Violently/Endgame

[heidi]

A Surfeit of Curses - Chapter 11
Violently


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Completely untouchable, I knew no surprises
Wrapped in a cold world of my own devising
But I heard you smashing and swinging hard outside
Saw your face and I nearly died.

Harry Potter had died.

Harry Potter was dead, at the Manor. He lay crumpled on the ground in the garden, on the dirt, surrounded by Death Eaters, guarded by the Dark Lord.

He was dead and there was nothing Draco could do. There was nothing Draco could even think, his mind was awhirl with surprise. He'd stood and watched and saw the flash of green light, brighter and yet darker than it had been in Dark Arts class, and heard through the distance the swirl and scream of Potter’s spirit and magical essence as they were ripped from his body. Draco’s heightened attention to magic while he was in this astral state let him see the affect of the Avada Kedavera, and it looked different than it had in class. He could see the spell move from the Dark Lord’s wand and suffuse Potter in its green shimmer, then cut him down like a knife.

As Potter dropped, the green shimmer slammed to the ground with him, illuminating the grass with its terrible glow. Within an instant, the blades all crumpled around Potter; they died as he did. A sharp snapping noise began to hammer into Draco’s head, rhythmic and terrible.

It was applause. Potter hadn’t fully fallen yet, but the men who stood around him were clapping. Even Lucius set the torch he carried into the air, where it stood upright and unmoving, and slapped his palms together with the rest. The suddenness of the sound ripped the last of his concentration from his mind and the Projection ended sharply, unexpectedly, whipcording him through nothingness for those long and instantaneous moments until…


The moon was shining bright through the clear roof and in the darkness, the stars were sparkling merrily. The universe looked as if nothing about it had changed.

He was wrapped in softness and warmth, cocooning him around the chill that seemed to sit within his very bones and his soul. Someone must have come in and tucked him under a blanket in his bed in Eze. When he hadn’t moved in his dreamstate, had someone just thought he was in a deep sleep? Or had Narcissa been sent in to find him? For one moment he hoped as he never had before that it had been Narcissa, even though the comfortable bedding was very unlike her; she already knew what he was. Lucius would be furious if he had foolishly left his body unguarded during a Projection, and allowed his aunt or uncle to learn of his talent.

Draco caught himself before he finished that thought. Lucius had seen him there. Lucius would know that he’d watched Potter’s assassination. And the Dark Lord likely knew it as well – if he didn’t now, Lucius would certainly tell him posthaste. Any anger Lucius would have about an inadvertent disclosure to Charles or Shera would certainly be overwhelmed by his likely reaction to the events at the Manor that evening.

He’d hit the point of numbness, though his mind was finally starting to accept that what he’d seen had really happened. Foremost among his thoughts was the realization that Lucius could throw him under de facto house arrest for what had happened that night, or actually follow through on those “I’ll banish you and get myself a new family” threats that he’d made over the years. Or he might do the unexpected; it wouldn’t be the first time that Draco anticipated dramatic repercussions for something and found himself facing no obvious anger from Lucius at all. There was no way to predict which response he’d get this time; he hadn’t studied enough divination, and anyway, couldn’t take time to try and find out.

He certainly couldn’t just sit there with this terrible knowledge and this sick feeling in his stomach. He couldn’t sit with his mind blank and run through his usual evening routine of mental exercises and convince himself that he’d witnessed nothing of consequence and wait for Lucius and whatever consequences he brought.

No, that wasn’t something he could do. He knew that.

A glimmer of reason began to poke at the haphazard thoughts in his head. Someone must be told. If he knew anything about Lucius and about the Prophet, within a day the papers would be filled with the news that Harry Potter had been killed by the Dark Lord. That Potter had not fought, not protested, not shown the slightest glimmer of bravery, that he’d just sat on the grass and watched that wand point at him and listened to those words – the last words he’d ever hear.

Did he hear me scream, Draco wondered. Did he notice I was there? What did he think? What did he think of me?

There was nothing he could do for Potter now. He was dead, his spirit trapped in that twisted piece of wood that had killed him. And the world wouldn’t necessarily be a horrible place if he was gone; certainly school would be less frustrating without his smarmy attitude and pompous self-importance. But if Potter had been killed, the logical side of his mind insisted, that meant that those who were close to him might be in danger too. And they’d also probably be upset to hear that he’d been killed.

Lucius was probably even now planning some banner headline in the paper, proclaiming the Dark Lord’s victory over The Boy Who Lived, shaking the foundation that the world had balanced on for over a decade. Nobody would know until Lucius allowed them to know.

She couldn’t find out that way.

Without even thinking about it, without making sure he had the energy for the jaunt he hoped to make, the world around Draco dissolved into blackness and he felt twisted on a whipcord for such a long second. In this travel, he felt just how exhausted and drained he was, and this terrible doubt nearly consumed him. He fought it, somehow knowing that if he gave in, not only would he never tell Hermione about what he’d seen, he’d probably not even make it back to his room. And in fighting, his mind filled with thoughts of Hermione, head bent over her books, hair pulled into that band’s tight embrace, focused and surrounded by a shimmer of concentration, almost framed like a picture with a border of wood.

His thoughts were so full of that image, it took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t just thinking of her; he was looking right at her as his legs dangled in midair and he leaned on a window sill. This must be Gryffindor Tower, he reasoned; only Hermione would study on a clear summer night when she’d had all day to spend with her books.

Draco watched as she sat not fifteen feet from him, picking her head up and looking into the fire crackling merrily in the fireplace. The flames reflected their red glow on her face, the same bright colour that filled and lined the room. Even though he really didn’t need to, he eased himself over the windowsill as she yawned and stretched her arms, her whole being as relaxed as he’d ever seen her.

“I’m going to ruin that.” He heard his own voice echo in the room, crashingly loud over the soft shift of wood in the fireplace. Hermione jumped.

“Draco?” She stood and turned in one simple motion and with a thought he was across the room, close enough to touch her hand if he’d been able to. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be in France?” All of a sudden, she looked nervous, as if she could see the news he brought etched onto his face.

