FOUR.
The 'Key dropped Draco and Narcissa in the middle of nondescript, mostly-evergreen woodland, woodland that looked identical to that which Severus and Draco had fled through the night before last. Draco slumped sideways, knees knocking, and Narcissa let him go in a controlled fall.
"Sit a moment," she ordered. "Traveling by Portkey is difficult in the best of circumstances."
Thunder sounded in the distance. Draco pulled himself, wobbling, to his feet. "I don't think we have a moment," he told her.
Nodding, she slung his arm over one shoulder and they toddled on for a bit. Narcissa was beginning to breathe heavily when Draco ordered another rest and they broke to share some nutbread.
"Can't you just cast Mobilicorpus?"
Narcissa smiled at him, handing him the flagon of watered wine. "Tell me why I oughtn't."
Draco sighed. "You'll want to look sweaty and disheveled when you arrive," he replied. "Why can't we just ask for help?"
"Like Gryffindors?" Narcissa countered. "We have to look pitiful enough to warrant sympathy, and strong enough to be of some use. If we do not plan our request well, they will deny it out of hand."
"Harry wouldn't turn us away," Draco returned. He might not feel the same connection to the boy as he had before, but of this he was certain.
"Harry will not remember you as you remember him," Narcissa reminded him. "And in any case, it may not all be up to Mister Potter."
"In my experience, it's always up to Mister Potter - more than is good for him," Draco countered, rolling his eyes. When Narcissa engaged him in a reluctant smile, he realized that this might be his last chance to talk to her alone in a long time. "You really believe I've been enchanted by Potter?"
"I believe you've been enchanted by someone," Narcissa corrected. "Frankly, I don't believe Potter capable of that much power or subtlety, but Severus seems to see that boy as capable of anything."
Draco nodded. "Professor Snape has a… unique view of Harry. But he's right as far as that goes. Harry escaped the Dark Lord all those times because no matter how many times Harry evaded him, the Dark Lord underestimated him again and again. He's sort of unassuming, makes you think he's not half so able and clever as he really is. And then, before you know it…" He shook his head.
The blond witch tilted her head to one side, in thought. "Noted. But I suppose it was Dumbledore who cast it on you at the top of the Astronomy Tower. A last defense, and maybe something more. Perhaps you were even meant to be a Trojan Horse, sent back to murder the Dark Lord or sow discontent."
It was the most reasonable explanation, aside from his own, that Draco had heard so far. Dumbledore was the only wizard aside from Voldemort himself who possessed the cunning, shrewdness and sheer power required to cast a mental net of this magnitude. Dumbledore would have ample motivation for turning Draco to the Light. If gaining Harry a new and devoted ally wasn't enough, the elderly wizard's life had been at stake.
Of course, Draco didn't believe it for a second. Doubts he'd felt while under torture aside, he knew how detailed and how seamless his memories were; he knew them to be real. But Narcissa couldn't know that, couldn't see his mind from the inside. She was no Legilimens.
"If you think the Light cast this spell on me, why are you bringing me to them?"
Narcissa raised her brows and pursed her lips, a clear query on his intelligence.
"All right – you suppose you can't hide me away for long, and both sides want to use me –"
" – but only the Dark Lord incarcerates or murders any of his followers who stop amusing him."
"You don't know that's not true about Dumbledore, too," Draco returned. "Maybe it was only that everyone amused him."
"Quite possibly," she replied, adjusting her hood. "He was often amused."
For a moment, the pair hung their heads, Draco dwelling on the clear and unpleasant sense memory of a distinct thump. It was strange to think that his mother might have pleasant memories of the old man from her own school days.
"What if the Dark Lord asks Professor Snape to come and get me? He'll realize there's no spell."
Narcissa stood, brushing nutbread crumbs off of her cloak. "Of course there is. And when you return, you'll gladly tell him everything."
Draco gulped.
The blond's gaze turned icy as she lifted her chin in challenge. "Even if there isn't a spell, Draco – you'll tell him everything, gladly or not."
"I suppose he'll just have to be dead by then," Draco replied. "Again," he added under his breath, allowing Narcissa to pull him to his feet.
Overhead, the sky was darkening; it was shaping up to be one of those summer storms, with huge thunderheads - strong, sweeping, and over very quickly. A loud crack of thunder split the morning, and Narcissa redoubled their pace.
