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Title: The Road (7/?)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rurounihime
Rating: hard R when all is said and done…
Pairing: H/D eventually
Summary: In the midst of a disintegrating war, Harry awaits the arrival of the Order’s last hope.
Warning: violence, character death, spoilers for all books
Disclaimer: The HP characters and most of the spellwork do not belong to me.
A/N: Thank you to April for her fantabulous beta-ing and to Coffee for her constant feedback and encouragement. The other major pairing in this is Blaise/Seamus, but there are minor het pairings as well.
…
There are two absolutely arresting pieces of artwork for chapter 7 bylillithium. She has such a way with water colours, and light, and humanity in her art... *sighs longingly* These are so lovely:
Draco and Harry (both G, worksafe).
...
**ETA: THIS CHAPTER HAS RECEIVED ITS FINAL EDIT**
Previous chapters
Chapter 7: Soothsayer
Grimmauld Place, 1997
Harry had chosen the shabby gallery for its imposing stature and convenience—few had reason to go there these days—but now, standing in the middle of the room, its vastness felt far too daunting. Harry let his eyes meet Hermione’s where she sat in the second level with the others. She looked exhausted; no wonder, as she’d been out fortifying the wards around the house for the entire day. Ron stood against the wall behind her, arms crossed over his narrow chest. Moody’s beady stare glimmered next to Hermione, the rolling eye for once fixed. Harry could see the tight lines on Minerva McGonagall’s face. The Hogwarts Headmistress sat as straight as a rod, gazing down on the floor and its occupants. She’d come specifically for this, and Harry was grateful.
Beside McGonagall sat Remus Lupin, hands composed in his lap. Even from below, Harry could pick out the new gouges that adorned his cheeks, and the deep circles under his eyes. He spent his full moons alone now. Harry was only beginning to understand the toll that isolation exacted on him. An old pang for Sirius hummed in his chest; he had often wondered how deep that pain bit into Lupin. The loss of a friend, a companion. Perhaps—or probably, when Harry really considered it—more.
But he had nothing to spare for Sirius tonight. Kingsley Shacklebolt’s penetrating gaze lowered from above as well, and Griselda Marchbanks’. The woman’s diminutive stature did nothing to decrease her presence; she gazed down from the upper level with a crooked eyebrow, lips already a thin line. She’d arrived just before Minerva, asking only where they were keeping the “youngest of the Malfoys.” Now, seated stiffly beside Shacklebolt, she exuded an incalculable age into the room.
Harry’s selection of this room had one other purpose. He doubted Malfoy had noticed the large, ancient portraits adorning the walls. Particular ones; some covered over with white sheets, some empty of their occupants. And one on the west wall in the darkness, oft frequented by a familiar, half-moon-spectacled face.
They all had a vested interest in this, and Harry had not attempted to keep them out. Whatever came of it, whatever was spoken under the cold light of truth, it was best they hear it for themselves.
He turned around and focussed again on the task at hand. “When was the last time you were in any sort of contact with your father?”
Draco Malfoy’s eyes had clouded. Their focus was disturbed and milky, like a pond’s surface broken by a pebble. He swung his gaze to Harry and drew a stilted breath. Malfoy had five full seconds to fight his way through the muddle of Veritaserum and begin his answer. Any more than that, and he was resisting the truth too much to ignore. So far, he had met the requirement. As far as Harry could tell—and Moody as well, by his silence—Malfoy had not yet managed to lie.
“Azkaban.” The word fell from his lips like a stone. One slow blink. Malfoy’s chin drooped. “This year, in… in the month of… I don’t know…” A look of pain passed briefly over his face as he struggled with the potion’s effects.
Hermione’s finest. Double the strength.
“The month,” Harry pressed in as flat a tone as he could manage. “What was the month?”
Malfoy opened his mouth and shut it again, and Harry had the intriguing idea that the man was going through the months in his mind, one by one until he found the one that the Veritaserum would allow to pass. “A…April,” he said at last.
“Did he ask you to get him out?”
It was a question he’d already asked twice, one of McGonagall’s, but Malfoy showed no recognition of that fact. His answer came as readily as before. “Yes.”
“Did he ask you to ask us to get him out?”
That one was new, and weak surprise registered on Malfoy’s face. “No.”
“To whom did he wish you to go for help in his release?”
The blond head shook. Harry could see the confusion Malfoy’s answer was causing him, as if the truth were too large or the question a trick. Just as it had when he’d asked it previously.
“He… No… He asked me. I asked him if—Death Eaters—” Malfoy tried again. “He wanted the Ministry to get him out. Or Death Eaters, but not all Death Eaters. Not Voldemort.”
“When did you first consider coming to us for help in his release?”
A spasm wrinkled Malfoy’s forehead. “Not in Azkaban. I thought of you after… afterward.”
“When did you first consider coming to us for help in his release?” Harry repeated slowly.
Malfoy shuddered and again gave up the answer he kept trying to avoid. “When my mother… When I found my mother’s body.”
“Were you present when your mother was killed?” Remus’ question. On the upper level, Remus’ long fingers rested lightly against his chin.
Malfoy sagged in the chair. A tear worked its way slowly from his eye. “No.”
“Where were you?” Another of Remus’.
A second tear joined the first. “Wales. Conwy.”
“From what date to what date?”
“Third… July, 1997. Until…” A small breath. “Four weeks ago.”
“What were you doing there?”
Malfoy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I was hiding. Waiting for the war to end.”
“Why?”
“Hiding from… from Voldemort.”
It was the fourth time through that line of questioning, and the second time Harry had seen tears dewing Malfoy’s face. His answers were the same as they had been. It was enough; he would not have to repeat the questions again.
But there were worse ones coming.
Abruptly he shifted topics. “Are you in league with any Death Eaters?”
If the switch upset him, Malfoy did not show it. “No.”
“Have you ever been in league with any Death Eaters?”
A pause. “Yes.”
Moody’s questions, to be scattered throughout. Details of the cabinet, Severus Snape, even Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom had been put forth already, several times. A fabrication here and there, to judge Malfoy’s knowledge of events. Certain answers came easily; others Malfoy consistently resisted, no matter how many variations of the question were put forth.
Harry was beginning to notice a pattern to the type of question Draco Malfoy tried to avoid. The Headmistress, with her years watching her students, and the most senior Auror had likely seen it as well.
And Madam Marchbanks. The old woman caught Harry’s eye and gave the slightest of nods. Harry chose one of her questions. “You will provide us with the names of the Death Eaters your age.”
Malfoy raised his head and looked at Harry with an awareness that had not been there before. A faint line appeared between his brows. “Vincent Crabbe.”
“Deceased,” Harry countered. “How?”
Malfoy looked away. Shut his eyes as if remembering. “Infernus Hex. Caught and killed in Diagon Alley by Aurors.”
