InsaneJournal

2.

“Leave him.” Potter took a step forward, then another. “Come with us.” His voice was low and intense. Draco found himself looking into sharp green eyes, made old before their time, and wanted to back away through the wall, to escape from that gaze, that voice. Potter was acting like Draco had a choice, which was so unfair.

He made space between them by sliding along the wall. Probably the best idea, since Potter suddenly looked like he wanted to hit him. “Try anything and I squash the amphibian.”

“You’re not a killer,” Potter said again.

True - but I could be. How dare Potter act like he knew him? Six years ago Potter, arrogant bastard that he was, had thrown Draco’s offer of friendship back in his face - and yet now he was pretending to know him?

“You have no idea what I am.”

“Then show me!”

The memory flickered, and for a moment Draco saw the Dark Lord’s face, split in a rough approximation of a smile. Then Potter was back, well into Draco’s personal space and wearing that earnest wouldn’t-it-be-nice-if-everyone-were-nice expression again. Draco wanted to hex him, just for being so pathetic. Come on - you’re Mad-Dog Potter, the Saviour of the Wizarding World, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, etc, etc, the one even the Dark Lord is secretly afraid of - don’t look at me like you want to have my babies - it spoils the effect!

“I saw a boy like me,” Potter said, and Draco winced, “fighting for his life.”

I am nothing like you. That was what he wanted to say. What he did say was “You don’t fucking give up, do you?” Only when the words were out did he realise that Potter could easily take that as a compliment - or worse, encouragement.

Naturally, being Potter, he took it as both. “I don’t intend to,” he said.

The memory broke up into Lord Voldemort’s laughter. Finally free of that alien presence in his head, Draco hastily put his barriers back up. But not too securely - the Dark Lord might want to have another look. He’d replayed that memory four times already, like flicking through a favourite book for the best bits, and every time it had caused him great amusement.

“So,” he purred, when he finally finished laughing, “Potter thinks he can save you from yourself.” His fingers curled around Draco’s arm, and Draco wished fervently for a nice thick robe - even the one Greyback had ruined - just so he didn’t have to feel those clammy digits against his bare skin. Muggle clothing had its disadvantages. “And he doesn’t intend to give up without a fight. Priceless.”

Draco kept his eyes down while the Dark Lord was speaking - out of respect, of course, nothing at all to do with the fact his lord and master’s appearance made him feel sick to his stomach. “Should this offer be made again, however, it is my wish that you accept.” It was such an outrageous statement that Draco had to look up. “You have deprived me of my most useful spy.” Standing quietly in the corner, Snape inclined his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. “It seems only fair that you should replace him. Potter seems to want you as an ally - even a friend. So be his friend.”

It was at that point Draco started laughing.

*

“Now, you do know what mistake you made there,” Snape said, handing Draco the glass. Draco gulped down the potion and sighed as it worked its magic on his still screaming nervous system. “Lesson learned?”

“Never laugh at any of the Dark Lord’s commands,” Draco said, feeling like a child reciting potion ingredients. “Even in a moment of weakness and hysteria.” He frowned at Snape. “Seriously, though - Potter and I - friends? He hates me. Always has. He was just having one of his saving-the-world moments. It happens quite often, I think. Anyway, the offer won’t be repeated because I plan on staying well away from the Boy Wonder. He’s insane.”

“Two words,” Snape said. “Guess the saying. ‘Pot’ and ‘Kettle’.”

The potion was too nice. Draco couldn‘t even maintain his frown. “Thanks,” he said, but managed no venom. “I appreciate your support.” He leant against the wall, feeling strange sensations. “I know you’re the potions master, not me, but am I supposed to feel as if my brain is spinning around inside my skull?”

Thin fingers gripped his jaw. “Open your eyes.” The command met with, as usual, complete obedience. Draco looked into intense black eyes, Snape much too close, and felt he was a kid again - a kid with his first guilty, impossible crush.