Finally, they emerged from the Forbidden Forest just as the storm broke. Narcissa laughed as she raised her hood and her son's and started towards the Hogwarts gates: tall, impressive stone pillars topped with winged hogs. When they reached the cast iron of the gates themselves, the hogs turned on their perches and stared.
Narcissa froze, clutching Draco tightly to her side.
The hogs opened their snouts and began to sing:
Greetings, traveler on the road,
Welcome now, to journey's end.
We welcome you to our abode,
We gladly name you well-met friend.
But summer's brought a blight to us,
A tree in leaf's hacked to the core,
We weep to speak, but must say nevertheless,
That Death has come for Dumbledore.
Weep for the end of such a life,
That cheerful attendance, made all too brief,
Cut short by betrayal, by darkness and strife,
Bow your head in darkest grief...
Your children are safe; they are inside,
though they huddle, for comfort, together;
the rest of the staff is well, besides
the dark that comes in darkest weather.
Now we have said all that can be exposed.
Hogwarts is, most unfortunately, closed.
Light shall return, but joy no more:
Death has come for Dumbledore.
The two hogs turned so that they were facing one another once more, instead of Draco and Narcissa.
Draco shook his head, but Narcissa strode up to the winged hogs and rapped smartly on one. "I will talk to someone in charge!" she shouted. "Now!"
The hogs looked singularly unimpressed.
She looked at Draco and her eyes darkened. "I have Dumbledore's murderer!"
The gates swung open with a rusty squeal – or maybe that was just the hogs again – and the pair moved forward, down the rapidly muddying path around the Lake.
"Mother, are you sure that was a good idea?"
"I never say things rashly," she replied, and Draco went quiet. This was probably the part where I won't mean any of it applied.
They reached the front doors more rapidly than Draco would have expected. Time seemed elastic - maybe this was due to the weight of his recent bout of Cruciatus, but it was more likely just terror. If these people really thought he'd murdered Dumbledore, he'd be Avada Kedavra'd before he could so much as blink.
He would have to trust his mother, and it occurred to him that he'd done a lot of trusting lately; though to be fair it was the right decision so far, as he was still alive and mostly intact.
A bright flash of light cut the sky and Draco could see that the door had been cracked open; someone was expecting their arrival.
When they reached the door, he saw it was the Deputy – it was the Headmistress, Professor McGonagall, with Hagrid and Flitwick standing behind her.
Narcissa began to weep openly and stagger against his weight; she surreptitiously returned Draco to his original mass with her wand. Of course, Hagrid moved immediately to help her drag Draco in from the rain. "Thank you!" she exclaimed, "oh, thank you!" and followed Hagrid in, wringing her hands.
"Mistress Malfoy," Minerva McGonagall greeted her.
Hagrid had chosen to carry Draco with one hand under his bent knees and the other behind his back, which was rather humiliating, but Draco couldn't find it in himself to complain. His entire body was shaking from the exertion, and it felt almost sinfully good to allow his abused muscles to finally relax.
"Please, my son has been hurt..." she said. "It was the Cruciatus Curse..."
Professor Flitwick was won over too, Draco observed, as the little man rushed to his side and immediately began performing diagnostic charms.
Minerva McGonagall lifted one, tired eyebrow. "This is not a hospital, Narcissa."
Narcissa nodded. "I know! But I also knew that my husband's – associates – could reach Draco at Saint Mungo's... I couldn't risk it... I knew that he would be safest here, here of all places –"
McGonagall had her wand out in an instant, and had fired a silencing hex at Narcissa before Draco could reach his own – though he felt so uncoordinated that he worried he needn't have bothered.
"Well I remember you from your schooldays, Narcissa," McGonagall snapped. "Your son's just like you - could sell a raincoat to the Great Squid, that one - and I haven't forgotten. However, it seems that it has escaped your mind that your dubious charms do not work on me..."
"Dubious charms! I like that!" Draco shouted at her, flailing in a most haphazard fashion. "And while I appreciate the compliment, we're not here to sell any raincoats! We really do need help!"
"Oh, I've no doubt you need help," McGonagall replied. "But I have no incentive to give it to you. In fact, I see very little reason not to have you arrested on the spot."
Narcissa waved elegantly at her throat, not looking the least bit put out, which Draco found rather impressive, given the circumstances.
"Oh, very well," the Headmistress replied, and cancelled the spell.
