannot imagine what compelled you to stay in the castle rather than to leave together with your housemates," his father had said, setting his teacup down with care. "But let us put the question of your true motives aside for the time being because, right now, your main goal should be to interpret your behaviour to your advantage."
If Draco hadn't known that his father never said anything in jest, he might have thought this to be a joke.
"Listen to your father's sound advice," his mother had joined in, not showing the tiniest sign of hesitation or doubt. "Let your acquaintances know as soon as possible that you were not willing to support somebody who was so clearly unfit to take leadership as that self-proclaimed lord. Perhaps you want to write a number of letters?"
He had been stunned beyond words, and his parents had turned back to the topic that had preoccupied them since their return home: the death of Bellatrix Lestrange. Aside from the question what kind of funeral would be considered appropriate under the circumstances, the main problem had been whether his mother's sister had made a will and, if not, how to prevent the third sister from claiming a share of the wealth.
...
He took the picture of the teacup and shredded it methodically.
He had to admit failure yet again. The realisation hurt. It was just the summary of many little things he had discovered over time, but putting them finally together still hurt. His long-standing refusal to see the conclusion when it had lain so plainly before him made him even more ashamed. He had not just failed to see a big sham, no, he had played an active part in maintaining it. For many years, he had done so unwittingly and, yes, innocently. But in the end, he had known.
He had chased a phantom. He had aimed for an eminence that had been fictitious all along. The earlier coat of arms of the Malfoy family featured no snakes, let alone dragons or basilisks. There was nothing but an effing peacock displaying its feathers – a pathetic bird putting on a pompous show of colourful nothings, designed to draw the eye, designed to impress, designed to deceive.
That older emblem was nevertheless quite fitting: Peacocks had probably a brain half the size of a Doxy egg. Why hadn't he seen the indications earlier – before it was too late, before his parents' lives were at stake?
And how early would have been early enough?
He probably had to go back before the day the accursed monster had returned from the dubious realms that stretched in between life and death. But he had been fourteen then, and his head had been filled with Quidditch and homework, with Pansy, with the excitement of the Triwizard Tournament and meeting people from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, and, needless to say, with the importance and glory that he allegedly was to gain later in life. In hindsight, he had to admit that there had been warning signs that early on, but they had been weak as well as few and far between. Even summed up and presented to him on a silver tray, they wouldn't have caused him to lose faith in his father then.
Draco had celebrated the unexpected return of the famed 'Dark Lord' with his dorm-mates, believing the powerful wizard would right all wrongs and restore those to power who had a natural claim to it – Draco's father would no longer have to go to the Ministry when he wanted something done. Instead, the Minister would dutifully report to Malfoy manor for instructions. Draco had believed all would soon be well – those who didn't belong there would be banished from the wizarding community, the blasted girl that bested him in every exam would be out of the way, and he would be top of his year.
He had truly believed all this crap until he had realised it was just that: crap. And by then, it had been far too late.
He had been so naive and gullible, so stupid...
One by one, he let the scraps of paper fall into the waste-parchment basket. No, the thing was a waste-paper basket. They didn't use parchment around here, so it was a waste-paper basket. What he was dropping in was paper, too.
He sighed.
Where was he to go from here? Knowing to be in a maze and the map in your hands to be faulty was an improvement. But it didn't yet point you to the exit.
He reached for the fountain pen and a fresh sheet of paper.
Has my father ever been interested in finding out about truth or people's true wishes? he wrote. Or does he consider truth to be petty and other people's wishes to be irrelevant? Does he prefer to interpret the world in a way that suits his taste and his purposes without caring where and when his ideas conflict with reality because he is manipulative enough to make others adopt his point of view no matter how flawed this view might be? Did he gain his goals that way?
It was harsh. But he silently vowed to add the passage to the letter that was waiting to be sent to his mother.
He wasn't going to back down now that he had come this far.
...
49. Fiendfyre
Dusk had fallen outside. The rain was tapping gently against the windowpanes.
Draco put the sketches showing Thomas's eyes aside and arranged the remaining ones on the desk – for a fleeting second, he had the impression of being back in the Room of Requirement, encircled by live flames.
He gripped the desk with both hands to prevent himself from jumping out of his chair and running. With great effort, he calmed down enough to focus on the memory.
...
No sooner had their Dark Marks gone hot than Crabbe and Goyle had pulled robes over their pyjamas and rushed off to find the Carrows. He had dallied. He had sat on his bed, trying to recall the times when he had felt the same eagerness and excitement as them. It had seemed like aeons ago. Too much had happened that he hadn't been prepared for.
The mere thought of what this night might bring on had chilled him to the bone. He had known in advance that the oncoming challenges would be ten times too much for him.
He had wished himself far, far away.
All year through, he had wished himself to be in another place than the one he was actually in. When he had been at Hogwarts, he had longed to be at home. And when he had been at home, he had wanted nothing more than to be back at school. There had been no escape, though. The threat posed by the monster had been everywhere, and replacing the Carrows with Greyback and Bellatrix Lestrange – or vice versa – hadn't made much of a difference. Now, a year later, he realised that in truth he had wished himself back in time – back to when his home had still been a home and his school just a school.