It was not well-known how Crabbe had really met his demise. Only those truly in Voldemort’s confidence, or in the highest ranks of the Order, would know about the ancient wasting spell that had slowly drained Crabbe’s life away. The spell, filled with tracking magic, would have led the Aurors straight to Voldemort, had not the carrier died too quickly. But as far as the public of the Wizarding world knew, Vincent Crabbe had been slaughtered by Infernus in a raid, one of four Death Eaters who tried to burn Diagon Alley to the ground. A trap, set and sprung by the Order, and not peered at too closely by citizens already stretched to their limits. In reality, Crabbe’s debilitating magical illness had burned away with the ashes of his body, far from Diagon Alley in the bowels of the Ministry.
It was not something Harry was proud of, or personally responsible for. But it had its uses, even now; Malfoy had no idea.
“Other names?”
Malfoy slurred into each. Gregory Goyle. Horace Urquhart. Terence Higgs, deceased. Sandra Fawcett, deceased. Adrian Pucey, permanently incapacitated. Millicent Bulstrode.
And there were those who were missing, as Malfoy had been for the past half-year: Daphne Greengrass and Graham Pritchard, fled the country. Marcus Flint, unaccounted for. Tracey Davis, unaccounted for, believed dead. Marietta Edgecombe, fled the country. Montague, disappeared after Calais.
As for those younger than Pritchard, Malfoy could not give names.
“And Blaise Zabini?” Harry asked. “Pansy Parkinson. Theodore Nott.”
Malfoy’s muddled eyes flashed as brightly as the Veritaserum allowed. “They are not Death Eaters.”
Harry glanced up at Madam Marchbanks. She nodded again. Malfoy’s answers—and emotional responses—had not changed.
Marchbanks’ questions continued, along with those that particularly interested Moody and Shacklebolt: What did Voldemort know about the Order presently? When did Malfoy last see Voldemort? Where was Severus Snape?—Minerva and Remus stiffened at that one—What were the details of the Siege of Calais? The attack on Wizarding Bordeaux? The destruction of Muggle Surrey… All attacks that had been inundated with clandestine dealings on both sides, and carried out in secrecy so deep even Harry didn’t know the darkest mysteries about some of them. But it was clear that Malfoy knew even less about the battles’ inner workings; he’d no idea that Bordeaux had fallen at all. And none knew about that save those who had been there to see it cursed into oblivion, as Harry had; the concealing spells were still too well-maintained.
In the shadows on the upper tier, Ron shifted fitfully. Harry made a decision. “Malfoy.”
Malfoy looked at him vaguely. Harry stepped forward, nearly too close for comfort. “Are you involved in a sabotage plot against the Order?”
“I…” Malfoy’s frown was dark and brittle. “Not knowingly.”
There was some stirring in the upper level. Harry narrowed his eyes and moved even closer.
“Does anyone—anyone—know you are here?”
Malfoy watched him, his head tilting slightly away. “I didn’t tell anyone I was coming here. Or planning to come here,” he added after a second.
Harry settled a hand on the arm of Malfoy’s chair, centimetres from his pale fingers. “Does anyone know you are here?” he repeated.
Malfoy’s fingers twitched. A struggle rippled through his irises.
“I don’t know,” he answered at last.
It was the truth, whatever the consequences of such imprecision might be. Perhaps the Death Eaters knew, through no fault of Malfoy’s. Voldemort’s spies were turning up in the strangest places. Or perhaps they knew and it was Malfoy’s doing after all, albeit unwittingly. Harry straightened. “How did you get close to this house?”
“I…” Malfoy licked his lips. “I’m not sure. All I could think of was reaching y—reaching the Order. The outer wards let me through. I felt them, but they let me—”
Harry slashed a hand through the air. “But how did you know where to look?”
The room was deathly quiet. The people above him were holding their breaths. Malfoy’s voice was deafening in the stillness. “It was…”
He was resisting. No matter. Harry already knew what the answer would be.
At last the whisper came. “Snape.”
A gasp or two from up above, but Harry was not surprised. The house was not Unplottable to those who knew just where to look. Those who had helped to make it Unplottable. Those who had been in its rooms, had known its location even under Fidelius. There were certainly new wards to keep Snape out. But the original spell was too deep and too complex, and that sort of magic had no special codes to change. A terrible oversight, as magic went. As for Fidelius, Snape could very well have gotten Malfoy into the right area at some point in the recent past, without breaking his magically bound oaths, and then all Malfoy had to do was wait for someone to come along—for nearly a week, as it had turned out.
It was no use pursuing questions about Snape. It had become clear hours ago that Malfoy had no knowledge of the man’s whereabouts, or even if he were still alive.
Harry went back to Narcissa Malfoy’s death.
No, Malfoy had not known names. Yes, he had considered a possible threat to his family. No, he had never attempted to warn his mother. The slow, painful fall of his face as each question presented itself showed Harry more than enough about what Malfoy’s opinions of his actions were in this matter.
“Describe your mother’s death, Malfoy.”
Utter shock stabbed through the lattice of Veritaserum in those grey eyes, but just as quickly a tangible relief flooded into its place. “I can’t. I wasn’t there to see it.”
Harry leaned forward, cursing himself as he did so. “Do you remember when you saw her dead body for the first time?”
Malfoy stopped breathing. He stared at Harry with slaughtered eyes, and the blood rushed out of his face.
“Yes,” he whispered. Barely. Resisting again.
But Hermione’s brew was the purest and cruelest that Harry had ever witnessed. It allowed nothing to escape. Harry had seen Death Eaters offer up the names of their own children in order to escape its relentless force.
It would never allow Draco Malfoy the dignity of hiding a memory he would rather forget.
“How did she die?” Harry murmured. “Who killed her?”
He could see it in his mind’s eye as Draco answered, in trembling tones that wavered as though they would drown under their own weight. Narcissa’s skin, pale as the moon’s wash, eyes open, as glassy as pools of water. The singe of charred flesh in a smoky room, with the minty hint of the killing spell still hovering. A massive Dark Mark, burned into the silken threads of her nightdress and the flesh of her breast. Delicate fingers curled in a plea.
By the time Malfoy fell silent, the constant catch of his voice sat heavily in the room. Glistening trails wound their way down his cheeks. Harry stared at the wall, seeing Narcissa Malfoy’s twisted body imprinted there.
Even she had not been spared. He’d seen that mark of death before, on the dead bodies of Aurors, on hapless Muggles who’d had no chance in Hades. They’d not known what struck them down, but those that came after, those that saw their burned bodies… They knew. Somewhere inside themselves, they knew.
It aged a person. Harry himself had felt the years creep over him, far too many and too quickly. His innocence, a weak and flailing thing since birth, had long ago given up the ghost and hidden away from all this world’s disturbing offerings. And Malfoy had seen it, too, on his own mother.
Harry looked down, resigning himself to the years he would see in Malfoy’s eyes.
They were not there. Malfoy’s face was still, weary around the edges of his mouth. His lips had parted and there was a tattered looseness to his expression: a need Harry had not seen in years, and never on that face. Some nightmarish dream lay behind his old adversary’s expression, waiting to be banished, explained away into the insignificance of such dreams—
By you, Harry’s mind whispered, he’s waiting for you. And suddenly he knew what he was seeing. It was the last shred of youth Malfoy possessed, asserting itself when experience and callousness had failed to work. It blistered a hole into Harry’s chest. He stuck his hand out, gripped the edge of Malfoy’s chair.