Grow up! The man’s got enough to worry about without you staring at him like a love-struck Hufflepuff.

“Mmm. Just a side effect, I think. This could have been the wrong potion to give you in your, ahem, fragile mental state.”

God, that voice…Chocolate laced with absinthe…

Snape’s face softened slightly, into what could almost have been concern. “What - no obscenity-laded retort?” Concern turned to suspicion. “Draco - I trust you to tell me if you’re having any warm, loving thoughts. We have fully qualified mediwizards -”

“I’m fine!” Just need you to get your hands off me and to get out of my personal space, right now - Snape’s grip tightened and he leaned in closer - or as soon as possible…whenever you like, really…

“This is probably not the best time, but I have important news - and something I need from you…”

Draco was trying to shape his mouth into a reply, any reply, when a voice drawled out, “the important news being me, I hope,” Snape didn’t let go of Draco, but his head spun around, to face the cool, amused gaze of Lucius Malfoy, “not that you’re in mad, passionate love with my son.” His mouth curled into a smile. A smile that didn’t reach his eyes as they flicked over the scene in front of him. “Though, Severus, I suppose, if you really must -”

“Draco continues to bear the brunt of your rather spectacular fall from grace.” Snape stepped smoothly away from Draco, dignity intact, as if pressing his godson up against a wall was a perfectly everyday occurrence. “He has been placed under Cruciatus by the Dark Lord - again - and I was simply taking care of him in the aftermath. And, yes, the important news was your return.”

His dignity was more than intact - it was an almost physical thing, like a cloak hanging from his shoulders. Draco had always admired the man, but now he envied him as he felt the heat rush up to his face. His blushes were - very - infrequent, but spectacular - red blood rushing up to colour white skin could hardly fail to be so; Lucius would notice and be totally appalled.

Great, so the day continues to get better - virtually propositioned by Potter, tortured by the Dark Lord, googoo-eyed over Severus, blushing in front of my father…

Lucius Malfoy looked like a man who had just fought his way out of hell itself. His hair was lank, his skin like paper, new lines scored into his face, and his previously powerful frame was emaciated, too thin for his height and the pride still present in his posture.

Draco wanted to rush over and hug him, but rationalised that strange impulse as the potion talking. He would do no such thing; Lucius would be horrified. He might have survived Azkaban, but the shock of that would surely kill him off. He straightened himself up, pulled himself away from the wall, and inclined his head in a brief, respectful bow. “Father.”

“Draco.” And with two swift, graceful strides, Lucius was in front of him. For a brief panicked moment Draco actually thought the hug would come from him, but his father just caught his shoulders, as if to give him a good shaking, and stared.

Draco met his eyes, imagined the words that could be coming out of Lucius’s mouth at that moment. “Are you all right? I’ve missed you. What kind of fool are you, following me into this?” All easily dismissed as wishful thinking (except for the last - Draco remembered him referring to Voldemort as ‘that mad bastard’ when everyone had believed him dead and his father was feeling particularly let down by the world). But his hands tightened on Draco’s shoulders. Snape coughed slightly, and Draco was suddenly embarrassed by this extreme display of affection. Then Lucius blinked and said, “What are you wearing?”

Draco heard another cough from Snape; this one sounded suspiciously like it was covering a laugh. “Muggle clothes,” he said calmly. Then, just to see Lucius’ reaction: “They’re quite comfortable, actually. If a little chafing, in certain areas.”

“They’re indecent!” Lucius snapped. His face hardened. “Go put some robes on. No son of mine is going to be seen dressed like some deviant.” A look of disgust crossed his face. “I’m not sure I want to ask this, but -”

Draco beamed. “Yes, Father - they came off an actual Muggle. I’ll get disinfected as well, shall I? Oh, and, by the way, Mother’s well. I‘m sure she‘ll be glad to see you.”

That caught him off guard. As Draco turned to go, he saw the outrage on his father’s face soften to something else.

