His footsteps echoed against ancient stones, the sound riding down broken hallways and arriving at nothing. His hands were in his pockets. He poked a finger through a hole that Fiendfire made. It made him feel like a pauper, and he wondered if there wasn't any room for princes in the new world that Harry Potter created.
Draco Malfoy was alone and full of hate. The object of that hate: a rotting corpse.
Draco knew that it was utterly ridiculous to loathe a dead man. He didn't have to look at a mirror to know what his face looked like at the thought. His mother used to make jokes about it – back when the Malfoys could afford – with just a slight nervous undercurrent she purposefully laid bare. She said his scowls would leave lines etched into his skin years too soon. But while a Malfoy’s vanity was a weighty thing, their wrath sunk like stones.
He glared at the walls with such intensity that sometimes he thought they might actually crumble beneath his fury. But no, they staunchly refused to break apart – a fact that made him even grimmer because all of the walls were falling down. It really should not have taken much more effort to lay them flat.
They stood resolute against him, taunting him with the knowledge that his fallen enemy was far, far out of his reach.
Draco had once heard a Muggle saying: “dead men tell no tales.” The very knowledge of it was a bit painful, but not even Lucius Malfoy could keep his son from picking up a few tidbits here and there living amongst Muggle-borns. (He could not fathom a future where the alternative term would be accepted publicly, and he now refused to do it privately, even in the recesses of his own mind, for fear of making a mistake at the wrong time.) Draco knew that this saying did not apply to one Albus Dumbledore, who told a rather visual story when his cold body went up in flames only a year before, revealing a white coffin moments later.
“I am gone, but never shall I be forgotten.”
Draco paused, catching the sounds of distant revelry he’d been trying to leave behind. But no, the Gryffindors had to be so sodding loud about everything, drinking what had to amount to liters of Firewhiskey and toasting the dead. And no one so much nor so loudly as bloody Dumbledore. The symbol of goodness and righteousness and all the other things that made his head ache from constant eye-rolling was being sung about almost as much as Potter.
Perhaps Dumbledore would have been spared Draco’s murderous daydreams if the dottering old fool had not neglected to tell Draco something vitally important. On that night, when he'd held Albus Dumbledore at wandpoint under an (he admitted now to no one but himself) empty death threat, the sneaky bastard never bothered to mention that Potter had been there the whole. Damn. Time. Not a meaningful twinkle, not a coded message, not even an, “Oh, by the way, Mr. Malfoy, you might be interested to know that your very worst enemy is standing behind you beneath an Invisibility Cloak.”
He’d had to find out when Snape yanked him out of the room and Potter screamed like a banshee being ripped apart. And even in his terror at being faced with war, the possibility of the Dark Lord’s wrath, and the undeniable fact that he had just watched Albus fucking Dumbledore kick it, Draco had nearly been swallowed by his humiliation. Potter had already seen him cry, had already nearly killed him, but now Potter knew why. And he’d seen him afraid - seen him merciful. His worst enemy knew nearly everything about him.
Of course, Draco realized with a hollow pang, he was nowhere near being Potter’s nemesis. There were plenty of others, living and otherwise, before Draco. The cheeky bastard was probably mocking him right now. He wished he hadn’t reached up to grasp Potter’s hand when Crabbe’s hellfire had threatened to swallow him whole.
A lump formed in Draco’s throat at the thought of Crabbe, which he carefully swallowed.
Draco side-stepped one of many congealing puddles of blood and continued the prowl of what had once been Hogwarts. It hadn’t been very long ago that Draco had been sitting in a lesson – not that he’d been able to pay much attention. School had seemed infinitely pointless to him after Sixth Year. It had been torture under the damning eyes of the Gryffindors, who knew what had happened on that tower and hated him for it. Draco had almost convinced himself that the whole thing had been a ridiculous nightmare. That is, until Ginny Weasley slapped him across the face after the Sorting Feast and informed him exactly what she thought of him in exceptionally colorful language.
Draco winced at the memory, thinking of how he was going to have to endure the smug grins of the Weasleys from now on. At least, once they recovered from the death of one of their own. He had no idea which it was and couldn’t be bothered to figure it out. But once that sorrow faded, they would be absolutely insufferable, lording their victory over his and every other Slytherin’s head for years to come.
This new era was going to be unbearable.
Draco nearly stomped off in another direction, when his arm brushed against something solid. He turned, his eyes meeting nothing but air, which really only meant one thing: Potter and his fucking Invisibility Cloak.
He curled his hand into a fist and laid it against his side. He was prepared to continue on his way as if he hadn’t known Potter was there, so he was a bit surprised when “the Chosen One” shrugged off the cloak. His estimation of where Potter’s eyes would be had been a bit low. They were now exactly the same height.