His mother's usual, elegant charm was absent, however, when she next spoke. "Here it is: he's been enchanted, and I didn't know where else to go."
"Enchanted?" Flitwick queried. "How so, my dear?"
"Tell them, Draco," Narcissa offered.
"I have very different memories of the last year," Draco explained from his perch in Hagrid's arms. "Your beard is very scratchy," he added.
"How convenient," McGonagall scoffed.
Draco thought that the beard was frankly very inconvenient right now, and then realized that he was getting a little punchy. "I don't feel very well," he tacked on. A bed in the Hospital Wing sounded like heaven about now.
"Come now, Minerva, the boy's obviously suffering from the aftereffects of extended Cruciatus," Flitwick implored.
"Draco Malfoy has been an expert at faking various illnesses and injuries since he came into my care," McGonagall protested.
"That's right!" Draco shouted. "I'm in your bloody care, aren't I? I'm still a student here, aren't I? If Dumbledore were here, I'd already be in the Wing!"
There followed a blank silence, in which McGonagall's cheeks grew hotter and hotter.
"How –" she finally rasped. "How dare you –?"
"I dare because I'm right. He would've treated me first and asked – asked – asked –"
"Draco, darling," Narcissa crooned, "you'd best stop now, before you get stuck."
"It's back? He would've asked questions later. And you know it."
McGonagall stared.
"Oh, yeah, my acting's improved tremendously. I can stammer, now."
His Transfigurations professor wiped a tired hand down her face and finally threw both hands in the air. "Take him to the Hospital Wing, Professor Flitwick, and watch him very carefully. Narcissa, you will come with me to the Headma-istress's Office."
Narcissa looked a little nervous, like a third-year called up for cheating, but Draco didn't blame her. The blond looked very small next to McGonagall, who was a half a head taller than she.
Narcissa reminded Draco about the brewed potion in his case and kissed him on the cheek.
"Be careful," he told her.
"Careful as a dragon tamer," she replied softly, smoothing his hair with one hand.
That was a little embarrassing, but it was nothing compared to being held like a damsel in distress by a half-giant, so Draco smiled and they parted ways for the first time in what seemed like days.
Poppy Pomfrey looked up and gave a gasp at their entrance. "Mister Malfoy!" she exclaimed.
"Hullo, Madame Pomfrey," Draco replied. They'd gotten to know one another pretty well the last time he'd been in the Wing. She'd covered up his Mark like a wound and treated him warily at first; but familiarity bred ease if not contempt, and soon she was saving bits of crossword from the Daily Prophet for him to puzzle over in the mornings.
"It's the Cruciatus Curse, Madam Pomfrey," Flitwick announced.
"Oh my goodness! Over here, then, over here!"
Hagrid lay him down in one of the Wing's many cots, more than the usual number of which were occupied. Draco looked to his right to see Neville Longbottom in the bed beside him. "What happened to him?"
"Never you mind, just look here," Pomfrey chided.
Draco settled into the bedclothes and followed the tip of the wand with his eyes as Pomfrey ordered. He went through his alphabet, name, House, and the six fundamental principles of Transfiguration before the witch was satisfied his mind was intact. Flitwick had tired of the entire process long since, and perched on one of the Wing's several stools.
"Now, what on earth is it that happened?"
Draco told the abbreviated (and highly edited) version of the story: he'd been dragged to Malfoy Manor by Snape at wandpoint, whereupon Snape decided he'd lost his mind; the Dark Lord came and tortured him for refusing to kill Dumbledore; his mother had seen his condition, stolen potions from Snape's stores and spirited him away to the Forbidden Forest, in hopes of seeking sanctuary at Hogwarts.
Draco had no idea where his mother had gotten the notion of claiming he'd been tasked to kill Dumbledore, which was, to his mind, more than a little fanciful: given all the grown wizards on Voldemort's side, why him? It also seemed to him that claiming such a thing could hardly endear him to the professors at Hogwarts. Still, Narcissa insisted this be the story he tell.
Draco also wasn't sure how to explain he had a different view of the past year than they all seemed to. He wasn't sure how to ask if Ron had the same problem; not without appearing completely mad. After a moment, Pomfrey's diagnostic charm burst into brilliant red-orange smoke over his head, just as Snape's had.