For the first time since the interrogation started, Harry truly loathed what he was doing. He didn’t know if he had the power to wake Malfoy from his nightmares, but it was more than obvious that Malfoy thought he did. The very idea quickened Harry’s pulse. He had succeeded in one thing at least: if any of the others had been down here questioning this man, a far greater number of irrelevant secrets would have been spilled. A greater number of torturous memories. And for what? To satisfy the need to hurt, to discredit Malfoy? To plunge him into utter hopelessness? Some part of Harry’s old schoolmate still clutched onto hope: a father, to be delivered up by the single most unlikely person to help him.
Hope of leaving this house alive.
It was never enough to let a person walk away, still breathing. But it was enough to let him walk away with his dignity intact. Harry was the only one in the room, save Remus, perhaps, who would not be tempted to destroy Malfoy in such a personal way.
Still… he had one other avenue that he felt he must take. He had saved his own questions for last.
He gripped both arms of Malfoy’s chair. Studied the man in silence. And then spoke, when the time was right.
“What happened the last night you were at Hogwarts during sixth year?”
The room went so still that Harry could hear the mansion settling. His question echoed in his ears, and Malfoy’s expression changed once more. It was almost as though Harry could hear the plea in those eyes.
Please. Please don’t ask me that.
Harry turned to look at the upper level. All those listening were staring back at him. He could see the white clutch of Hermione’s fingers around the banister, and knew she was aware of what he was doing. The faces of the older adults were inscrutable. But the accusation in seven pairs of eyes was plain. In the darkness behind Malfoy, something shifted in the shadows of the portrait.
Harry dropped his voice and locked Malfoy’s wide eyes with his. “Just for me, then. Tell me what happened that night. On the roof.”
Malfoy’s answer was so soft, so quavery, that Harry was glad of the void around them. He heard creaking in the balcony as the others leaned over it, but there was no possible way they could hear what Malfoy was saying. Harry heard events he had no need to remind himself of—he would never, ever forget them—and listened the emotions behind the words instead. The fear of a dark master Malfoy had seen only once before… The liberation of a plan finally taking shape. The sheer need to see his father again. To save a mother who would later die, in spite of everything.
The shame… in pointing his wand at the man who had offered him the only solace he would ever know. The shame of hearing such an offer even after threatening murder. The shame of having to tell the truth to him, Harry Potter, when it would only sound like a request from an ungrateful refugee.
Horror as Dumbledore flew over the parapet, as he saw the true work of green light at last, and smelled death’s scent. Staggering relief, that it had not been his wand that had done the deed, but Snape’s.
The betrayal, quick and complete, of finding his efforts had been for nothing in the end.
The scene must have been imprinted on Malfoy’s mind as well; he remembered nearly every detail, and gave them forth with the deathly waver of one who expected to be condemned for his crimes. Perhaps he would have been, had Harry not been there to see the entire event himself.
But there, in that memory, lay the heart of Draco Malfoy’s soul. Somewhere in the midst of it, Harry was at last convinced of his sincerity.
“Thank you,” was all he said. Malfoy stared blankly down at his hands, wallowing in the residual grief. Harry looked up at the others, who had remained oddly silent throughout the final scene.
“We’re finished here.”
Some muttering. Remus, Hermione, and Madam Marchbanks nodded and rose. Shacklebolt and Minerva wore thoughtful expressions, and Ron stared at Harry for a long time before moving to stand beside Hermione. Moody’s magical eye glared down through the gloom at the man slumped in the chair. His grimace was anything but hidden when he got to his feet.
“You ask him, Potter,” Moody growled. “Or I will.”
Harry straightened. The question Moody spoke of had been meant for the entire group to hear, and the answer was not necessary for intelligence or even corroboration. But Harry was no longer willing to let Malfoy struggle for all of them to see. He would be the one to hurt Malfoy, and he would be the only one to hear Malfoy’s resulting humiliation.
“I’ll ask,” he said. “But only for him.”
Moody reluctantly nodded.
Harry leaned close to Malfoy again, so near hat he could see the separation of fine blond strands falling over his ear. His voice shook, just a little. “In Conwy, Draco. Why were you hiding from Voldemort?”
Malfoy’s breathing stuttered. His knuckles go white around the arms of the chair. He had squeezed his eyes shut and his chin was trembling with the effort not to speak.
“Why were you hiding?” Harry whispered again, as soft as rain.
A short gasping exhalation; Malfoy’s throat bobbed. “I was—Potter—”
“Malfoy?”
His eyes opened, clear and ridden with shame. His cheeks and throat were flushed with the heat of it. But he stared straight at Harry, and the words slipped over his tongue like water. “I was a coward. And I couldn’t go to him. I… couldn’t.”
Harry held Malfoy’s watery gaze for what felt like ages. Then, slowly, he nodded.
“Alright.”
* * *
He stood in the corridor outside the third floor chambers, and thought once again about opening the door before him. But he couldn’t even bring himself to grip the cold brass knob.
If this door opened, he would have to walk inside, would have to speak, and destroy something that was already fragile.
Why was this so hard? It shouldn’t be this hard. Harry didn’t give a fuck about Lucius Malfoy. He’d already let go of the image of the man’s body, smouldering in the filth of Azkaban, blank face painted an ugly green by the spells whizzing back and forth. He should not have given a fuck about informing Malfoy of the death of his last surviving family member. It was part of fighting a war, and sadly, Harry had already seen signs that he was becoming used to speaking of death.
But he couldn’t open this door.
The rescue had gone badly. Azkaban had been quiet, nothing but the drip drip of water leeching through limestone, the groans and cries of those still trapped within. The four people on Harry’s team had slunk past many battered cells, felt the clutch of nameless fingers from those locked inside. Harry remembered the pitiful moan of one emaciated creature, male or female, he couldn’t tell, but it had reached for him with a hand that quivered like a leaf. It had croaked his name.
They’d gone on past it.
Lucius Malfoy’s cell stood in the middle of a long passageway, its bars rusted and heavy with moss. Dean had asked no questions, only slithered forward on the floor and shot a stunning spell through the bars to encompass anything lying within. It was the work of a moment to break the steel and slip inside. Lucius lay face up on the ground, covered in the remnants of gold-embossed velvet. He stared dully at the ceiling, but it wasn’t until Harry came forward and snatched up his wrist that he knew.
Lucius Malfoy was dead. His thunderhead irises had clouded, the pupils huge and fixed in the dank light. His flesh held the slimy chill of something left to dampen in the dark. Harry banished the stunning spell with a hissed Finite, but the heat of a body, of life, was gone. Across the chest of the elder Malfoy’s rotted robes, the hideous charred symbol of skull and snake glared fiercely up at Harry. When he touched the ashes, they crumbled and swirled away. But they were still acidic. New.
There was something else out in the darkened hallway. A fifth and fading presence, once human. Malfoy’s filmed eyes stared up at him from the floor. Harry shivered.
It had been a running fight from the prison. Harry cursed himself for not sensing it immediately, but the magic around Azkaban was still too strong. It was the only thing holding the inmates inside, and it had covered up the traces of three Death Eaters. The only saving grace was that it had also covered the signatures of Harry’s group. Complete surprise was the only way to explain the chaos that had followed, and the sloppiness of the Death Eaters. Harry’s team made it out from under the stifling magic unscathed, save one.