His mouth twitched nervously; he was more afraid of saying what he’d come here to say than he’d ever been when facing Lucius, or even Narcissa. He’d certainly watched people become devastated before; Lucius had him observe as he fired people or ruined careers, had shown him photos taken of crime scenes and battlegrounds where the faces of the witnesses moved from living ordinary lives into chaos. But he’d never known any of the people in the photos, and he’d never cared about any of the lives that he’d watched Lucius crush – not with any great sincerity, at least. Those who lost their jobs were incompetent The minor Ministry officials who were bribed, then exposed, were spineless and silly. The crime victims were poor, the soldiers went into battle willingly and Muggles were inherently weak.

This was personal. “I think you should sit down,” he advised with a bit of hesitation as he spoke the words. He didn’t know how to say what he’d come to say.

“I’ll stand,” she replied suspiciously.

“But I can’t catch you if you faint,” he said, knowing the words were stupid as he spoke them.

“I won’t faint, Draco, nothing could be that bad.” She held up her fingers and began listing things that Draco was sure she thought were impossible. “I’ve had a note from my parents, Ron is at the sea with his family, McGonnagal and Snape are in the castle, Dumbledore is off at a late supper with his brother in Inverness and Harry…”

“Potter’s dead.”

“What did you say?”

“I saw…” His voice was shaking. He wasn’t upset, not really, but… “I saw the Dark Lord kill him, not even an hour ago... He killed Harry,” using his first name in hopes of explaining so she would understand. Her face was frozen in surprise as he babbled about the circle of hooded men who watched and the tall, dark man who killed.

He paused and was sure she was going to burst into tears or even simply faint. He expected to see her eyelids flutter, her posture waver, her body swoon. He didn’t expect her to burst into whoops of laughter, but after watching her for a moment, he realized that she was quite hysterical, and there was nothing he could do. While she bent over at the waist, held her hands over her mouth and finally collapsed into a chair, he could do nothing but murmur platitudes that he wasn’t even sure she heard. Then, she sat down suddenly, all of a heap upon a stool in front of the fireplace, and continued laughing bitterly as though she would shake herself to pieces.

Before she had even regained her composure, she fought to speak. “He… can’t… be… dead…” she gasped as she caught her breath. “It’s… not… possible…”

“But I saw it, I…” He’d explain the details later, make her understand that he couldn’t have stopped it. Hermione was making so much noise with her hysterical chokes and gurgles that Draco wished he was able to reach for her and apply salts and sal volatile to quiet her, the way he’d done with Narcissa when a fit of anger made her collapse onto a chaise.

“No… I… mean…” She took one deep breath and looked up into his eyes, then spoke in a perfectly conversational tone. “I mean it really is impossible.”

“I saw the curse!” Draco insisted as he locked his eyes onto hers. “You have to believe me, I wouldn’t lie about this.” Was she delusional? Her face looked frozen.

She stood up from her place and moved to the side, her expression transforming into something he couldn’t quite comprehend. She was serene and completely focused. When Narcissa got hysterical or flew into a temper, her eyes would get glassy and her shoulders would tense and her hands would become fists or claws. Hermione looked nothing like that.