A loud groan sounded from across the room, and Pomfrey's head jerked up as though someone had yanked it on a string – "excuse me, dear," she blurted to Draco and strode with quick efficiency over to the opposite side of the hospital. "Are they hurting again, Bill?"
" 'S really not tha' bad," came the slurred answer.
"Well, it's probably time for some more ointment, wouldn't you say?" Pomfrey's voice sounded just as it had when she was examining the angry redness around Draco's new Dark Mark: determinedly cheerful, as though intent on ignoring the darker reality of the situation.
Draco turned on his side to peer over at Bill. He couldn't help a gasp.
"Young man!" Pomfrey barked, catching sight of his startled features. "Show some decency and respect! Bill was injured last night by Greyback in human form; he was fighting for this school."
"Never min', Mad'm Pomfee," Bill hissed through his swollen mouth. "Better get used to it."
"Nonsense!" Madam Pomfrey looked unsettled, tucking the blankets more tightly around Bill. "Most of this swelling will go down in a few days, and then we'll be able to see. Until then, it's all guesswork as to how you'll look in the end."
"Ri'," Bill agreed, but he sounded resigned. His eyes were swollen almost shut with the angry, puffy red-and-yellow of infection; the man probably hadn't even been able to take stock of how bad it really was, yet.
That'll be the Hypericum, a potion for damaged nerves, one of the best potions to rid the body of magical taint... Draco looked down at the bottle in his hand and frowned. He had always prided himself on his speaking voice, but it wasn't as though stammering was causing him actual pain. Bill's face looked screwed up with it, even as he smiled at Madam Pomfrey.
It wasn't like his problem couldn't wait. It wasn't as though his problem was half so serious as Bill's.
"I have this potion..." Draco began. "Hypericum draught..."
Pomfrey stared from her position at the side of Bill's bed. "You have Hypericum draught? Only a Potions Master can produce it..."
"Well, and I stole it from a Potions Master," Draco replied, but inside his stomach was flipping. If only a Potions Master could produce Hypericum draught, his own dose could be a long time coming.
"That would dispel the last of the effects of the Cruciatus Curse," Pomfrey told him.
Yes, I'm bloody well aware of that, don't make this more difficult than it already is!
Draco swallowed, then shook his head, angry with his own hesitation. "I daresay I can manage to wait a bit more easily than Bill."
Madam Pomfrey strode over to his bed to accept the Hypericum draught with something approaching reverence. "Thank you, my dear," she said, voice somewhat wobbly. She resumed her no-nonsense cheer without a hitch, though. "Tilt up, now!" she ordered Bill, leaning him forward and tipping the remains of the Potion down his throat.
Bill swallowed; and then, Madam Pomfrey and Draco watched as the hideous wounds on his face shrank, whitened, and faded to an interlocking pattern of pale scars.
And what had been so hard to see under the puffiness and oozing blood became perfectly clear to Draco.
"You're Bill Weasley!" he exclaimed.
"And you're Malfoy?" Bill sputtered, wiping the last of the infected gunk free from his eyes. "You stepped over me during the Battle!"
"I most certainly did no - no - no such thing," Draco countered.
Bill stared.
"I think I'd remember!" Draco shouted. He watched Bill's lips twist for a moment. Draco couldn't help the uncharitable thought that pondering seemed physically painful on the mobile Weasley features.
"Reckon it could've been anyone."
Draco smiled in relief.
Bill continued grinning at him, and might have kept on grinning but for Madam Pomfrey's, "that's enough, now, Bill," through a voice that sounded suspiciously choked. She moved back to Draco, and tucked the covers in around him.
"Here you are, dear," Madam Pomfrey said, handing him a milky white potion. "This'll help with the symptoms."
"I'll stop stuttering?"
She smiled, sadly. "If you take it every morning."
"You mean I won't ever –"
"Take heart, dear. It's a simple neurorestorative, easy to brew, cheap to produce. There are all sorts of people who have to take a potion every morning. And no daily potion would have fixed what was the matter with Bill. You did something very noble, and neither Bill nor I will forget it in a hurry. Matter of fact, I'm willing to bet you could call on any of the Weasleys, now. And I think that's worth a bit of a stammer, don't you?"
Draco could hardly say that hadn't crossed his mind. He could be stuck here, and if he was interested in rebuilding his world as he knew it, he needed Ron.
"You think on that," she advised, and moved on to Neville's bed.