So, the first thing Lucius Malfoy had done on escaping Azkaban was come running to grovel before the Dark Lord, rather than going to his wife. Draco didn’t think badly of his father for it. Family came first, but in times such as these a little grovelling might be all that kept that family from being wiped out.

As he walked along the hall, he felt his spirits lift, and it wasn’t the potion.

*

Harry rolled the quill between his fingertips and tried to remain calm. And polite. Very polite. “I did come straight here - that should count for something.” Sitting beside him, Tonks gave his shoulder a small squeeze, a squeeze that said, you’re doing well, keep going.

Scrimgeour peered at him from beneath bushy brows. “Yes, of course, and Auror Tonks here is very firm on the fact that you were acting in self-defence,” the Minister frowned at Tonks, who gave him a cheery smile back, “but the fact is that, however powerful a wizard you are becoming, you are still underage. And the Ministry can’t allow the most useful asset we may have in the war against -”

“Look,” Harry interrupted, knowing he sounded rude and very far from calm, “I understand you want to keep me safe. But it’s a only a week until my birthday. Then I’ll be an adult and legally allowed to do magic when I like and put myself in whatever danger I like.”

“You’d be extremely safe in Ministry custody. Safe for as long as we like.”

“Lock me up and you might as well give Voldemort the Ministry!” Everyone in the room gave a collective flinch; Scrimgeour seemed to have developed a facial tic. Harry was actually dropping Voldemort’s name as much as possible now, out of pure bloody-mindedness. “I’m not an asset, and I’m not some weapon to be kept safely locked away until needed and then rolled out and pointed at the enemy!”

“No - you’re an underage boy with a over-inflated ego and a knack for recklessly endangering yourself and others!”

Tonks gasped, but Harry found himself smiling. Well, at least that was out in the open. Wonder what he really thought of Dumbledore? Probably the same thing, minus the ‘underage boy’ bit.

On his other side, Arthur Weasley coughed as discretely as he was capable. “Harry could return with me to the Burrow until his birthday. If you lend me Tonks, I’m sure she’ll be capable of preventing any more, um, ‘reckless endangering’.”

“She hasn’t been doing such a good job so far,” Scrimgeour growled. Then he sighed and ran his hands through his mane of hair. “Just get him out of my sight, Arthur - and please try to keep him out of trouble. As much as I hate the fact, we need him.”

“’He’ is right here!” Harry said, but he couldn’t put much venom into it. Scrimgeour, always so tough and capable, looked old. “The war not going well?” he asked as the three of them left the Minister’s office.

Mr Weasley sighed. “About as well as can be expected. This is civil war, Harry, The Death Eaters are not an outside threat to be rallied against. They’re among us. And speaking of Death Eaters, your attempt to ’convert’ the Malfoy boy…”

“I know, I know - it was stupid.” Harry felt embarrassed just thinking about it.

“Not stupid - kind-hearted.” Mr Weasley smiled at him, and Harry flinched. ’Kindness’, he felt, had had very little to do with it. “I’m sorry you failed - though hardly surprised. That family is poison.” He looked about, frowning. Harry watched a couple of scrolls fly past above his head. The interdepartmental memos were definitely getting weightier. A rather harassed-looking Ministry witch came marching down the hall after them, her arms filled with more scrolls. “Now, where are Ron and Hermione? I told them to wait right here. Ron knows not to go wandering off at the Minis-”

He was cut off as the witch collided with him. Scrolls bounced off the floor at Harry’s feet. Some took off back into the air. “Oh, Arthur, I’m so sorry!” She made a grab for the escaping parchment. “I don’t know what’s happening - they seem to be trying to re-file themselves.”

Harry and Mr Weasley did their best to help catch them. The scrolls ducked their desperate grabs, wriggled free from clutching fingers, and smacked their would-be captors in the head. Formidable opponents. Harry was just starting to enjoy himself when Hermione came around the corner and, with a slightly irritated expression, whipped out her wand and froze them all in mid-air.