“Look in the fireplace, Draco.” She pointed into the fire and he saw there, suspended amid the flames, the head of Harry Potter.

~~~~~~~~~

“I can’t understand any of this,” Harry said, swiveling his head past the flames that licked his ears, by turns glaring at Draco and goggling at Hermione. “Hermione, are you trying to tell me that it makes perfect sense to you that Malfoy here would think he saw his father kill me – kill me – and then rush here to tell you this? I’m not even sure how he’s here – what is this, Malfoy, some new Dark art?”

“It’s not a Dark art, it’s a fucking skill, Potter. Not that you’d know about anything like that, cheating your way through the Tasks like you did.” Draco was on his feet, yelling into the fire as if he wanted to grab Harry by the collar and punch him. Hermione was angry at Harry too, but for a different reason. Why was Harry acting suspicious of Draco’s ability to Project, when he could do almost the same thing himself?

It was a very different attitude from the concerned and solicitous one Draco’d had upon appearing at Hogwarts ten minutes before. Hermione has tried to get the preliminaries out of the way quickly, explaining to Harry that she and Draco had studied together for Arithmancy class, and no, she’d never sight, she’d motioned to Draco to not argue when she minimized the time they’d spent working together and completely neglected to mention the time they’d spent together that summer.

She’d always known that Harry would eventually find out. But in all the scenarios that had danced through her mind, not one of them included a setup like this one. If there was one good element in all of this, it was that Ron wasn’t around for this endgame.

Both boys had been reasonably quiet during her first round of explanations, but the flurry of insults they’d started lobbing didn’t show any sign of subsiding. It was partially her fault, she knew. Draco didn’t really know anything about Harry as a person, and had heard years of lies and slander from his father about him; she knew he hated Harry. And Harry didn’t know anything about what Draco had been through over the summer, or the way Draco’s father had so completely controlled every conclusion he drew or decision he’d made; he certainly didn’t know about the hopes Hermione had, and possibly Snape had as well, that Draco would finally come out from his father’s shadow and think for himself. She didn’t have time to explain all this; luckily, she had a weapon that neither of them possessed.

Hermione picked her wand off the table and pointed it first at Harry, then at Draco, demanding they listen to her. “If you two don’t quiet down, then I’ll send some water onto that fire and,” she turned to Draco, “do something really shocking so you can’t hold it together anymore. You’re exhausted as is,” she pointed out, “and I’m really amazed that you’re still here. I don’t care what the two of you think of each other, but personally, I trust you both. And I know both of you trust me.”

They nodded, but neither of their faces softened. The expression on Draco’s face, now that he’d recovered from the shock of seeing Harry alive and well, was one of mingled fury and horror. Hermione continued. “It’s time for you both to lay aside your differences and finally at least try and trust each other.”

She knew she was asking for a near miracle. Draco and Harry were still eyeing each other with the utmost loathing, and she thought back to Dumbledore’s words earlier in the summer. “I will settle, right now, for a lack of open hostility,” she noted with impatience.

“Why?” Harry demanded. He sounded angry and sulky, a tone she hadn’t heard from him since his fight with Ron last fall.

“Because we’re on the same side now, and we need to…”

“I will not be on the same side as someone who just watched while I was murdered!” Harry shouted. The flames darted away from him as if they were frightened of his anger.

“I already said I didn’t just stand there! And I couldn’t do anything anyway!”

“Then deny you wanted me dead. Tell me… No, tell your friend,” he said with a sneer, “that you did everything you could to stop someone’s life from ending. Forget it was me. It could’ve been anyone there – you still don’t fucking know who it was.”

“It must’ve been Kar-“ Hermione started, but froze at a look from Harry.

“You’ve never made any secret of wanting me dead, or anyone around me. Second year you said you hoped Hermione, your friend Hermione, would be killed by the Heir of Slytherin. No, don’t deny it – I heard you say it.” Draco’s jaw dropped. Hermione could see him trying to figure out how Harry knew he’d said those hurtful words during their second year.

She herself had never asked him anything about what he’d told Harry during the hour that Harry and Ron had Polyjuiced themselves into Crabbe and Goyle to spy on him; she’d just told herself that Draco must’ve just been saying it because they expected to hear it. Because they’d tell his father if he said anything rebellious, and because he’d been trained not to even think any rebellious or contrary thoughts.

“And the last time I saw you,” Harry continued, “you were ranting that the Dark Lord, as you put it, would be victorious over ‘Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers’ and that I had picked the losing side. I’ll bet you watched Voldemort say that curse with a smile on your ferret face, then came here to torture Hermione with the information. Is that how you get your kicks, you sick bastard? Malfoy knows who you hang around with… he must’ve been trying to get closer to me, or get information about me to feed to his homicidal father or get close enough to you to turn you against me!”

Hermione felt as if Harry had slapped her. She knelt down in front of the fire, and when she spoke, her soft voice quivered. “I don’t want to go through this again, Harry. I’ve never given you cause to mistrust me, just like I never gave Ron any reason to think I would feed Viktor information about you. You’re my best friend and I…”

Draco cleared his throat behind her, and she jumped. “You may never believe this, Potter, but despite the fact that I hate you and I think you’re a self-absorbed and manipulative prick, Hermione’s been there for me this summer, and I was only thinking of her when I risked my life to come here tonight. But I’m not going to waste my time explaining myself to you – I just don’t care enough.” His voice was as hard as flint as he said, “I am glad you’re alive, not for your sake, but for hers. And if you want to think I’m selfish then listen to this: if you were dead, she’d be too busy mourning you for a few weeks to be able to help me. Of course, after that, she’d have a lot more free time, and that would be all to my benefit, wouldn’t it?

“Now, while this has been a lovely and unexpected surprise, I’ve got to get back to France. It should take Lucius about an hour or two to Apparate down there to kill me, don’t you think, Hermione?”

Hermione started to tell him not to go, but he had disappeared from the common room before she could even open her mouth. She sat down on a bench in a heap again as Harry asked, in a perfectly conversational voice, “How can the Prince of Darkness Disapparate at Hogwarts? Or is that another bit of misinformation you’ve been feeding me at his request?”

“Oh, Harry, you really are an idiot, did you know that? He didn’t Disapparate, and he’s not Dark. Draco’s been able to do Projections since he was a little kid; I’ve known about it for years.”

“And you didn’t tell me? You never told me that he could come into our common room any time he wanted – could come into my bedroom and spy on me during the night?”