Maybe it was the potion, or maybe it was just the end of a series of long, terribly harrowing days, but Draco, even so anxious as he was, fell asleep like dropping off a cliff.
Later that afternoon, Draco woke to the sounds of raised, hysterical voices.
"Bill! Bill, what's happened to you?"
"Hi, mum," came Bill's voice, and the woman burst into ragged tears.
Draco opened his eyes and propped himself up in bed with no small difficulty. He saw that the woman was Molly Weasley, and that she was stumbling closer, throwing her arms around her son.
"Malfoy saved me," Bill told her, patting her on the back. "He had a potion and he gave it to me when he needed it himself."
Molly Weasley looked across the Wing towards Draco in surprise, then turned to Madam Pomfrey, standing at the foot of Bill's hospital cot. "Is - is this true?"
Madam Pomfrey looked as though she would enjoy a good cry, herself. Haltingly, she nodded.
Mrs. Weasley crossed the room to Draco, who automatically canvassed the Wing for exit strategies. Maybe she, too, remembered him stepping callously over her injured son.
Instead of haranguing him, her expression became almost painfully tender as she raised her hand to squeeze his shoulder. "There now," she said, lowly. "I don't know what possessed you, but my family is in your debt."
And I'm in yours, he thought, but did not say – he doubted she remembered Ron sticking by him, Dark Mark and all.
"Clearly," she added, "there's more to you than meets the eye."
Draco thought this was the understatement of several lifetimes, but he kept as quiet as only a terrified Malfoy knew how. The Gryffindors were one thing, but Mrs. Weasley was in her own echelon when it came to invasion of personal space.
"But what am I doing? I heard about the Unforgivables – makes me mad as a niffler outside Gringotts – throwing Unforgivables at children, I can't even imagine – but then, you must be tired, Draco, dear. You just sleep as much as you can, let all those potions do their work." She stood, bussed Bill on the cheek and swept out in a cloud of essential motherliness.
Draco obliged her with embarrassing rapidity, falling into unconsciousness the moment his head hit the pillow.
Long before he was well enough to try it, Draco knew that his next step was to contact Ron and share information. He'd sent Ron his Patronus with a very circumspectly worded message back at Spinner's End, but the other boy had never sent one in return. Maybe his first Patronus hadn't reached Ron. He certainly had been testing the spell for distance. Maybe he'd exceeded what his Patronus was capable of.
He knew, however, that his Patronus was more than capable of traveling from one person to another in the same building.
When he could prop himself up in bed and remain awake for more than a few hours at a time, he closed his eyes and pictured… well, what? He knew for certain that Voldemort was alive again, now. He couldn't use his standby Patronus memory. Most of his recent pleasant memories involved Harry, and a great deal of those had lost their luster in the wake of Snape's spell. It took him a half an hour and innumerable tries in order to summon the memory of everyone bursting into the Great Hall with wands raised, saving he and Harry when he'd been so very certain they were both – well. Best not dwell on that part of the memory… "Expecto patronum!"
Draco grinned at the silvery fox that appeared in his lap. "Hello, you beautiful creature," he greeted it. "Find Ron Weasley and tell him that he must come here tonight so that we can talk."
The glowing animal tilted its head to one side, as if listening. A moment later, it leapt off of Draco's hospital cot and shot out the door.
Twenty minutes later, Draco heard the distinct noise of the Hospital Wing door opening and closing, but couldn't see a thing, even though his eyes were well-adjusted to the dark. Either Harry had accompanied Ron, or Ron had nicked his friend's Invisibility Cloak.
It turned out to be the latter; Ron appeared right where Draco was looking, expecting him to be, and still he was startled enough to jump.
"Well?" Ron grated.
Draco blinked. "Well, yourself. Lovely evening for a chat."
Ron sank slowly into one of the many chairs that were scattered about the Wing. "Cut to the chase, Malfoy."
Draco shook his head with a smile; Ron seating himself implied that he expected a rather protracted conversation. "Very well. How's Harry?"
"Since when is he Harry to you?"
Draco put a hand to his forehead, which had suddenly begun thumping. "All right, you don't remember who I am –"
"You're Draco Malfoy, I know perfectly well who you are –"
" – which begs the question of why on earth you came when I called in the first place."
"You saved my brother Bill," Ron replied through clenched teeth. "If not his life, then… you saved his pride. People would've stared at him wherever he went. I don't care what Harry says, it doesn't matter why you did it. I still owe you."