Harry pressed his fingers to his temple. As bad as it felt, he was glad it had been Remus, who had volunteered to accompany him, and not one of the two people he had ordered into it. There was too much dissention concerning Draco Malfoy already.
But it was over. Remus would be fine, given a few days rest, and now the only thing lying between Harry and sleep was this door. Harry snorted and shook his head. Sleep? Even after he delivered his piece, that luxury would not come for hours.
He grimaced into the empty hallway. “Well. He’s just like you now.”
An orphan. His head hurt.
Finally Harry took hold of the knob and, before he could think about it any longer, gave it a turn. The bolt shifted with a soft squeak. He opened the door, uncertain of what he would find inside.
The room was warm and dimly lit. The draughts of the ancient house had been driven away, and a strange hush enveloped Harry. He paused to let his eyes adjust.
The bed by the far wall was neatly made. Undisturbed. Seemingly innocuous books were piled in droves about the room, in corners, at the foot of the large wing-backed chair in the centre. They were old tomes, cracked with age but well-cared for: Malfoy’s library. So Kingsley and Bill had been successful. Harry tore his eyes from the ancient texts and fixed them on the figure sitting in the chair instead.
Malfoy had bathed sometime during Harry’s venture, combed his hair. He’d not been able to bring himself to see Malfoy since the interrogation. But somehow the cleanliness only mocked them both. Malfoy’s body was sunken in an age and weariness that glared through his softly layered fringe, the fine fingers and pale, scrubbed face.
Harry slipped inside and shut the door behind him. What had once been a fire had guttered into coals, and the glow played over the careworn tapestries. “Malfoy?”
Malfoy didn’t respond; he didn’t move. But his entire frame withered somehow. Harry was suddenly aware of the air in the room: heavy and teetering.
Malfoy turned toward him, as if struggling through a fog across the space between them. The faint light in his eyes faded even as Harry watched, and Harry knew then that nothing needed to be said; Malfoy already knew what the outcome had been. He turned slowly away again, eyes tracking nothing.
“How?”
Harry took a breath and let it out. Rehearsing what he was going to say while walking the dingy halls of Grimmauld was nothing next to standing in front of Malfoy and speaking the words aloud. He clenched his hands and forced them to relax again. “Death Eaters. Got there before we did.”
A drunken nod. Malfoy’s face was like a stone tablet, blank on first glance, but when Harry peered closer, he could see it was etched deeply with lines of strangled emotion. He studied his old rival and saw the end in Malfoy’s eyes. Something tightened in Harry’s chest, and he swallowed against it.
What was he doing? This was no Death Eater sitting before him. Harry didn’t think there had ever really been a Death Eater behind those pale, angled features. This was a man, wrenched from boyhood too early and then draped like a forgotten rag into this overstuffed chair. Left to crumble by the one he had tried to obey. A thought insinuated itself between the others: Harry suddenly remembered the last time he’d seen Draco Malfoy flung aside. Lying in a pool of water in a deserted bathroom, covered in blood, staring at some horror only he could see. Staring up at him. Harry’s stomach lurched. He knelt in front of the chair, clutched at the armrest with one hand, and made a decision.
“You don’t owe me anything, Malfoy. Everything—” He stopped, gesturing weakly. There just wasn’t anything adequate anymore. Not for this. “I won’t make you stay.”
Malfoy didn’t even twitch. Harry wasn’t sure if the other man had heard him. He fought the urge to touch Malfoy’s arm. “You can go... wherever it is you need to go. No one will say a word.”
I’ll make certain of it.
Eyes the colour of slate flickered to his. Harry recognised the expression from that bathroom floor. It was compounded now by what the years had thrown down before Malfoy. A a great gouge had been cut into the fabric of Malfoy’s being. This is what the edge must look like, Harry thought.
Malfoy’s eyes slid away again.
“The wards will be open for departures only tomorrow at six,” Harry said, hating the shiver in his voice. “I can’t give you your wand, but… You go peacefully, and they won’t stop you.”
Harry squeezed the armrest once more, wishing it was Malfoy’s arm instead, and rose to his feet. The door was closed again, with him on the other side this time. Malfoy’s side. Harry breathed deeply and thought of bandages, supplies. Food and water. He wondered about Malfoy’s left arm.
“Thank you.” Two words, spoken with nothing but the barest sliver of life. But even that sliver held sincerity.
Harry looked back over his shoulder. Malfoy was still staring at the wall. There was a shimmer at the edges of his eyes, above the dark smudges underneath. He nodded jerkily, knowing Malfoy would not see, and left the room before the knowledge pressed in on him.
* * *
His night was sleepless. He lay on his back in the earliest hours and sought the familiar cracks in his ceiling, thoughts shifting over that closed door upstairs and the broken person within. A few hours and Malfoy would be gone, as quickly and suddenly as he’d arrived. In all likelihood, Harry would never again lay eyes on the boy—the man—who had made his school days a torment.
Earlier that evening, Sloper had carried on about what he would do to Malfoy, just march up to that room and take care of the bastard. Like you should have done your sixth year. Sloper’s sneer had been uglier than the suffering Harry had walked past in Azkaban. Harry had grabbed him, thrown him against the wall.
If I find that you’ve touched him, Sloper, without my permission—any of you!—you will find yourself on the wrong side of these wards without a wand, and every Death Eater known to man howling down on your head.
Harry rose and stirred up the fire, then sat in his chair to watch the embers disintegrate. As if called forth by a spell, Malfoy’s face took shape in the orange coals. That night… and during the interrogation… and the evening he’d first arrived. Harry shut his own eyes, but even that did not block it out. Not all of the dull glaze during the interrogation had been caused by the Veritaserum. Harry didn’t want to remember the expression on Malfoy’s face, but he’d known then that he would see it in his mind for a long time.
Now, he feared it would be permanent.
Dawn’s rays were strengthening when he left his room at last. Malfoy would be long gone by now. Harry gathered several people and mounted the stairs to the room to retrieve the ancient books.
He opened the door and found Draco collapsed on the floor, his face a deadly shade of white. Every single curse from every one of the one hundred and seventeen spelled tomes had been removed. And it was Hermione’s startled gasp that clenched it for him; McGonagall’s incredulous Why did he do this alone? What possibly possessed him—And Moody’s grim stumping down the stairs and equally grim call for Madam Pomfrey.
Pomfrey had Malfoy moved to the bed, and cast a series of spells over him before finally shutting the door on everyone except Bill Weasley, their most knowledgeable surviving curse-breaker. When the door opened two hours later, Malfoy’s face had been washed clean of whatever agony he’d endured. He slept, arms limp at his sides, cheeks still bloodless in the fire’s glow.
The books were tested and removed to a lower floor for study, and everyone gradually filtered away to whatever their business of the day was. Somehow, Harry could not bring himself to leave the doorway of Malfoy’s room. He remained there for the entire day, until Hermione ushered him away to eat, just watching the rise and fall of Malfoy’s chest under the duvet.
...