“He can’t get into your room – he can’t even get in here during the school year because of the charms on the Tower. I asked Professor Snape about it.”

”And he’s a paragon of truth and honesty?”

“May I remind you that those same charms have allowed you to do the exact same type of thing to get out and get in?” Hermione argued.

“What do you mean?”

“What else would you call those dreams where you saw You-Know-Who?”

“It’s completely different! They just happen, and I don’t control them! I’ve been wondering if Voldemort does, but…” Harry’s eyes reflected the fire that surrounded him. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you? It must be a Dark art – I can’t even count the evil things someone could do if they could travel that way whenever they wanted to. I’m going to write to Sirius about this – no, better yet, I’m going to write to Dumbledore and tell him all about your extracurricular activities!”

“He knows,” Hermione said simply.

“He knows?” Harry asked, dumbfounded. “And he doesn’t care?”

“I think he cares a lot.” She moved back onto the floor so she could look right into her friend’s eyes. “I think he believes that Draco isn’t as evil as you think. I mean, remember first year, when he ran away from You-Know-Who?”

“Voldemort,” Harry interrupted.

“Alright, Voldemort. And Moody really used him as a pawn this past year, more or less tortured him in every class, and his homelife is really messed up…” Harry gave a harsh laugh at that. “His father tells him what to think, what to say, and what to believe. And when has he had a chance to see anything different?” She rambled on, “Professor Snape and I have been talking about it. Dumbledore may’ve given that nice speech about cooperation among the schools at the Leaving Feast this year, but he’s never said anything about cooperation among the houses. Instead, we compete for the bloody House Cup, and at Quidditch and in all sorts of things.

“I’ve always studied with people from other houses, like Eloise Midgen, Gene and Viola and Miranda in Ravenclaw, and yes, with Draco Malfoy. They’re real people, not house stereotypes or archetypes, and they’ve all got more depth than you’ll know from seeing them only in Herbology or at Quidditch matches or in Potions class. When you get to know someone, you start to see them from more than one perspective, which…”

“I don’t want to know him. I really don’t care. He’s an evil Slytherin and he doesn’t care about me or you or anything but his stinking skin.” Harry moved as if he wanted to reach out of the fireplace and shake Hermione’s shoulders. “Don’t you see him manipulating you? And you actually trust him?”

“Not completely,” she admitted.

“You just said you did,” Harry protested.

“I said that because I need the two of you to get along. If you’d only listen, you could learn a lot from him, and I think he could learn from you too.”

“Of course he could! Like what my weaknesses are, and how to kill me and my friends. You’re already vulnerable to him and his lies, and there’s nothing I can do about it. If you’d only told me before… The Ministry’s already come after you because you’re friends with me.”

“But if Draco hadn’t warned me about that, they would’ve arrested me,” Hermione said simply.

Harry looked surprised. “He helped you?”

Hermione nodded.

“He didn’t have anything to gain from it?”

“His father’d be furious if he found out.”

“That’s not the same thing, but…” Harry looked contemplative. “Fine, I’ll listen. Tell me exactly why I should bother with Draco Malfoy.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Violently
Your words hit me, said I could be a different man.
Violently
You came to me and I broke gently into your hands.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


He wasn’t there.

He wasn’t in his bed, he wasn’t in his room. The blanket that had covered him only an hour before was crumpled on the floor and he could still see the indentations on the pillow where his head had rested. A few strands of his hair were still on the pillow, and the moonlight still shone through the nearly clear ceiling.

Draco spun around, almost desperately searching for his body. The connection, the thread that usually made it so easy to slide back into himself, was nowhere to be found.

This had never happened before, not like this. Sometimes, it was harder to become part of himself, and other times it happened without his even willing it to, but now…

He didn’t know where he was.

His mind struggled for a logical explanation – he’d been moved! Someone must have come and moved him; perhaps they couldn’t rouse him again, the way Uncle Charles had tried at his office a few days before. But he’d always been able to hear people calling to him while he was Projecting, even if he couldn’t reply until he was back within himself. Then again, he tried to reason over the panic building in his stomach, he’d never been this far away before. Perhaps it was more difficult where there was such a physical distance?

“You can research and analyze this later, fool!” He heard his voice ring in his ears. “Just reconnect now, or…”

Or I don’t know what will happen.

He scryed the room, folding his hands so his fingertips were hidden inside his scarred knuckles. The magic he’d done in the room since he’d arrived was overlaid by the magic in the walls, the luminous purple notes around the Shell on the bedside table, and the cold green light that had settled over the bed.

It was almost the same color green he’d seen earlier that evening, back at the Manor, when Harry – no, not Harry, someone else, some unknown else – was killed. Could that mean…

No, he thought emphatically. Hadn’t he read enough about what happened to a Projection if someone’s physical body actually died? He’d transform into a ghost in that instant. Draco glanced down at his hands and flinched at their pallor. He was as white as a ghost, to be sure but…

But his clothing still had color; he wasn’t as pale and translucent as a ghost should be. He was still alive, at least at the moment. But where was he?

He looked over the bed again, eyes darting from the green to his hands and back again. Over the left edge of the bed, the green changed colors, darker and lighter alternating down to the floor. He ducked down and stuck his head through the dust ruffle, but there was nothing under the bed but some dust bunnies and his satchel.

As he turned his head around to reexamine the room, Draco noticed a few puddles of green on the floor, with drops between each one. It looked almost like someone had been drenched in the green on the bed, then walked out the door, leaving footprints of green on his way.

A suspicion began pricking at the back of his neck. Without another thought, he ran through the door, forgetting that he wasn’t bound by gravity in his search for where the trail of green led.

Through the hall, around the bookcases in the library, past a kitchen door and across the billiard room, where a grindylow in the pool tank threw himself against the glass and pulled a bizarre face that he hardly noticed, Draco followed the path to the door that led to the glassed veranda. As he’d expected, the door was already open, so he tried to step through.

He couldn’t.

He walked face first into a barrier, just like he had when he’d tried to listen to the adults’ conversation on his first night at the villa; the impact threw him onto the floor. It was hard to struggle to his feet, much as it had been that night. Then, he’d been frustrated by the barrier and a little concerned that he’d be caught. Tonight, the stakes were much higher.

Lucius was out there. Lucius was lounging on a chaise, a martini at his side. He wasn’t really alone, either; in a chaise beside him was Draco.