Draco shimmied up underneath his bedcovers. "Is that so?"
"You don't have to look so pleased," Ron grimaced.
But Draco was very pleased indeed on one level, even if he was heartsick with disappointment on another. "But this is marvelous," he replied. "You can help me figure out what in the bloody blazes is going on."
"Search me," Ron immediately replied, "but I'll hazard you've lost whatever cracked marbles you had to begin with."
Draco blithely ignored this slander. "Seen anybody who looks suspiciously identical to you? Or to me, for that matter?"
Ron looked taken aback.
"That's a 'no'," Draco surmised. He paused for a moment, juggling all of the variables, before coming to a decision. "Does your obligation extend to a Wizards' Debt?"
The other boy's dark blue eyes flashed with anger. "You didn't save his life."
"No, just his livelihood. His pride, as you say. Maybe his upcoming marriage to Fleur Delacour."
Ron's lips thinned. "Just tell me what you want, Malfoy."
"Color me surprised. You're a pureblood after all, aren't you, Weasley? All right, all right, no need to look so apoplectic. 'Apoplectic', by the way, means frozen, usually in shock and amazement."
To Draco's surprise, Ron didn't protest that of course he knew what apoplectic meant; instead, he turned pink and ducked his head.
Draco sped past the other boy's embarrassment in that way that was beginning to become instinctual from spending time with Ron, who angered and embarrassed easily. Sometimes, it felt like there were invisible lines around Harry, Hermione and Ron that he tripped without understanding he'd made a mistake until he saw their reactions. Just now, he felt as though he'd called Mrs. Weasley a dreadful name.
"What I need," he said, deciding to push the conversation forward before Ron could verbally explode and escape, "is a research partner."
Ron blinked up at him, consternation replacing… whatever he'd been experiencing before. Draco wasn't the best judge. "I don't think Hermione will help me if she knows it's for you."
Was he being deliberately obtuse? "Not Hermione. I need your help. I'd like to get back to where I come from – if that's even possible. In order to do so, I'll probably need Hermione's help eventually, but the fact is I'll also need Snape's. And there's no way Snape is coming back here until Voldemort is dead."
Ron stared as though he'd started speaking in tongues.
"Are you listening?" Draco wondered.
"What makes you think Snape'll agree to help you?"
Draco thought this was a fair question. "I know him better than you, Weasley. Things look bad now, but Professor Snape…" At Ron's skeptical, you-fool! expression, Draco rushed on.
"The more immediate issue is that the Dark Lord believes I'm spying for him. Eventually he's going to send someone to reclaim me. When he does, he'll realize that I haven't been spying for him at all and that Professor Snape lied to him. Then he'll kill me and Professor Snape. So… and I realize this is more than a bit daunting… I'll have to kill him before he gets the chance."
Ron choked.
"So, what I need from you is some research and strategy. I can draw you a layout of Malfoy Manor, and we can work out the best way to enter without being observed. Then –"
The redhead shook his head and held up one hand. "I'm not sure what you're about, Malfoy, but I'm guessing you hope to deliver me to Malfoy Manor tied hand and foot. Are you looking to give your master some leverage – am I supposed to be the bait that attracts Harry? No way, not a chance. You may have figured I'd be the easiest mark of the three of us, but even I'm not that dumb."
Draco tilted his head to one side. "You're not stupid at all, as far as I'm aware. That's why I'm asking for your help instead of your girlfriend's."
"Hermione's not my girlfriend!"
At least some things were universal. "Yet somehow you automatically knew I was referring to Granger," he replied with a grin. "What if I were to make an Unbreakable Vow?"
Ron suddenly sobered. "What –? Malfoy, no."
"It's the quickest way to get you to believe me," Draco countered, drawing his wand from beneath his pillow. "I could swear to protect you to the best of my ability. Then you'd know –"
Ron grabbed for his wand hand. "You – you don't want to."
Draco looked up at him and shook off his grip. "Why not? I mean it, Weasley."
"I get that you mean it, mate," Ron agreed, looking hunted. "That's what's scaring me. You shouldn't cast Unbreakable Vows without thinking them out, first. My father cast one, once, and he had two lawyers look over the wording, first. An Unbreakable Vow can force you to fulfill it in unpredictable ways. They're dangerous."