“Here, let us help.” Harry noticed Ron’s scowl as his friends joined the party. He also thought he saw Hermione slip a couple of the scrolls discretely into her bag. She caught his eye and gave him a big smile. It was the supposedly-reassuring smile she always gave Harry when she thought he was about to kick off over something, and now it didn’t reassure him at all. Was there some reason for him to get angry?

He drew her to one side. “Is this anything to do with you?” he asked.

“It was nothing. Just the variation of Accio the Ministry use for filing reports, and all I did was search confiscated items inventories and raid reports for any leads on the cup and the locket. We need something to start with, Harry, otherwise we’re starting this quest in the dark.”

Harry glanced at Ron. He was still scowling and pointedly ignoring Hermione. “Some of those scrolls came from my father’s office.”

“Not really surprising, really - he did go on a lot of raids before his promotion. Looks like Malfoy Manor got searched nearly every other month -”

Ron looked over at his father, who was laughing with Tonks and the Ministry witch. “He could get into trouble over this.”

“Everybody here’s already in trouble!” Hermione snapped. “Do you really think a few old reports matter when the Death Eaters could attack any minute?”

Ron glared. Harry told himself that they enjoyed arguing, they really did, and he shouldn’t interfere, but… “Look - could we just save this for later?”

Hermione looked at him thoughtfully. “I suppose it has been a hard day for everyone.” Harry tensed. He’d never been good at divination, but he suddenly knew what she was going to say next. She’d tried to bring up the subject three times already, in just four hours. And, yes, there it was - the head to one side, the look of kindly curiosity… “Do you think Ma-”

“AND I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT FUCKING DRACO MALFOY!”

Silence fell as everyone in the corridor turned to stare at Harry. Hermione blinked, then smiled, her eyes twinkling. “No, neither do we. Really.”

Harry reran the sentence through his head. Oh, god - why can’t the floor just open and swallow me up? “Kill me, please.”

“Put any more pictures like that into my head and I will,” Ron said. He shuddered. “With pleasure.”

*

He climbed through a half-ruined archway, following the sound of the sea, a thousand ancestral voices murmuring protest at the colonisation of their great fortress by half-breeds and wizards of impure blood. Of which the Dark Lord was one, if the rumours Draco had heard were true.

Which means, Most Powerful Living Wizard or not, he has weakness built into him.

Draco blinked in the moonlight, extinguished the light of his wand, and clambered out of the cave’s mouth onto the beach.

From the first time his parents had brought him to the castle, as a small child, this had been his favourite spot. Found by accident while his father had been checking the power of the ancient wards, Draco had spent hours splashing about in the waves and exploring the caves, until Lucius had found him and curtly informed the happy six-year-old that they were not on a trip to the seaside.

Draco looked up at the castle, the dark walls crawling along the line of the cliff tops. “This is our family,” his father had said, “this is what we were, what we still are even after centuries of soft living. This place kept our family safe and strong through half a millennia of war and persecution. Enjoy the comfort and luxury of the Manor, of the townhouses, the villas and the lodges, but never forget - this is where we came from. Our blood is bound into its very stones. Show some respect.”

Draco hadn’t played on the beach on subsequent visits.

Respect. And then he hands it over to the Dark Lord for headquarters.

The castle hated its new occupants. If a place could have a soul and a mind of its own, this had. More Death Eaters had disappeared - died? - here than had been taken by the Aurors in the years since the Dark Lord’s return. Yet another thing for which the Dark Lord would blame Lucius Malfoy.

Draco took off his boots, felt the sand beneath his toes and tried to feel the joy he had had as a child in this place. He watched the white horses in the surf glow silver in the moonlight and hoped his father’s return would mean an upturn in the family’s fortunes.