Draco saw his body, which was limp and taut at the same time. Lucius had clearly had a struggle in maneuvering Draco’s limbs into the chair, because they were still at angles more appropriate to lying on a bed than on a chaise. Draco didn’t even have to scry for the charms or spells Lucius had used; the chair and chaise were enveloped in a poisonous green light that matched the moonglow in its brilliance. In his hands, Lucius held a length of the same green light, woven into a ropelike form - the cord that would ordinarily pull Draco back into his body. Somehow, he’d stopped the process.

It had been years since he’d done that, years since Draco had tried day after day to spend ever-increasing time just inches from his body, so his tutor could teach him the self-control he needed to he could slow the customary whipcord that pulled back into himself. Every time they’d done that exercise, he’d hated the sensation, and he always fought against being made to do it. At least, he had until Lucius had convinced him of the futility of fighting.

***

“You’re too casual with it, Draco,” Mr Walton admonished him when he tried for the seventh time to stand beside his body for the minute it took the sand to fall through the hourglass. “You need to be prepared for things to go wrong!”

“But I only project from here at the Manor. Nobody’s going to come and attack me in my own home,” he insisted. “My father takes care of everything. He even makes sure none of the elves come in while we’re working.”

He hadn’t noticed his father enter, so it was a surprise when he heard him speak from just inside the doorway, where he stood to remove his snow-dusted cloak..

“I won’t always be around to protect you, son. Soon you’ll be off at school. What if you want to go out of your dorm after hours to finish studying in the library? You’re getting much better at moving pieces of paper while you’re Projecting – it’ll be a tremendous advantage over all your classmates.”

“I’ll be able to trust my roommates! You’ve always said that Slytherin is like a family, and nobody in my family would play a trick on me when I’m Projecting.” Draco was perfectly sure of that.

His father crosses the room and knelt in front of them, so their eyes met. Without breaking his gaze from Draco’s, he said, “Mr Walton, give us a minute.” Draco didn’t move his eyes to see the teacher leave either. It just wasn’t proper, not while his father was here.

“Why do you distract yourself?” His father’s fingers were gripping his chin; they were as cold as his voice. “You will believe me when I remind you that I do know more than you, no matter how I must prove it.” Those cold fingers pressed tighter then suddenly, with no change on his father’s face, he felt himself flung back onto the ground.

Lucius was furious, Draco knew it. He’d never have questioned Mr Walton if he knew his father would hear the words he uttered. Of course, he did sometimes take Draco to task for things he heard in the tutors’ reports, but sometimes, when it was just a tutor and Draco felt so tired…

But he’d have to be alert now, especially as the room suddenly darkened. The fire had gone out.

Lucius stood by the fireplace, across the room from where Draco had landed. “Your skills are weak, but we could work with that, if your will wasn’t so pathetic as well. Now, project and stay in this room. I want you to watch!”

Draco wanted to do nothing but crawl back to his chair and rest, but arguing would be anything but useful now. He did as Lucius asked, and separated his magic from his body, then fought with all his might against the cord that was trying, even now, to pull him back into himself.

Although the effort glazed his eyes and made it hard to pay attention to anything but the cord, somehow, he noticed the shirt on his body fluttering. His hair, too, tufted up they way it did when he flew. There was a wind in here, but where…?

Beyond his chair he could see his father, whose wand was in his hand, pointed towards the flue. He was murmuring an incantation. Draco could see the light of the magic, as it pulled the wind down through the chimney and fireplace. Draco could feel the cord now, spinning around his legs and up towards his arms, but he had to resist it; he knew what Lucius wanted him to do.

The winds were so fierce, harsher than they’d been the time he’d played Quidditch in a rainstorm the previous summer. That day, his uncle had been blown off his broom, but Draco’d managed to hang on.

“You have no talent for overcoming adversity,” his father shouted over the earsplitting howls of the winds. Draco’s Projection chair tumbled over itself and his body fell to the floor as the chair sailed into a corner and shattered; he instinctively ducked the firetongs and irons as they flew around the room, even though they couldn’t hurt him. His body slid across the floor and into the wall He knew it felt the arctic wind that filled the room; it was tangible, like a fog, even though he couldn’t feel its bitterness. The hearthrug stayed flat and unblown under his father’s feet, as if he was encased in a protective bubble. He controlled the wind, and it did not disturb him.

The winds did not quiet – in fact, the room grew brighter as more magic poured in from the fireplace - as his father left off his incantation and pointed his wand at Draco, then spoke. The words were familiar – how many times had he heard his mother use the Take Root spell on the garden gnomes so the elves could dispose of them properly in the kitchen’s incinerator?

He’d never imagined that the spell could be done on something made of pure magic and energy, but his father could often do the impossible. The cords dropped from his body and he no longer had to fight to stay separate from his body. He was surprised, actually utterly horrified at the sensation. The cord should only break if he was dead. A cloud of stars shimmered around him, through him.

His father seemed to hear his unspoken panic. “You’re not dead,” he called across the room over the turbulent winds. “Just consider yourself splinched.” It didn’t quell Draco’s panic to hear that – splinching was a completely horrible state too! This was worse than the splinches he’d read about in his history books, because he couldn’t move his physical body, and he couldn’t move his astral tulpa either! The Take Root spell left him bound to the floor!

Draco tried to find his voice, to plead with Lucius to free him so he could become himself again, but though he could move his mouth, he couldn’t make himself heard. Instead, Lucius spoke again as he crossed the room to Draco’s body, as the winds pulled it a few inches from the wall, then back into the stone again, making a pattern in the whisk-thud sound. “The body can survive without the magic and spirit for a day or so. Longer, if someone wants to pour water into the mouth. Your body will continue its physical necessities – it breathes when you’re not here, its heart beats. But it’s not Draco Malfoy when you’re not inside, although it’s still a very useful thing to keep around and keep alive. And what would happen to your Projected self?” His father moved to the floor, his back to the wall, a foot or so from Draco’s body, then gave a wave of his wand towards the fireplace. Another twist of the wind and Draco’s head bumped against his father’s knee, then Draco saw the magic that made the wind turn and drive the winds back through the chimney.

It had been over a year since his father took him onto his lap, but he did it now, lifting Draco’s small body from the stone floor to pull his head onto his father’s knee. Draco could see the bruises forming on his arms and cheek. Yes, his blood was still flowing, which gave him a moment of relief.