“I was worried you might make something explode,” Potter said, his voice tight, jaw clenched oddly at one side. When Draco didn’t so much as crack a smile (the arrogance that he would deem that worthy of recognition), Potter added, “That’s why I--"
“Right,” Draco interrupted, omitting the hundreds of snide remarks that should have followed. He swallowed again and wondered if pride was always this bitter to swallow. “You know, I very much doubt Filch is going to give you detention for being out late, Potter,” Draco drawled, and wondered a moment later if he shouldn’t have. He had no idea if the man was alive or dead, and miserable as the old Squib had been, Potter probably wouldn’t appreciate defaming the fallen.
Draco hated that he had to think about what Potter would and would not appreciate with so much force that he nearly screamed.
Judging by the wry smile that crossed Potter’s face, Filch was still alive and kicking. It figured. “Probably right. I just… don’t much feel like being seen.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, wanting to point out that revealing himself was a tactical error of monumental proportions. “Is there a reason you decided to grace me with your presence, Potter?”
Potter’s smile changed slightly, into something Draco would have called sheepish had he been younger. Or rather, had he looked younger. He seemed almost ancient now, with circles the color of pits under his eyes and creases in his brow.
Draco found himself unwillingly thinking of Professor Lupin, a man who had looked twenty years older than he actually was. He wasn’t a friend, but damned if he hadn’t been the one decent Defense professor in seven years, and Draco had heard his name listed among the dead.
Potter had said something. “Missed that.”
“I said I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Draco’s voice shook with the effort it took him not to yell. “If you want me and my parents out of your precious stronghold, Potter, the least you could do--"
“What?” Potter interrupted, his voice squawking. “What-- no. That isn’t what I was – What made you think that I was going to say that?”
Because that’s what everyone else has been saying, with their eyes or with their whispers. All they ever say is that they have no desire to house Death Eaters in their broken home. “Well, I hardly think you want to invite my father up for tea and biscuits in a show of Gryffindor hospitality.”
“He did try to kill me on several occasions.”
“Who hasn’t?”
Potter raised both eyebrows as if silently acquiescing to this point and moving on. “You can stay as long as you need to, Malfoy.” He said this as if Kingsley Shacklebolt and the Weasley patriarch hadn’t told him that they needed to keep his family under surveillance until they had a secure place to stash Lucius.
Draco curled his other hand into a fist. “Your generosity is staggering.”
Potter sighed, reaching underneath his glasses to rub his eyes. “Malfoy, could you stop antagonizing me for three seconds so I can get this out?”
“You know, I’m really not sure. I’ve never tried before.”
“Try now,” Potter deadpanned.
Draco hesitated, giving the matter due consideration. After all, there were several things he had no interest in hearing from Potter, and if the Golden Gryffindor had deemed to discuss one of those subjects, Draco was going to regret allowing him to speak. On the other hand, he had a nagging feeling that Potter wasn’t going to go anywhere near there. They had many differences, but there was ground where both of them loathed to tread. There would be no talk of bathrooms and blood water, of terrified ghosts and curses that tore.
“Just be mindful of what you say, Potter,” Draco said quietly, his voice devoid of its usual sneer. It sounded hollow.
“I will.” He fiddled with the cloak, his glasses, and his hair before he finally realized that was as much permission as he was going to get. “I wanted to talk to you about what happened at the Manor.”
“No, there is no photographical evidence of your bloated form, though I wish it weren’t so,” Draco responded automatically, his voice high.
Potter didn’t even blink. “I meant about how… How you didn’t…”
Draco’s nails sunk into the skin of his palms. They were jagged and uneven. “Potter—"
“How you didn’t say it was us.”
It felt as though something had grasped his ribcage and was pulling it back towards his spine. His hand went for his sternum before he could stop it. “I said watch what you say,” Draco hissed.
“You couldn’t have expected me not to bring it up,” Potter said, his voice disgustingly reasonable. “It was… Well, Malfoy, it’s the one decent thing you’ve ever done for me.”
Draco’s voice stung like an adder’s poison. “What makes you think I did it for you?”
Potter dug his hand into his hair and pulled. “Fine. I don’t care why you did it. Maybe you forgot to take your birth control that day and your hormones were off-kilter. Whatever. I just thought I ought to thank you for saving mine and the others’ arses back there.”
Draco’s mind was wrenched by a shriek that occasionally ripped through his dreams. Granger. And Weasley bellowing for her from the keep.
“Send a note next time,” Draco snapped, trying to turn away.