Chapter 8
Author:
rurounihimeRating: hard R when all is said and done…
Pairing: H/D eventually
Summary: In the midst of a disintegrating war, Harry awaits the arrival of the Order’s last hope.
Warning: violence, character death, spoilers for all books
Disclaimer: The HP characters and most of the spellwork do not belong to me.
A/N: Thank you to April for her fantabulous beta-ing and to Coffee for her constant feedback and encouragement. The other major pairing in this is Blaise/Seamus, but there are minor het pairings as well.
…
There are two absolutely arresting pieces of artwork for chapter 7 by
lillithium. She has such a way with water colours, and light, and humanity in her art... *sighs longingly* These are so lovely: Draco and Harry (both G, worksafe).
...
**ETA: THIS CHAPTER HAS RECEIVED ITS FINAL EDIT**
Previous chapters
Chapter 7: Soothsayer
Grimmauld Place, 1997
Harry had chosen the shabby gallery for its imposing stature and convenience—few had reason to go there these days—but now, standing in the middle of the room, its vastness felt far too daunting. Harry let his eyes meet Hermione’s where she sat in the second level with the others. She looked exhausted; no wonder, as she’d been out fortifying the wards around the house for the entire day. Ron stood against the wall behind her, arms crossed over his narrow chest. Moody’s beady stare glimmered next to Hermione, the rolling eye for once fixed. Harry could see the tight lines on Minerva McGonagall’s face. The Hogwarts Headmistress sat as straight as a rod, gazing down on the floor and its occupants. She’d come specifically for this, and Harry was grateful.
Beside McGonagall sat Remus Lupin, hands composed in his lap. Even from below, Harry could pick out the new gouges that adorned his cheeks, and the deep circles under his eyes. He spent his full moons alone now. Harry was only beginning to understand the toll that isolation exacted on him. An old pang for Sirius hummed in his chest; he had often wondered how deep that pain bit into Lupin. The loss of a friend, a companion. Perhaps—or probably, when Harry really considered it—more.
But he had nothing to spare for Sirius tonight. Kingsley Shacklebolt’s penetrating gaze lowered from above as well, and Griselda Marchbanks’. The woman’s diminutive stature did nothing to decrease her presence; she gazed down from the upper level with a crooked eyebrow, lips already a thin line. She’d arrived just before Minerva, asking only where they were keeping the “youngest of the Malfoys.” Now, seated stiffly beside Shacklebolt, she exuded an incalculable age into the room.
Harry’s selection of this room had one other purpose. He doubted Malfoy had noticed the large, ancient portraits adorning the walls. Particular ones; some covered over with white sheets, some empty of their occupants. And one on the west wall in the darkness, oft frequented by a familiar, half-moon-spectacled face.
They all had a vested interest in this, and Harry had not attempted to keep them out. Whatever came of it, whatever was spoken under the cold light of truth, it was best they hear it for themselves.
He turned around and focussed again on the task at hand. “When was the last time you were in any sort of contact with your father?”
Draco Malfoy’s eyes had clouded. Their focus was disturbed and milky, like a pond’s surface broken by a pebble. He swung his gaze to Harry and drew a stilted breath. Malfoy had five full seconds to fight his way through the muddle of Veritaserum and begin his answer. Any more than that, and he was resisting the truth too much to ignore. So far, he had met the requirement. As far as Harry could tell—and Moody as well, by his silence—Malfoy had not yet managed to lie.
“Azkaban.” The word fell from his lips like a stone. One slow blink. Malfoy’s chin drooped. “This year, in… in the month of… I don’t know…” A look of pain passed briefly over his face as he struggled with the potion’s effects.
Hermione’s finest. Double the strength.
“The month,” Harry pressed in as flat a tone as he could manage. “What was the month?”
Malfoy opened his mouth and shut it again, and Harry had the intriguing idea that the man was going through the months in his mind, one by one until he found the one that the Veritaserum would allow to pass. “A…April,” he said at last.
“Did he ask you to get him out?”
It was a question he’d already asked twice, one of McGonagall’s, but Malfoy showed no recognition of that fact. His answer came as readily as before. “Yes.”
“Did he ask you to ask us to get him out?”
That one was new, and weak surprise registered on Malfoy’s face. “No.”
“To whom did he wish you to go for help in his release?”
The blond head shook. Harry could see the confusion Malfoy’s answer was causing him, as if the truth were too large or the question a trick. Just as it had when he’d asked it previously.
“He… No… He asked me. I asked him if—Death Eaters—” Malfoy tried again. “He wanted the Ministry to get him out. Or Death Eaters, but not all Death Eaters. Not Voldemort.”
“When did you first consider coming to us for help in his release?”
A spasm wrinkled Malfoy’s forehead. “Not in Azkaban. I thought of you after… afterward.”
“When did you first consider coming to us for help in his release?” Harry repeated slowly.
Malfoy shuddered and again gave up the answer he kept trying to avoid. “When my mother… When I found my mother’s body.”
“Were you present when your mother was killed?” Remus’ question. On the upper level, Remus’ long fingers rested lightly against his chin.
Malfoy sagged in the chair. A tear worked its way slowly from his eye. “No.”
“Where were you?” Another of Remus’.
A second tear joined the first. “Wales. Conwy.”
“From what date to what date?”
“Third… July, 1997. Until…” A small breath. “Four weeks ago.”
“What were you doing there?”
Malfoy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I was hiding. Waiting for the war to end.”
“Why?”
“Hiding from… from Voldemort.”
It was the fourth time through that line of questioning, and the second time Harry had seen tears dewing Malfoy’s face. His answers were the same as they had been. It was enough; he would not have to repeat the questions again.
But there were worse ones coming.
Abruptly he shifted topics. “Are you in league with any Death Eaters?”
If the switch upset him, Malfoy did not show it. “No.”
“Have you ever been in league with any Death Eaters?”
A pause. “Yes.”
Moody’s questions, to be scattered throughout. Details of the cabinet, Severus Snape, even Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom had been put forth already, several times. A fabrication here and there, to judge Malfoy’s knowledge of events. Certain answers came easily; others Malfoy consistently resisted, no matter how many variations of the question were put forth.
Harry was beginning to notice a pattern to the type of question Draco Malfoy tried to avoid. The Headmistress, with her years watching her students, and the most senior Auror had likely seen it as well.
And Madam Marchbanks. The old woman caught Harry’s eye and gave the slightest of nods. Harry chose one of her questions. “You will provide us with the names of the Death Eaters your age.”
Malfoy raised his head and looked at Harry with an awareness that had not been there before. A faint line appeared between his brows. “Vincent Crabbe.”
“Deceased,” Harry countered. “How?”
Malfoy looked away. Shut his eyes as if remembering. “Infernus Hex. Caught and killed in Diagon Alley by Aurors.”
It was not well-known how Crabbe had really met his demise. Only those truly in Voldemort’s confidence, or in the highest ranks of the Order, would know about the ancient wasting spell that had slowly drained Crabbe’s life away. The spell, filled with tracking magic, would have led the Aurors straight to Voldemort, had not the carrier died too quickly. But as far as the public of the Wizarding world knew, Vincent Crabbe had been slaughtered by Infernus in a raid, one of four Death Eaters who tried to burn Diagon Alley to the ground. A trap, set and sprung by the Order, and not peered at too closely by citizens already stretched to their limits. In reality, Crabbe’s debilitating magical illness had burned away with the ashes of his body, far from Diagon Alley in the bowels of the Ministry.