The moment ended when Lucius spoke again. “You’d waft around for a while, but without contact with your body, your magic would fade. You’d become less than a ghost, less than a true spirit – and you’re so young and so untrained that you’d be powerless within a week. But you’d still have consciousness, yes. Nobody knows how long you’d be aware of the world, of how everything is moving on wonderfully without you. How nobody cares that you’re not here.”

Draco’s chest hitched. He was so afraid of what was going to happen, he was shaken to the bone. His father… he wouldn’t…

“Of course, I wouldn’t do something like that to you,” his father said, speaking not to Draco but to the limp body. “You may prove yourself someday, and it seems a waste to lose these ten years.” With another wave of his wand, Draco felt the cords twist around his body again and this time, he didn’t fight their pull. With a twist and a snap, he sighed in relief as he felt his skin, his hair, the pressure of Lucius’ knee at the back of his neck, the bruises he could feel blossoming along his limbs, the cold that still inhabited his skin – the pain felt wonderful, because it was real. His teeth chattered and he didn’t try to stop them. Even moving his muscles involuntarily felt good. It was physical, and he was so tired by the metaphysical world.

His father stood and lifted him into his arms. He was almost as limp now as he’d looked when he’d been blown across the room, and he still couldn’t speak. His dizzy mind managed to listen to his father, but he couldn’t make himself think any full, coherent thoughts. His father Summoned his cloak to wrap around Draco as they passed through the doorway, the warmth from the cloak filling his arms and legs like summer sunshine. He listened as his father intonted, “You’ve learned your lesson now, I think. And now that you have, you’ll have everything you want, everything you need, as long as you do what you’re supposed to. My beautiful boy, promise me you’ll always do what you’re supposed to.”

Draco whispered his assent unhesitatingly. “I promise.”

“Of course you do,” his father whispered back.

He felt the memories in his head fuzz and sink into the mist as he sunk into a cold sea of sleep, in his dreams, listening to his father’s whispers.

***


He hadn’t thought about the windstorm since he’d left that room, nearly half a dozen years ago. It had been the only time that Lucius had forcibly kept his Projection and his body apart – the only time until now. He was stronger now, more powerful and more magical, but that wouldn’t help his physical self.

He needed to reunite. Last time, he’d only be able to do that with Lucius’ assent, but he had absolutely no idea what sort of approach would work right now. Would any?

“If you’re thinking of just standing there and waiting until everyone wakes with the sun, you’re wasting your time. I arrived about an hour ago with a bottle of your mother’s favorite Bourgueil, which I decanted with some of your Professor Snape’s Draught of the Living Death. They’ll all nap until I wake them with the antidote, which means, simply, that you and I are going to have a little talk.”

“You drugged my cousins?” Draco asked, aghast.

“It never had a bad effect on you when you were their age,” Lucius replied mildly. Draco shifted uncomfortably at Lucius’ words as he continued. “I gave them only a sip. If they are to wake, you’ll just work another memory charm on them, the same way you did with Karkaroff. Turned out to be a pathetic thing for you to do though, as he was no use to anyone without his memories. Provided a good bit of sport though.”

“Sport?” Draco asked dumbly. His head ached and his stomach was churning; it made it so hard to really think, but he knew he needed to.

Lucius rolled his eyes. “What else would you call what you saw back at the manor?”

“What did Karkaroff have to do with the Dark Lord killing Harry Potter?” he bluffed, glad to remember through his fear and unease that Lucius would think that Draco believed Harry Potter to have been the victim of Avada Kedavra.

“I thought you could see through illusions while projecting, Draco. You mean to say you thought that was Potter there? Ha!” he barked. He’s almost inaccessible during the summer, as your expedition to his house proved. He’s wrapped in spells and charms and ancient magic that-“ Lucius scrutinized Draco’s face then asked, surprised, “You didn’t realise that the Projection right before you left was another spying mission? You really can’t put things together, can you? Subtlely is indeed wasted on you. You’ve never been able to put together hints and implications – not from things I’ve said, or from anything around you. It’s made you invaluable as a spy.”

“I haven’t-“ Draco began.

“Of course you have, for four years. All you do is look around you and write down what you see. You’ve become adept at describing things, but you’re pathetic at looking below the surface or in putting two and two together. It’s not that you add them and make five – you just don’t bother to add them at all.”

Lucius sighed and rubbed his fingers across his forehead. “You consistently manage to fall so far short of my expectations. If the Dark Lord hadn’t taken an interest in you tonight, I’d just toss you off this verandah now and let the fish have at you.” He paused and sipped at his drink, then abruptly changed the subject. “You didn’t go anywhere, you know.”

Lucius’s voice was low and controlling, almost hypnotic despite the simplicity of what he said. “Tell me you were in a deep sleep for ten minutes I sat watching you back in your room. Make me believe that you were so drained from your visit to the Manor that upon your return you fell asleep in an instant. Convince me that you were out wandering the moors, unable to get back to your Self here in Eze. Anything to explain where you’ve been for the past half hour.

“It’s happened before that way,” Draco said, not completely lying. His head still hurt so much, he wasn’t sure if the pain he sometimes felt when he told Lucius an outright lie would even be noticeable, but he didn’t really want to find out.

“When you were seven! I thought you had more self control than that by now!”

“It’s been a long day,” was the first thing that came to mind, and foolishly escaped his lips.

“No excuses, boy! Explain yourself!” he ordered, looking down his nose in his critical and suspicious way.

“I sent you an owl, I said I was coming tonight but…”

“You sent an owl without thinking that the time down here is an hour off from what it is at home.” Lucius’ voice pitched higher with each word. “You inconsiderate ignoramus, you never stopped to think that your brilliant ideas might not be perfect for everyone else! What’s worse, you certainly don’t think before you act, do you?”

Draco didn’t know


They both knew exactly who the “he” Draco had referred to was. “He already knew, it seems. He was somewhat angry with me for not mentioning your little trick sooner, but I have mollified him by explaining that you don’t have enough control over it yet to be completely useful. However, you’ll need to increase your training and practice, and make this into a suitable gift to offer by the time the school year starts.”

---