Draco felt a small smile tugging at his lips. "Why, Weasley… I didn't know you cared."
"Hating your Slytherin guts is not the same thing as wanting them out where I can see," Ron growled. "Still…" He paused, scrubbing at the back of his neck. "I guess if you were ready to make the Vow, that's enough."
Draco worried his lower lip between his teeth. Maybe that was enough for Ron, but he doubted it'd be enough for anybody else. "You don't understand. Making the Vow to you protects me, too. None of your Gryffindor friends would attack me. They wouldn't be able to distrust me, if you vouched for my intentions."
Ron puzzled over this, but Draco knew he already understood. He was searching for another avenue, playing for time by acting a bit dim. "What about a binding?"
Draco groaned, then shook his head at Ron's obvious irritation. "Bindings and I have a long and horrible history is all." He strongly suspected that the connections between he and Harry, minus the connection forged by the casting of the Unforgivables, were an ancient form of binding.
"You'll promise not to lie to me while the binding is in effect," Ron said. "And you won't intentionally hurt me or my friends."
"I so swear," Draco agreed, because this was a very easy thing to promise. A binding wouldn't make him speak, like Veritaserum or the Imperius Curse. If he didn't want to answer, he could simply say so to Ron and still be holding up his end of the bargain. He could even lie if he wanted to, only Ron would know he'd broken the vow. Likewise, Ron would know if Draco were plotting to injure he, Harry or Hermione, though Draco wasn't sure how the other boy would be informed, precisely. Like a lot of the more personal magics, the results of the spell seemed to vary from wizard to wizard.
The two boys drew their wands. "Necto fiddes," they cast simultaneously. Draco felt his throat and heart heat up with a flare of magic; a deep-flame shimmer of dark blue sped from both and hit Ron's heart.
Draco didn't feel any different. Necto fiddes wasn't very much like the bindings Harry had cast, if bindings they were. Ron's expression was strange, though – searching.
"I wouldn't've thought you'd have let me do that," he said.
"Much to my amazement, I do trust you," Draco told him, and watched Ron's expression shift.
"You're telling the truth," he said.
"And there you are. I want to kill the Dark Lord, but I don't want to kill or even hurt any of your little friends. And I want to get back to where I came from. Which, incidentally, is not here."
Ron's next breath came in shaky, and his blue eyes were unfocused.
"Weasley?"
Ron shook himself. "Yeah. Yeah, fine. I just – I was so sure you were up to something."
"And I've told you exactly what I'm up to," Draco said with a roll of his eyes.
"Fine, then. Promise you won't repeat anything I'm about to say, not to anyone but me."
Draco pressed his lips together, but what choice did he have? "Very well. I promise I won't reveal what I'm about to hear."
"There are these things He Who Must Not Be Named made, called Horcruxes…"
By the time Ron was finished, Draco felt exhausted, but he also felt a bit of triumphant. "I think I know where one of them is," he said.
Ron stared at him for a moment with an expression of consternation.
"When I say something as vague as that, the spell tells you nothing," Draco guessed. "Let me be more clear. I remember what I believe was a locket."
The redhead's eyes lit up. "Sweet Merlin, Malfoy, that's fantastic. Where?"
"That's less fantastic." Draco gripped Ron by his upper arm to steady the both of them and then sighed at Ron's startled flinch. I've gone completely native, he thought, lifting his hand slowly and placing it in his lap. "I believe it's around the neck of Bellatrix Lestrange."
A/N: I'm about to start pondering if there's anyone reading this fic. It's odd, I don't believe I got any reviews for the previous chapter, and it didn't show up on the 'new chapters' page on ff-dot-net, so it might have been a glitch.
Still. Seriously, people, this isn't a plea for reviews because I need feedback, although that would also be nice. This is an 'is there anyone reading this story?' comment, because if not, I don't see the point in continuing to post it! There are lots of other uncompleted stories I could be working on, instead...
I mean that. Lots and LOTS of unfinished fic, just lurking on my hard drive.
This week's rec is by Sara's Girl and it's here on ff-dot-net: it's called Reparations. Reparations is an amazing story about Draco heading up a magical therapy wing at Saint Mungo's and Harry ending up as his employee. The UST is a solid, physical presence, the original characters are amazingly fleshed-out and lovely, and the details about asylum life are convincing. Moreover, a gentle humor pervades throughout, that had me laughing out loud several times. Not to be missed.