It was not something Harry was proud of, or personally responsible for. But it had its uses, even now; Malfoy had no idea.
“Other names?”
Malfoy slurred into each. Gregory Goyle. Horace Urquhart. Terence Higgs, deceased. Sandra Fawcett, deceased. Adrian Pucey, permanently incapacitated. Millicent Bulstrode.
And there were those who were missing, as Malfoy had been for the past half-year: Daphne Greengrass and Graham Pritchard, fled the country. Marcus Flint, unaccounted for. Tracey Davis, unaccounted for, believed dead. Marietta Edgecombe, fled the country. Montague, disappeared after Calais.
As for those younger than Pritchard, Malfoy could not give names.
“And Blaise Zabini?” Harry asked. “Pansy Parkinson. Theodore Nott.”
Malfoy’s muddled eyes flashed as brightly as the Veritaserum allowed. “They are not Death Eaters.”
Harry glanced up at Madam Marchbanks. She nodded again. Malfoy’s answers—and emotional responses—had not changed.
Marchbanks’ questions continued, along with those that particularly interested Moody and Shacklebolt: What did Voldemort know about the Order presently? When did Malfoy last see Voldemort? Where was Severus Snape?—Minerva and Remus stiffened at that one—What were the details of the Siege of Calais? The attack on Wizarding Bordeaux? The destruction of Muggle Surrey… All attacks that had been inundated with clandestine dealings on both sides, and carried out in secrecy so deep even Harry didn’t know the darkest mysteries about some of them. But it was clear that Malfoy knew even less about the battles’ inner workings; he’d no idea that Bordeaux had fallen at all. And none knew about that save those who had been there to see it cursed into oblivion, as Harry had; the concealing spells were still too well-maintained.
In the shadows on the upper tier, Ron shifted fitfully. Harry made a decision. “Malfoy.”
Malfoy looked at him vaguely. Harry stepped forward, nearly too close for comfort. “Are you involved in a sabotage plot against the Order?”
“I…” Malfoy’s frown was dark and brittle. “Not knowingly.”
There was some stirring in the upper level. Harry narrowed his eyes and moved even closer.
“Does anyone—anyone—know you are here?”
Malfoy watched him, his head tilting slightly away. “I didn’t tell anyone I was coming here. Or planning to come here,” he added after a second.
Harry settled a hand on the arm of Malfoy’s chair, centimetres from his pale fingers. “Does anyone know you are here?” he repeated.
Malfoy’s fingers twitched. A struggle rippled through his irises.
“I don’t know,” he answered at last.
It was the truth, whatever the consequences of such imprecision might be. Perhaps the Death Eaters knew, through no fault of Malfoy’s. Voldemort’s spies were turning up in the strangest places. Or perhaps they knew and it was Malfoy’s doing after all, albeit unwittingly. Harry straightened. “How did you get close to this house?”
“I…” Malfoy licked his lips. “I’m not sure. All I could think of was reaching y—reaching the Order. The outer wards let me through. I felt them, but they let me—”
Harry slashed a hand through the air. “But how did you know where to look?”
The room was deathly quiet. The people above him were holding their breaths. Malfoy’s voice was deafening in the stillness. “It was…”
He was resisting. No matter. Harry already knew what the answer would be.
At last the whisper came. “Snape.”
A gasp or two from up above, but Harry was not surprised. The house was not Unplottable to those who knew just where to look. Those who had helped to make it Unplottable. Those who had been in its rooms, had known its location even under Fidelius. There were certainly new wards to keep Snape out. But the original spell was too deep and too complex, and that sort of magic had no special codes to change. A terrible oversight, as magic went. As for Fidelius, Snape could very well have gotten Malfoy into the right area at some point in the recent past, without breaking his magically bound oaths, and then all Malfoy had to do was wait for someone to come along—for nearly a week, as it had turned out.
It was no use pursuing questions about Snape. It had become clear hours ago that Malfoy had no knowledge of the man’s whereabouts, or even if he were still alive.
Harry went back to Narcissa Malfoy’s death.
No, Malfoy had not known names. Yes, he had considered a possible threat to his family. No, he had never attempted to warn his mother. The slow, painful fall of his face as each question presented itself showed Harry more than enough about what Malfoy’s opinions of his actions were in this matter.
“Describe your mother’s death, Malfoy.”
Utter shock stabbed through the lattice of Veritaserum in those grey eyes, but just as quickly a tangible relief flooded into its place. “I can’t. I wasn’t there to see it.”
Harry leaned forward, cursing himself as he did so. “Do you remember when you saw her dead body for the first time?”
Malfoy stopped breathing. He stared at Harry with slaughtered eyes, and the blood rushed out of his face.
“Yes,” he whispered. Barely. Resisting again.
But Hermione’s brew was the purest and cruelest that Harry had ever witnessed. It allowed nothing to escape. Harry had seen Death Eaters offer up the names of their own children in order to escape its relentless force.
It would never allow Draco Malfoy the dignity of hiding a memory he would rather forget.
“How did she die?” Harry murmured. “Who killed her?”
He could see it in his mind’s eye as Draco answered, in trembling tones that wavered as though they would drown under their own weight. Narcissa’s skin, pale as the moon’s wash, eyes open, as glassy as pools of water. The singe of charred flesh in a smoky room, with the minty hint of the killing spell still hovering. A massive Dark Mark, burned into the silken threads of her nightdress and the flesh of her breast. Delicate fingers curled in a plea.
By the time Malfoy fell silent, the constant catch of his voice sat heavily in the room. Glistening trails wound their way down his cheeks. Harry stared at the wall, seeing Narcissa Malfoy’s twisted body imprinted there.
Even she had not been spared. He’d seen that mark of death before, on the dead bodies of Aurors, on hapless Muggles who’d had no chance in Hades. They’d not known what struck them down, but those that came after, those that saw their burned bodies… They knew. Somewhere inside themselves, they knew.
It aged a person. Harry himself had felt the years creep over him, far too many and too quickly. His innocence, a weak and flailing thing since birth, had long ago given up the ghost and hidden away from all this world’s disturbing offerings. And Malfoy had seen it, too, on his own mother.
Harry looked down, resigning himself to the years he would see in Malfoy’s eyes.
They were not there. Malfoy’s face was still, weary around the edges of his mouth. His lips had parted and there was a tattered looseness to his expression: a need Harry had not seen in years, and never on that face. Some nightmarish dream lay behind his old adversary’s expression, waiting to be banished, explained away into the insignificance of such dreams—
By you, Harry’s mind whispered, he’s waiting for you. And suddenly he knew what he was seeing. It was the last shred of youth Malfoy possessed, asserting itself when experience and callousness had failed to work. It blistered a hole into Harry’s chest. He stuck his hand out, gripped the edge of Malfoy’s chair.