Moody’s office was much emptier now than it had been two weeks before. The scrolls that had come out of his trunk, the parchments that had littered the desk and filled its drawers, the rantings and ramblings that had been scratched into the desk itself – all had been organized into piles and folders. Filch had howled in protest when Dumbledore removed three of his precious filing cabinets, over his protestations that he still needed those files of misbehaving students from 1973. The headmaster’s compromise had been that when if Hermione finished in Moody’s office before the start of term, she would assist Filch in reorganizing his files. Hermione didn’t really mind the indenture as it would preserve her sanctuary – and she’d have a chance to get her hands on some of the older files, including the ones from Harry’s parents’ days at the school. She suspected, though, that Snape would find some way to remove his own before she got access to it.

Of course, she hadn’t read through much of anything yet. Part of the process was to examine each document and see if there was anything in it that might be useful to Dumbledore, either in proving Barty Crouch’s impersonation and guilt for the murder of his father or any of the other crimes he’d committed in the past year, or in convincing Fudge that Voldemort truly had returned. Perhaps when she picked herself up out of the morass of notes on the Tri-Wizard tournament…

Then, she found the first hint she’d seen as to what Crouch’s work over the school year had entailed. Enscrolled with parchments detailing the likelihood of different strengths of Confundus charms when matched with the power of the Goblet of Fire, Crouch had written paragraphs about how he would benefit if he had a Projector on his team...

We need a Projector. We could infiltrate any weakly warded building or gathering, even an unplottable one. If I were able to Project, I could examine every corner of Hogwatrs, even the old fool’s office whether he was there or not. A Projector would be able to distract elves so they would leave their posts or get past a painting or statue guarding a door, allowing me in to rifle through someone’s things without his knowing – we could learn all the deepest secrets of our enemies – especially of those Death Eaters who are still walking among the free. There is one here – my Detectors have told me this – but I don’t yet know who it is. It will be among my priorities to learn his identity.

The identity was now irrelevant, Hermione reasoned, as Voldemort already knew that Draco Malfoy was able to Project, although she mused for a moment on whether the fury towards Lucius Malfoy that Draco had described was somehow pre-scripted by Voldemort – if Barty Crouch had told his master about Draco, then that madman certainly have had time during those long days at the Crouch home to concoct such mind-games and torture plans to use against his followers – and even their families.

When she’d started reading the scrolls, Hermione had wondered why Crouch had been so brazen as to leave notes in obvious places about all the different ways Death Eaters could profit from having a Projector among their ranks; she found more scrolls musing about excellent Quidditch Keepers or a true Seer or a team of Hufflepuffs, or even the assistance of a Centaur. Each scroll was an analysis unto itself, and they all looked like the memos that Percy had been reading each night the previous summer, with questions separating the sections, graphs with colors that flashed – they were cold, logical and completely diabolical. And, she realized, they were written as if they had been composed by an Auror, not a Death Eater.

She’d been wondering as she researched, considering the methods he’d used to hide things, convinced that he must’ve thrown off the disguising spells when he was speaking with Harry that last horrible night. Nobody could have seen these during the year, she’d thought. But her realization of his audacity shocked her, even after all she’d learned about the evil in Barty Crouch.

He never bothered to hide any of this – he’d kept them in plain sight, just as if they were notes from a retired Auror critiquing the current administration. If someone had discovered them, would he have passed them off as recommendations, insights, perhaps even offered them to Dumbledore, so as to avoid being pinged as an imposter.

She tore through one of the books that had been sitting, gathering dust, on one of the bookcases. The Air Affair – Spying From A Broomstick, by Alastor Moody. Breaking the spine, she threw it onto the desk and tore her eyes across one page, then another.

“Bastard.” Crouch’s writing style was a perfect mimic of Moody’s. She looked over the dates on Crouch’s memos. They’d all been written during the Spring. He had to’ve been practicing, both his handwriting and the short-sentenced cadence of Moody’s chapters. She gathered up Crouch’s memos and began to arrange them in a file for Dumbledore. It was impossible to tell if he’d copied these and sent them to Voldemort, perhaps under a pretense of writing to the senior Mr. Crouch, or if Voldemort actually had obtained information that wasn’t replicated in these piles, but it was the best she could do to help the headmaster determine what Voldemort knew.

As was her usual custom, she stopped for lunch with Professor Snape. She showed him her notes from the morning, and they discussed what she planned to go through in the afternoon. It was a routine they’d established not two days after she arrived – they took most meals together in the kitchen where the House Elves tripped over each other in their efforts to bring them the most delicious supper. On days like this when the other professors and staff didn’t join them, they took their time over the raspberry trifle to discuss the scrolls.

“Are you truly focused on the task at hand, Miss Granger?” Snape asked when she paused in her long description of Crouch’s memos.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re supposed to catalog the contents of the office, not analyze the implications of Crouch’s papers on your classmates’ lives.”

“But I’m…”

“I recognize that you’re concerned about Mr Malfoy’s welfare, but you should have done more today than read ten scrolls of parchment,” Snape pointed out. “On Monday, as you recall, you regaled me for two hours in the evening with a verbal dissertation on how Barty Crouch had summarized Hogwarts’ Quidditch plans for next year, as if that’s something that could be somehow detrimental to the school or the safety of your friends on certain House teams. Now you focus on what his notes could mean for Mr Malfoy, even though both of us know that whatever is contained in his notes, the Dark Lord already knows that Mr Malfoy has the ability to Project, and Mr Crouch cannot long beyond the ability to obtain any benefit from his discovery of this fact. No, Miss Granger, while I appreciate hearing the details of what you uncover in that benighted office, I recommend you not neglect the purpose of the project for your personal benefit, or that of your friends.”

“It’s not just for them – I’m doing all of this for Professor Dumbledore!” Hermione objected.

“How?” Snape asked, a sly smile on his face.

Hermione hesitated. “I’m learning things about Death Eaters and the way they think and their attitudes and what Crouch learned about the school while he was here,” she replied with a hint of satisfaction.

“All of which I am sure you and your cohorts will put to good use when he returns to school, but how do you think it is of a benefit to the headmaster for you to spend all your time on those reports and memos?”

She answered his question without a thought, asking, “How else could we learn how Death Eaters think?” She heard him start where he sat, and looked up. His expression had gone completely cold.