If the Dark Lord was defeated now, he was sure Lucius would find some way to turn it to their advantage. But if he continued to rise, the Malfoys were doomed. Draco could see it sometimes in the way Voldemort looked at him, at his mother, the glint of rage in his eyes when the elder Malfoy’s name was mentioned. He hates us. Not just for the loss of some stupid prophecy, but just because we are what we are. What he can never be.

When he ceased to enjoy Britain’s oldest Pureblood family grovelling at his dirty Half-blood feet, or if any of them looked like a threat to his power - which, by their very nature and his, they automatically were - then he would kill them.

And the worst thing was, there was absolutely nothing they could do about it. The die was cast, loyalty had been pledged. All the Malfoys could do was continue to be useful.

And stick together, because sure as hell no one else will help us.

“We can protect you, your mother - even your father if he wants it -”

Draco shook his head. Protect us, Potter - you and whose army? Not the Ministry’s, certainly. That he was even thinking about Potter’s mad promises showed how limited his options had become.

No - stay useful. Father will think of something. He always does.

The moon was waning, well into it's last quarter, but his arms tingled in its light. Perhaps later in the month it would burn him, and he would find out the true extent of Greyback’s contamination. Snape wouldn’t talk about it with him, but perhaps he would tell Lucius - and what an interesting conversation between old friends that would be.

Draco’s face burned again, and this time the weakness couldn’t be blamed on a potion. Perhaps he should have just surrendered to Potter, to save himself Lucius’s shame and disappointment.

He froze as he heard the sound of voices overhead - a shouted comment and a bark of laughter. Death Eater patrol, checking the boundaries of the wards. Not good. Draco shrunk down against the rocks, aware of how exposed he was, of how sharply his black robes must contrast against the white sand. He quickly ran through possible excuses for being out of the castle. For once his family’s reputation worked against him - no Death Eater who had fought alongside Lucius Malfoy would buy ’a walk to clear my head’ as a reason for his son to be lurking out by the wards…the wards only a Malfoy could modify or take down…

The solution came to him the very moment he spotted the broomsticks and their riders, patches of deeper darkness in an already dark sky, only their movement betraying their position , and realised that they were heading down towards the beach. Sure, his hood was down, but there were other blond Death Eaters, and surely his features wouldn’t be recognisable from that distance, even on this clear night.

Don’t let them catch me, get back to the castle, get an alibi and see about incriminating someone else - simple…

Or not. He heard a shout from the riders, words whipped away by the wind but the tone of command clear. The bastards didn’t even wait to see if he’d obey before attacking; Draco dived out of the path of a stunning spell and saw the sand fly up in a cloud full of dancing red sparks as the spell hit the ground and he started running.

More shouts as he ducked into the caves, bare feet slipping on slick rock. The thick fabric of his robe caught around his wand as he tried to pull it free, and he found himself wishing he’d kept the Muggle clothes. Indecent as they were, they allowed for a much quicker draw.

The darkness in the cave was absolute. Draco groped along the wall until the surface beneath his fingers changed from natural rock to magically-cut stones. Then he forced himself to pause, calling up the layout of the vaults and passageways in his head as he listened for the sounds of pursuit. For a moment all he could hear was his own panicked breaths and the blood thundering in his ears. Might as well call up a light, really - his heart beat alone sounded loud enough to betray his position.

Then he heard it - heavy boots on stone. Light reflected off the cave’s dripping walls - light that got brighter and brighter. Draco pulled up his hood and tried to stop his wand hand from shaking. It would be firm as a rock when the actual time for action came - that flight-or-fight reflex was very useful. Even if it was very firmly veering towards flight at the present moment…

The light abruptly blinked off.

Any second now -

Draco blocked the stunning spell and returned it with one of his own. Even as he heard the unmistakable sound of a heavy body hitting the floor and was blinking away the spots of colour dancing across his retinas in the aftermath of the exchange, his brain pointed out something he’d seen as the red flash of his stunner had briefly lit the cave, something that he should have remembered… There had been two Death Eaters -

“Petrificus Totalus.” The words were a whisper, a brush of air across the back of his neck, and he was falling, muscles rigid and will useless.