For the first time since the interrogation started, Harry truly loathed what he was doing. He didn’t know if he had the power to wake Malfoy from his nightmares, but it was more than obvious that Malfoy thought he did. The very idea quickened Harry’s pulse. He had succeeded in one thing at least: if any of the others had been down here questioning this man, a far greater number of irrelevant secrets would have been spilled. A greater number of torturous memories. And for what? To satisfy the need to hurt, to discredit Malfoy? To plunge him into utter hopelessness? Some part of Harry’s old schoolmate still clutched onto hope: a father, to be delivered up by the single most unlikely person to help him.
Hope of leaving this house alive.
It was never enough to let a person walk away, still breathing. But it was enough to let him walk away with his dignity intact. Harry was the only one in the room, save Remus, perhaps, who would not be tempted to destroy Malfoy in such a personal way.
Still… he had one other avenue that he felt he must take. He had saved his own questions for last.
He gripped both arms of Malfoy’s chair. Studied the man in silence. And then spoke, when the time was right.
“What happened the last night you were at Hogwarts during sixth year?”
The room went so still that Harry could hear the mansion settling. His question echoed in his ears, and Malfoy’s expression changed once more. It was almost as though Harry could hear the plea in those eyes.
Please. Please don’t ask me that.
Harry turned to look at the upper level. All those listening were staring back at him. He could see the white clutch of Hermione’s fingers around the banister, and knew she was aware of what he was doing. The faces of the older adults were inscrutable. But the accusation in seven pairs of eyes was plain. In the darkness behind Malfoy, something shifted in the shadows of the portrait.
Harry dropped his voice and locked Malfoy’s wide eyes with his. “Just for me, then. Tell me what happened that night. On the roof.”
Malfoy’s answer was so soft, so quavery, that Harry was glad of the void around them. He heard creaking in the balcony as the others leaned over it, but there was no possible way they could hear what Malfoy was saying. Harry heard events he had no need to remind himself of—he would never, ever forget them—and listened the emotions behind the words instead. The fear of a dark master Malfoy had seen only once before… The liberation of a plan finally taking shape. The sheer need to see his father again. To save a mother who would later die, in spite of everything.
The shame… in pointing his wand at the man who had offered him the only solace he would ever know. The shame of hearing such an offer even after threatening murder. The shame of having to tell the truth to him, Harry Potter, when it would only sound like a request from an ungrateful refugee.
Horror as Dumbledore flew over the parapet, as he saw the true work of green light at last, and smelled death’s scent. Staggering relief, that it had not been his wand that had done the deed, but Snape’s.
The betrayal, quick and complete, of finding his efforts had been for nothing in the end.
The scene must have been imprinted on Malfoy’s mind as well; he remembered nearly every detail, and gave them forth with the deathly waver of one who expected to be condemned for his crimes. Perhaps he would have been, had Harry not been there to see the entire event himself.
But there, in that memory, lay the heart of Draco Malfoy’s soul. Somewhere in the midst of it, Harry was at last convinced of his sincerity.
“Thank you,” was all he said. Malfoy stared blankly down at his hands, wallowing in the residual grief. Harry looked up at the others, who had remained oddly silent throughout the final scene.
“We’re finished here.”
Some muttering. Remus, Hermione, and Madam Marchbanks nodded and rose. Shacklebolt and Minerva wore thoughtful expressions, and Ron stared at Harry for a long time before moving to stand beside Hermione. Moody’s magical eye glared down through the gloom at the man slumped in the chair. His grimace was anything but hidden when he got to his feet.
“You ask him, Potter,” Moody growled. “Or I will.”
Harry straightened. The question Moody spoke of had been meant for the entire group to hear, and the answer was not necessary for intelligence or even corroboration. But Harry was no longer willing to let Malfoy struggle for all of them to see. He would be the one to hurt Malfoy, and he would be the only one to hear Malfoy’s resulting humiliation.
“I’ll ask,” he said. “But only for him.”
Moody reluctantly nodded.
Harry leaned close to Malfoy again, so near hat he could see the separation of fine blond strands falling over his ear. His voice shook, just a little. “In Conwy, Draco. Why were you hiding from Voldemort?”
Malfoy’s breathing stuttered. His knuckles go white around the arms of the chair. He had squeezed his eyes shut and his chin was trembling with the effort not to speak.
“Why were you hiding?” Harry whispered again, as soft as rain.
A short gasping exhalation; Malfoy’s throat bobbed. “I was—Potter—”
“Malfoy?”
His eyes opened, clear and ridden with shame. His cheeks and throat were flushed with the heat of it. But he stared straight at Harry, and the words slipped over his tongue like water. “I was a coward. And I couldn’t go to him. I… couldn’t.”
Harry held Malfoy’s watery gaze for what felt like ages. Then, slowly, he nodded.
“Alright.”
* * *
He stood in the corridor outside the third floor chambers, and thought once again about opening the door before him. But he couldn’t even bring himself to grip the cold brass knob.
If this door opened, he would have to walk inside, would have to speak, and destroy something that was already fragile.
Why was this so hard? It shouldn’t be this hard. Harry didn’t give a fuck about Lucius Malfoy. He’d already let go of the image of the man’s body, smouldering in the filth of Azkaban, blank face painted an ugly green by the spells whizzing back and forth. He should not have given a fuck about informing Malfoy of the death of his last surviving family member. It was part of fighting a war, and sadly, Harry had already seen signs that he was becoming used to speaking of death.
But he couldn’t open this door.
The rescue had gone badly. Azkaban had been quiet, nothing but the drip drip of water leeching through limestone, the groans and cries of those still trapped within. The four people on Harry’s team had slunk past many battered cells, felt the clutch of nameless fingers from those locked inside. Harry remembered the pitiful moan of one emaciated creature, male or female, he couldn’t tell, but it had reached for him with a hand that quivered like a leaf. It had croaked his name.
They’d gone on past it.
Lucius Malfoy’s cell stood in the middle of a long passageway, its bars rusted and heavy with moss. Dean had asked no questions, only slithered forward on the floor and shot a stunning spell through the bars to encompass anything lying within. It was the work of a moment to break the steel and slip inside. Lucius lay face up on the ground, covered in the remnants of gold-embossed velvet. He stared dully at the ceiling, but it wasn’t until Harry came forward and snatched up his wrist that he knew.
Lucius Malfoy was dead. His thunderhead irises had clouded, the pupils huge and fixed in the dank light. His flesh held the slimy chill of something left to dampen in the dark. Harry banished the stunning spell with a hissed Finite, but the heat of a body, of life, was gone. Across the chest of the elder Malfoy’s rotted robes, the hideous charred symbol of skull and snake glared fiercely up at Harry. When he touched the ashes, they crumbled and swirled away. But they were still acidic. New.
There was something else out in the darkened hallway. A fifth and fading presence, once human. Malfoy’s filmed eyes stared up at him from the floor. Harry shivered.
It had been a running fight from the prison. Harry cursed himself for not sensing it immediately, but the magic around Azkaban was still too strong. It was the only thing holding the inmates inside, and it had covered up the traces of three Death Eaters. The only saving grace was that it had also covered the signatures of Harry’s group. Complete surprise was the only way to explain the chaos that had followed, and the sloppiness of the Death Eaters. Harry’s team made it out from under the stifling magic unscathed, save one.