“The headmaster has spent over a hundred years learning how darkness slips into the soul, how it blocks the light and takes its own form of control. Your information, Miss Granger, will be useful for one purpose – to determine just how badly compromised Professor Dumbledore’s plans were. And the importance of it isn’t in the facts on the page.” Hermione was puzzled. “Relations between the school and the Ministry are tense at present, due in no small part to your presence here. Even the files you discover will likely not change that.”

“Then what’s the point in going through them?” Hermione demanded.

“So he can understand where he is weak. So he can learn what Crouch, and by extension, the Dark Lord, thought Potter’s weakness were. And so I can learn what students I should keep a closer eye on.”

“Like Draco?”

Snape laughed. It was a cold sound, frightening and surprising. “I’ve kept an eye on him for years.” He changed the subject slightly and abruptly. “Do you plan to let Mr Malfoy know that Crouch knew there was a Projector at the school?”

“I think it would only make him more paranoid than he already is, but if I don’t tell him, I worry that if he finds out, he’ll be angry with me for not telling him now.”

Snape’s suggestion was a determined one. “I will tell him, and I will ask him if he had any conversations with Crouch about it.”

“I’d know if Moody had called Draco in to a conference. We always came up with these scenarios so he wouldn’t have to be in his office for long.”

“You wouldn’t know if he’d been memory charmed to forget the meeting, or if Crouch questioned him about it in a surreptitious way. Breaking memory charms is dangerous, though, if you don’t go about it in the proper manner.”

“Are you suggesting that Draco try to break a memory charm just to learn whether Crouch learned something from him even though it doesn’t matter anymore whether Crouch learned it or not? That’s like using a gun to kill an ant!” Hermione exclaimed, then wondered whether Snape knew what a gun was. “Erm, a gun is like a metal wand that muggles use…”

“I know what a gun is, Miss Granger. My expertise may be in potions, but I did take a N.E.W.T. in Muggle Studies. No, I have other reasons for investigating whether Mr Malfoy is under any memory charms or similar effects, but this may provide me with a good way to go about getting at them.”

“There are a bunch of books in the office about memory charms and curses. I haven’t started on them yet, but…”

“I should take a selection of them off your hands then,” Snape interrupted.

“Um,” Hermione began awkwardly. How could she say no to a teacher? “I’m not to let anything out until it’s been cataloged,” she pointed out.

“Then give me the key,” he said, holding out his hand. “Spend some time with your studies instead of his papers.”

She pulled it from her pocket and he pocketed it in one quick move, then swooped off in the direction of the faculty offices. Hermione wasn’t worried about what Snape would do in there. The day she’d started, she had put a few of Crouch and Moody’s tricks to her own use, marking the door so a talisman in her pocket would alert her if someone tried to abscond with any of the room’s contents. She touched the stone in her pocket; it was silent and still, much like the kitchen, where the House Elves were hovering silently, waiting for her to leave so they could burst into a frenzy of cleaning.

I’m learning things I didn’t want to know. Who’d ever guess that this would be the situation? One more complication should be neither here nor there. I wish I had it in me not to care.



No, magic is a science. You get better at it the more you practice. Some wizards have more natural aptitude for it, the same way others have a talent at catching a Snitch or timing a potion, or doing maths. Others waste their skills for the stupidest, the most pathetic of reasons. Your fool of a headmaster seems to think that pure magic, ancient magic,” he sneered, “is somehow better than treating magic like the scientific and rational thing that it is. The Dark Lord, on the other hand, uses magic properly – as a science.”

“But if they’re doing the same kinds of spells…” Draco could feel Lucius steering the conversation away to what he wanted to discuss. It was typical; Draco never had even a shred of control over the topics Lucius brought up or the ideas he expounded on.

“Where the purpose is methodical and structured, the magic will be more powerful.” He paused. “You’ve learned your history, haven’t you?”

“Some,” Draco replied warily.

“Why don’t you recall that the best advances in magic were through experimentation?”

“I don’t understand…”

“That’s obvious,” Lucius jeered. “When do you ever?”



Thank God we’re so civilized and our word can be our bond.

Are you sick? Are you mad? Who’d ever think it, such a squalid little ending, watching him descending just as far as he can go....

Comments

[jayabear.livejournal.com]

Yay! It's SoC.

:D

~j

[morganmalfoy.livejournal.com]

After waiting for months and months and months for more SoC, there is a cookie when I can't possibly even summon the energy to read it. WAH.

-M

yea!!!

[(Anonymous)]

wow, OotP and SoC all in the same day. Life just doesn't get much better than this. I've been waiting sooooo long to find out how Harry could not be dead (and now I get to hope and wait in denial about how Sirius can't *really* be dead, but that's not your look out).

This chapter wasn't polished and perfect like the first 10 but the characters were true. And I'd waited so long I would have been happy with a half page outline.

Holly, you write beautifully and have a wonderful insight in to the complexities of human nature. Your descriptions of the psychological abuse Draco has endured and his conflicted loyalties and confusion are so dead on accurate. I don't know how you find time to write but I'm glad you're still working on this story.r

Thanks

[roguemarionette.livejournal.com]

I love your story. The characters are well defined and well placed in your story. Nothing is choppy or happens without a reason. I love this story. I can't wait to read more. You're definitely one of the better writers of this fandom world. Keep writing. Your writing could brighten someone's (including my) day. Thank you so much.

[schnoogle.livejournal.com]

:D I'm surprised at how much I remembered of the rest of the story!

Thanks for posting, I really enjoyed reading.

[longtimegone]

♥

You rock, Heidi!

[collsers.livejournal.com]

Yay!!!!

Now I'll have to reread the first ten...it's been awhile, but I'm excited :)

[(Anonymous)]

FAB FAB FAB FAB!! Cant wait for the next chapter!!

hannah

[alexandramuses.livejournal.com]

Wow. Wow wow wow. You are a hell of a writer and I wish you had time to keep working. So do you, I bet. This is a wonderful story and it doesn't matter that it's slightly AU to OotP - the Potterverse is better off without book five.

Gosh, did I really just say that? Oh, dear.

Anyway, I simply LOVE this story, and the style you've got and the way you've taken some of JKR's templates from the books and transposed them to Hermione's or Draco's thinking. Your Draco is just so believable... he's like Harry in that he's really just a boy who has a lot to think about and a lot to worry about. Narcissa is a... well, she's a bitch, isn't she? No tortured, empty-headed trophy wife for you, then!

I find Lucius so absolutely disturbing, mostly because you don't pound it into us. What he's doing to Draco is frighteningly believable - if a father has already "lost" one son to being useless, then he doesn't want to lose another, because that would be inefficient. Therefore he'll train Draco to be as useful as possible, which is exactly what he's doing. Only Draco's been cursed with a conscience, the poor lad.

Well, congrats on the new baby (according to my clock, she was born about 50 minutes ago) and I hope everything is going well for the ... er... five? of you now!