*

The game was over. Finito. Lost. Draco had been found out by the wards, and had tried to escape, taking down a fellow Death Eater in the process. The Dark Lord’s view of possible traitors was that they were all guilty until proven innocent, and Draco had just done a marvellous job of not proving himself innocent. He wanted to scream, to curse the unfairness of it all, but unfortunately a full body bind was just that - full. Even his vocal chords refused to work.

Pain shot through his fingers as his wand was prised from his rigid grasp. Then hands were on his body, rolling him over. He looked up at the man standing over him and felt not fear, but a sharp pang of disappointment.

It was like a disease, infectious and out-of-control, its visible signs not a rash but a black, living brand, its symptoms a fever of the brain that made sane people follow a madman, and it was striking down student after student of the House Draco had loved and been proud to be part of. How else to explain it? The Flints were not a politically-minded family, and Marcus had never shown any interest in anything but Quidditch at Hogwarts (which was fortunate, since it was all he was good at), yet here he was. Definitely not playing pro-Quidditch for the Wasps; definitely holding a wand to Draco’s head.

“Fast work, Malfoy,” he said. “Your daddy’s been back for just a few hours and you’re already scheming and back-stabbing. You people just can’t do loyalty, can you?”

Draco had met very few people whose glare could truly be likened to a physical thing, felt as well as seen - his father was one, Snape another, and Potter, damn him - but Flint was doing his best to emulate them, eyes intense, his expression hard.

He dropped to his knees with a suddenness that would have made Draco jump if he’d been able. “Even at school, you never played for the team, only for yourself and your own glory. I’ve never met anyone more selfish in my entire life.”

I was a Seeker, was what Draco would have said if he could. Seekers aren’t team players - just look at Krum at the World Cup. Besides - you were a Slytherin! How can you talk about selfishness as if it’s a bad thing… But all he could do was stare up at Flint. And whimper internally as rough fingers brushed over the skin of his face. Flint wrapped one strand of bright hair around his finger and frowned. And Draco remembered more about those Hogwarts Quidditch matches.

Bellowed recriminations or self-congratulatory speeches - Flint could always be stopped mid-lecture by Draco stripping off for the shower. The older boy’s open-mouthed stare, his mouth opening and shutting but no sound coming out, like a overgrown goldfish, had amused Draco, as had his obvious frustration. Secure in the fear evoked by his family name, and in his own youthful ignorance, he’d actually found it funny.

He didn’t now.

Flint stood up and pointed his wand. A flash of red light later and Draco was free to move. He used his newfound freedom to scramble back, to put some distance between himself and his captor.

“Stop.” Draco focused on the glowing tip of Flint’s wand and did as he was told. His mind was whirling. If Flint had been going to take him straight to the Dark Lord, then he could have done it without releasing him. So he wanted something. And thought he was cunning enough to get it. But giving Draco back his ability to move and talk was a big mistake. If he needed a wand to turn a situation to his advantage, then he couldn’t truly be a Malfoy. “What were you doing down there? If you were tampering with the wards, who were you trying to let in?”

When the truth’s unbelievable, tell the most believable lie… “No one. I was trying to let myself out.” Draco let his voice falter and made his eyes wide and scared. It didn’t take much acting. “I was running away. This place…the Dark Lord…I’m scared, Flint.” Flint’s lip curled in contempt. “You stopped me, but you don’t have to tell the Dark Lord…I’ve g-got gold…p-precious things…” It was probably a bit of overkill, but he surged to his knees and caught hold of Flint’s robes. “Please - I’ll give you all of it. We can pretend this never happened.”

“You think gold solves everything, don’t you?” Flint sniffed. “Some people can’t be bought so cheaply.”