Harry pressed his fingers to his temple. As bad as it felt, he was glad it had been Remus, who had volunteered to accompany him, and not one of the two people he had ordered into it. There was too much dissention concerning Draco Malfoy already.
But it was over. Remus would be fine, given a few days rest, and now the only thing lying between Harry and sleep was this door. Harry snorted and shook his head. Sleep? Even after he delivered his piece, that luxury would not come for hours.
He grimaced into the empty hallway. “Well. He’s just like you now.”
An orphan. His head hurt.
Finally Harry took hold of the knob and, before he could think about it any longer, gave it a turn. The bolt shifted with a soft squeak. He opened the door, uncertain of what he would find inside.
The room was warm and dimly lit. The draughts of the ancient house had been driven away, and a strange hush enveloped Harry. He paused to let his eyes adjust.
The bed by the far wall was neatly made. Undisturbed. Seemingly innocuous books were piled in droves about the room, in corners, at the foot of the large wing-backed chair in the centre. They were old tomes, cracked with age but well-cared for: Malfoy’s library. So Kingsley and Bill had been successful. Harry tore his eyes from the ancient texts and fixed them on the figure sitting in the chair instead.
Malfoy had bathed sometime during Harry’s venture, combed his hair. He’d not been able to bring himself to see Malfoy since the interrogation. But somehow the cleanliness only mocked them both. Malfoy’s body was sunken in an age and weariness that glared through his softly layered fringe, the fine fingers and pale, scrubbed face.
Harry slipped inside and shut the door behind him. What had once been a fire had guttered into coals, and the glow played over the careworn tapestries. “Malfoy?”
Malfoy didn’t respond; he didn’t move. But his entire frame withered somehow. Harry was suddenly aware of the air in the room: heavy and teetering.
Malfoy turned toward him, as if struggling through a fog across the space between them. The faint light in his eyes faded even as Harry watched, and Harry knew then that nothing needed to be said; Malfoy already knew what the outcome had been. He turned slowly away again, eyes tracking nothing.
“How?”
Harry took a breath and let it out. Rehearsing what he was going to say while walking the dingy halls of Grimmauld was nothing next to standing in front of Malfoy and speaking the words aloud. He clenched his hands and forced them to relax again. “Death Eaters. Got there before we did.”
A drunken nod. Malfoy’s face was like a stone tablet, blank on first glance, but when Harry peered closer, he could see it was etched deeply with lines of strangled emotion. He studied his old rival and saw the end in Malfoy’s eyes. Something tightened in Harry’s chest, and he swallowed against it.
What was he doing? This was no Death Eater sitting before him. Harry didn’t think there had ever really been a Death Eater behind those pale, angled features. This was a man, wrenched from boyhood too early and then draped like a forgotten rag into this overstuffed chair. Left to crumble by the one he had tried to obey. A thought insinuated itself between the others: Harry suddenly remembered the last time he’d seen Draco Malfoy flung aside. Lying in a pool of water in a deserted bathroom, covered in blood, staring at some horror only he could see. Staring up at him. Harry’s stomach lurched. He knelt in front of the chair, clutched at the armrest with one hand, and made a decision.
“You don’t owe me anything, Malfoy. Everything—” He stopped, gesturing weakly. There just wasn’t anything adequate anymore. Not for this. “I won’t make you stay.”
Malfoy didn’t even twitch. Harry wasn’t sure if the other man had heard him. He fought the urge to touch Malfoy’s arm. “You can go... wherever it is you need to go. No one will say a word.”
I’ll make certain of it.
Eyes the colour of slate flickered to his. Harry recognised the expression from that bathroom floor. It was compounded now by what the years had thrown down before Malfoy. A a great gouge had been cut into the fabric of Malfoy’s being. This is what the edge must look like, Harry thought.
Malfoy’s eyes slid away again.
“The wards will be open for departures only tomorrow at six,” Harry said, hating the shiver in his voice. “I can’t give you your wand, but… You go peacefully, and they won’t stop you.”
Harry squeezed the armrest once more, wishing it was Malfoy’s arm instead, and rose to his feet. The door was closed again, with him on the other side this time. Malfoy’s side. Harry breathed deeply and thought of bandages, supplies. Food and water. He wondered about Malfoy’s left arm.
“Thank you.” Two words, spoken with nothing but the barest sliver of life. But even that sliver held sincerity.
Harry looked back over his shoulder. Malfoy was still staring at the wall. There was a shimmer at the edges of his eyes, above the dark smudges underneath. He nodded jerkily, knowing Malfoy would not see, and left the room before the knowledge pressed in on him.
* * *
His night was sleepless. He lay on his back in the earliest hours and sought the familiar cracks in his ceiling, thoughts shifting over that closed door upstairs and the broken person within. A few hours and Malfoy would be gone, as quickly and suddenly as he’d arrived. In all likelihood, Harry would never again lay eyes on the boy—the man—who had made his school days a torment.
Earlier that evening, Sloper had carried on about what he would do to Malfoy, just march up to that room and take care of the bastard. Like you should have done your sixth year. Sloper’s sneer had been uglier than the suffering Harry had walked past in Azkaban. Harry had grabbed him, thrown him against the wall.
If I find that you’ve touched him, Sloper, without my permission—any of you!—you will find yourself on the wrong side of these wards without a wand, and every Death Eater known to man howling down on your head.
Harry rose and stirred up the fire, then sat in his chair to watch the embers disintegrate. As if called forth by a spell, Malfoy’s face took shape in the orange coals. That night… and during the interrogation… and the evening he’d first arrived. Harry shut his own eyes, but even that did not block it out. Not all of the dull glaze during the interrogation had been caused by the Veritaserum. Harry didn’t want to remember the expression on Malfoy’s face, but he’d known then that he would see it in his mind for a long time.
Now, he feared it would be permanent.
Dawn’s rays were strengthening when he left his room at last. Malfoy would be long gone by now. Harry gathered several people and mounted the stairs to the room to retrieve the ancient books.
He opened the door and found Draco collapsed on the floor, his face a deadly shade of white. Every single curse from every one of the one hundred and seventeen spelled tomes had been removed. And it was Hermione’s startled gasp that clenched it for him; McGonagall’s incredulous Why did he do this alone? What possibly possessed him—And Moody’s grim stumping down the stairs and equally grim call for Madam Pomfrey.
Pomfrey had Malfoy moved to the bed, and cast a series of spells over him before finally shutting the door on everyone except Bill Weasley, their most knowledgeable surviving curse-breaker. When the door opened two hours later, Malfoy’s face had been washed clean of whatever agony he’d endured. He slept, arms limp at his sides, cheeks still bloodless in the fire’s glow.
The books were tested and removed to a lower floor for study, and everyone gradually filtered away to whatever their business of the day was. Somehow, Harry could not bring himself to leave the doorway of Malfoy’s room. He remained there for the entire day, until Hermione ushered him away to eat, just watching the rise and fall of Malfoy’s chest under the duvet.
...
Chapter 8