However, the very instant McGonagall had started to talk about evacuation, Draco had resolved to stay in the castle. Resolved was perhaps an overstatement; it had been one of the occasions when he had acted on instinct. He had chosen a million to one chance for mercy over certain doom.
Maybe he should have followed through with what instinct had told him: step aside on the way out, cast a Disillusionment Charm, disappear into a side corridor. But he had informed Crabbe and Goyle of his plan because he had reckoned they would have a life expectation of perhaps a quarter of an hour after entering the battle on the monster's side.
Would Crabbe be still alive if he, Draco, had kept his mouth shut? Crabbe and Goyle hadn't been listening to him anymore after the Easter holidays, so why had he tried yet again to be their adviser? Something had compelled him, some obligation that he had thought he had... He remembered his mother's words upon him leaving for Hogwarts for the first time. Vincent and Gregory will rely on you for guidance, Draco. They will look up to you the same way their fathers look up to yours-
"I'm sorry to interrupt, dear, but we're closing in ten minutes."
An elderly library assistant – a woman with large spectacles and thinning, grey hair – stood across the desk.
"We're closing," she repeated. "I'm afraid you have to pack up for today."
"Sorry," Draco said, getting up and collecting his sketches. He would much rather do nothing that made the staff suspicious of him. He liked the place too much to risk being banished from it.
He stuffed the crayons into their box, grabbed the folder with the sketches, and bade the librarian good night. He was already out in the hall, when she called after him.
"Wait! You've lost a picture!"
He went back and found her enthralled by a sheet of paper filled with flames that sprouted claws and fangs...
Heat rose to his temples. She was bound to ask about the meaning of it, and he couldn't explain about cursed fire because that would be a breach of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy.
"That's quite good, actually," she said. "Well, the subject is horrible – that can't be denied, but the way you did this is really arty. One could be persuaded these flames were leaping out of the picture and attacking the beholder. And giving them faces, and not just any faces but the features of mythical creatures that are generally associated with cruelty and violence, certainly multiplies the effect. You know, your picture doesn't so much show a raging inferno than it shows the fear of it."
He felt completely gobsmacked. The woman believing to recognise dragons and chimaeras as "mythical beings associated with cruelty and violence" was one thing. The other thing was her being absolutely right – he didn't sketch Fiendfyre, he sketched the terror he had felt.
She held the picture out to him.
"Your tutor will be pleased," she said as he took it. His confusion must have been visible on his face because she added, "Aren't you going to hand it in?"
"This isn't homework," he said without really intending to. "You don't understand. This has got nothing to do with artistic metaphors or mythology."
"What is it then?" she asked, mildly puzzled.
He hesitated for only the briefest moment. He knew that he should not answer, that he wasn't allowed to answer, but he wanted to. He wanted to say it aloud. He wanted to say aloud what had bothered him the whole day, nay, what had eaten him the whole year. "This is real. Today, exactly one year ago, one of my classmates died in such a fire. He had started it himself, and none of us had the power to stop it."
"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, and the genuine warmth in her voice amazed him. "Was he a friend?"
"There was a time when I was foolish enough to think so," he said. "He wasn't too bright. I did about nine tenths of his homework for him. I revised with him a lot, but he still failed every other test. I also used to order him about a lot. Sometimes it was in his best interest, but by and large, it was just for my convenience. I never questioned my behaviour – I was simply emulating my father's conduct toward his. Master and servant – it had been like this since the dawn of time, or so I thought."
She gave him an inquisitive look.
"You aren't implying that you were involved in some way in starting that fire? You didn't egg him on, or did you?"
"Merlin, no!" The words were out before he knew it.
He thought he saw her relax.
"Well, was there anything you could have done beforehand?" she went on. "Telling a teacher perhaps?"
He simply shook his head at the idea.
"I didn't know beforehand. I didn't know somebody had instructed him how to cast Fiend-... how to cause this kind of fire. He didn't just put a candle to a stack of parchment... er, paper."
"Well, you see, sometimes we're blaming ourselves for what cannot possibly be our fault – events we couldn't have foreseen, accidents we couldn't have prevented, diseases we couldn't have healed, all the things out there on which we have no influence. We blame ourselves the more the dearer the deceased person was to us because we wish we would have been able to save them somehow," she said wistfully. "We wish we could undo the damage with some all-powerful, magical spell. But we can't, and that makes us even more sad."
He gasped.
"I'm not sure what to say to somebody as young as you without sounding awfully hackneyed," she continued. "Perhaps that: Always try to be as good a man as you can be. But aiming for absolute perfection might cause more harm than good both to you and others."
There was a pause since he didn't know what to reply.
She nodded at him and made to retreat.
"Thank you for your kind words," he finally said, clinging to formal politeness. "But I had better go home now."
...
Slowly, he walked up to Hind Green Close. He breathed in the cool night air that still smelled of rain. It also smelled of flowers.
Had he really referred to the little chamber with a slanted wall as his home?
...
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Many thanks to my beta readers. :)