But everyone can be bought. The big idiot hadn’t tried to shake Draco off, and he was within easy reach of his wand. He had a half a mind to grab it, and he would’ve too, if he hadn’t still been having difficulty with the Killing Curse. Flint was too thick to continue living. Swallowing his contempt with difficulty, Draco put extra pleading into his eyes. Flint smiled.

“Perhaps it would be best if this was forgotten,” he said cheerfully. “Can’t have one of our oldest families wiped out over a moment of weakness, can we? I’m sure we can work something out. Get up.” Draco did, and waited - “Lose the robe.” Inwardly, Draco sighed. No subtlety, no sophistication - how exactly had Flint managed to get into Slytherin? Bribery? Could you bribe a hat? And all that talk of loyalty - surely he had to be a Hufflepuff?

Outwardly, he blinked in bewilderment. Flint glared again. His fingers twitched on his wand. “Take. Off. Your. Robe,” he said, biting off each word as if it offended him. “Strip. I’m sure you remember how.”

“You want to -” Draco screwed up his face, as if trying to find a word suitable for his oh-so-delicate Pureblood lips. Scared as he was, he actually found himself enjoying himself. Technically, every day he lived amongst these people he stretched his acting muscles, but not like this. This was fun.

Flint lunged. With a hand gripping his hair and dragging his head back, and a wand point digging into his arched neck, Draco decided that yes, this might be fun, but it was flying-by-the-seat-of-your-pants-through-a-thunderstorm, potentially hazardous fun and should probably be ended as quickly as possible. He fumbled for the fastenings of his robe and started to babble.

“But it’s so dirty in here, and so dark, and wet, and dirty, and…there’s somewhere better, further into the caves…it’s dry, and there’s lights…great torches…and somewhere to, um, lie down…”

It occurred to him that maybe Flint would like the idea of the dirt and darkness, of taking him up against the wall in a filthy cave. In which case, he’d have no choice but to knee him so hard in the balls they’d lodge in his stomach. Undignified, but very satisfying…

Flint laughed. “God, Malfoy, you’re such a girl. Ok - we’ll go to your ‘somewhere better’.” His expression changed. “But if you’re trying to get out of this -”

“I’m not.” Could add something like “I’ve wanted you since school,” but I doubt even I could make that convincing.

So Draco led Flint further up into the maze of passageways beneath the castle. Flint kept his wand trained at Draco’s back, but he couldn’t help looking around curiously. Not even the Dark Lord had been down there - he suspected the tunnels existed, but hadn’t been able to find the entrance. Yet another reason to kill Flint.

When they entered the Lower Hall, the magic sensed Draco’s presence and the torches all burst into life. He heard the gasp behind him and smiled. It was impressive. His ancestors had certainly known how to put on a good show.

Carved out of the stone was a room the size of the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but this place wasn’t for eating and drinking, even though the centre of the room held what seemed to be a stone table. Crowded around it were all the lords and ladies who had held the castle. Statues, of course, though they did look awfully lifelike in the flickering torchlight.

“Who -?”

“My ancestors,” Draco said calmly, walking towards the table. “They can’t have liked portraits in those days.”

“You want me to fuck you in front of your ancestors?” Flint looked distinctly uneasy. “Malfoy, that’s…kinky.” He spun around, wand pointed at the motionless statues. “Something moved! Something fucking moved!”

Draco sighed. “Yes,” he said, as the statue beside Flint creaked into movement, “they do that sometimes.” He leaned against the edge of the table, which really looked more like an altar than a table, but he wasn’t going to think uncharitable thoughts about his ancestors while there were so many present.

There was the popping sound of small bones breaking, and Flint cried out. Draco forced himself to look up. The statue - Lady Cornelia, he noted - had Flint’s wand hand gripped firmly in slender stone fingers. The wand itself was on the floor.

“Malfoy, please! Do something.”

“Ever had that experience where someone’s portrait takes a dislike to you and starts screaming?” Draco examined his nails. This bit was not going to be fun. “Well, think of it as just like that.”

“Malfoy!”

In the end, he watched, because he felt he owed Flint that much. After all, he had been a Slytherin and a fairly good Captain, even if he had had a tendency to blame Draco for every Gryffindor win.

Then he was sick behind the altar - and he couldn’t even think of it as a table anymore. His ancestors had used some seriously Dark magic. The table was an altar and Draco had just killed Flint in cold blood. It didn’t matter if he hadn’t touched him, or that the statues had just been doing what they were made to do. Draco was as responsible for Flint’s death as if he’d used Avada Kedavra. He told himself to feel triumph, or satisfaction, or at the very least, relief, but all he felt was cold. Cold to the bone.

The practical part of Draco said Go - get back up the castle and establish yourself an alibi - the Dark Lord will be suspicious when Flint and partner don’t return from patrol. In fact, speaking of the partner - why don’t you just go and kill him? That’ll be nothing after what you’ve just done. But the practical Draco was over-ruled. No, he’d just stay here, wrapped in his own shaking arms.

A shadow fell over the altar, and the surge of panic Draco felt was almost a relief. As he stood, heart pounding, he felt alive. Terrified, but alive.

One statue stood before the altar, blood-splattered but motionless. He recognised it as one of the oldest - Lady Evadne, the rather formidable witch who, so family legends said, had founded both the Malfoy line and this castle. Evadne the Fair, Evadne the Wise, Evadne the Terrible…

The statue had its arm out towards him, and, held delicately in fingers capable of crushing it into splinters, was his wand.

He reached out to take it, slowly, half expecting the statue to move, to do to him what it had to Flint. Crumbling around the edges and thick with centuries of dust, arms splattered with Flint’s blood, this effigy of Evadne no longer looked Fair, but it was certainly Terrible.

His fingers touched the wand.

Blood traitor. Half-breed. Coward. The voices cried out both in his head and in the stale air of the cavern, hundreds of them, thunderous in their condemnation. As Draco wrenched his wand free and fled, one rose above the others, a woman’s voice, both pleading for salvation and offering it.

Free me. Free me and save yourself.

*

Harry woke with pictures of cups and lockets dancing through his mind. He blinked in the candlelight and tried to put his thoughts in order. He was at the Burrow, and he’d fallen asleep while reading one of the reports; his cheek rested on parchment, now decorated with added drool. The dream…had actually been a pleasant change, created by his own thoughts and feelings rather than Voldemort’s. He had been on his broom, chasing snitches that transformed into images of the two known Horcruxes.

A picture of Hufflepuff’s cup with tiny fluttering wings slipped into his head, and he found himself smiling as he forced himself to sit up and stretch. The dream was already fading from his memory, as normal, non-Voldemort influenced, dreams usually did, but a few details remained. Malfoy had been in it, Harry recalled, though how and why he couldn’t remember.

Not that it mattered. Beating Malfoy to snitches of whatever shape had been an enjoyable part of Harry’s life for a long time, and he’d certainly been thinking about the guy enough that day - small wonder he’d found his way into Harry’s dream. Hermione would probably have something to say about it, but then Hermione seemed to have plenty to say on the whole subject of Malfoy. Too much to say. Harry just wanted to forget the whole thing had ever happened.

I was just trying to do what Dumbledore would have wanted. It’s a simple enough explanation - why won’t anyone except it? I don’t want to be interrogated about my ‘belief in redemption’ - I don’t even know if I have one. Besides, does being a total git mean you automatically need redeeming?

A light snore drew Harry’s attention away from his own thoughts and into the physical world. Ron had fallen asleep on his bed surrounded by parchments. Someone - possibly Hermione, before she’d retreated to her own room - had drawn the bedcovers up over him.

The sight of him made Harry realise how much he needed his own bed. As he huddled down beneath the covers and slipped into sleep, he dreamt once again of flying cups and pale hair streaming back in the wind.