Potter’s hand closed around Draco’s bicep. “Why do you have to be this way? Why can’t you just accept the fact that I’m grateful? I’m trying to do the right thing here.”
“Well, forgive me if I’m a bit sick of you doing ‘the right thing’ by now, Potter.” Draco tore his arm away. He didn’t leave.
Potter chewed on the inside of his lip, considering. Then he stepped forward, bridging the already miniscule gap between them. “I changed my mind.”
Draco arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I do want to know why.”
“Potter—"
“I think I have a right.”
“Saving the world doesn’t buy you everything.”
“Neither does the Malfoy fortune.”
Now Draco did stalk away. He couldn’t do a damn thing to stop Potter from following, but it made him feel better. “You don’t own me, Potter. And I don’t owe you anything. You want to think I saved your life at the Manor? Fine.”
“I never said—"
“But you chose to save my arse in that room,” Draco continued loudly, still moving, barreling over anything Potter had to say. “There’s no life-debt. You spent that.”
Potter actually snarled at his back. “If you actually think that was on my mind when I—”
“Oh, no. Of course not. As if the Great and Honorable Harry “I’m the Shit” Potter would ever ponder such ignoble thoughts.”
“Tell me why you did it!” Potter demanded, his voice reverberating and masking the sound of their footfalls.
“No!” Draco shouted, swirling. “You don’t get everything you want, Potter!” He stood there for a few moments, breathing heavily. It took him a moment to get control of himself, and even then, his voice continued to tremble. “Not from me. Not ever.”
Potter glared at him darkly. Draco wondered if the Dark Lord had received as fierce a look, and then he remembered that a school rival wasn’t as important. “Selfish.”
Draco laughed aloud. “I’m selfish?”
“You’re keeping this from me for your own enjoyment,” Potter countered. “Of course that’s selfish.”
“And you don’t think you’re selfish in asking?”
“Of course I am.”
Draco blinked. “What?”
Potter sighed, running a hand through his mangy hair. “Look, I just want to know why you saved us. I know you hate Hermione, Ron, and me. I was sure we were done for when I saw you, but here I am.”
“I don’t hate Granger,” Draco corrected. “She offends me. And Weasley does not deserve my loathing.”
Of course, Draco had no need to clear up his feelings about Potter.
Potter got that look on his face that Draco had come to identify as the one he made when he was struggling not to lash out. “I need to know,” Potter whispered through clenched teeth.
Draco sniffed. The wall behind Potter was almost completely level with the ground, but there was a single stack still struggling to remain upright. There was blood on it like someone had been impaled.
“I need a lot of things, Potter,” Draco said quietly. “And I won’t be getting them any time soon.”
He turned to go for what he knew would be the last time. He felt as though even a Petrifying Spell couldn’t hold him back now.
“Fine,” Potter whispered behind him. “But there’s something you should know.”
Draco kept walking.
“Dobby died.”
He faltered only for a moment and then continued on his way. With each step, the urge to look back became stronger and stronger, but Draco fought it with every fiber in his body. Finally, as he turned, he flicked his eyes back to where he knew Potter had been. There was nothing there anymore.
Draco kept right on walking, one foot in front of the other. His venture was no longer aimless. He had a destination in mind, and a goal to seek out.
He arrived at his rooms in the Slytherin dungeon. He paused in the doorway. His parents were sitting on the bed, his father bent forward and his face buried in his hands. He breathed as though it were difficult for him. His mother, ever attentive and watchful, was at his side, an arm wound around his shoulders. She didn’t have a hair out of place.
She looked up, pale eyebrows knitting together when she saw her son. “Draco? Darling, what is it? You look pale.”
Draco didn’t say a word. He just kept staring at his father, covered in dirt and bruises, unable to even keep his back straight anymore. He thought back to the Christmas celebration at the Manor in his second year. His mother had gotten diamonds. He’d gotten everything he wanted. His father had sat at the head of the table, head straight and proud as his wife kissed him on the cheek in thanks.
And little Dobby, cowering in the corner.
“Draco?”
His shoulders shook.
Narcissa Malfoy was on him like a sudden hurricane, her thin arms enveloping him in the steadiest embrace he’d ever received from her. She held him fast, her fingers stroking his hair while she made soothing noises in his ear. He buried his face in her robes, panting with the effort it took him not to cry, but he wasn’t strong enough to hold them back when his father’s frail hand fell upon his shoulder. Then he wept as if he were alone in the bathroom with a dead girl for company, tears and mucus leaking onto his mother’s fine things. Neither of his parents cared.
Nothing was ever going to be the same.
AUTHOR'S NOTES
There is one minor canon change here, but it'll be the only alteration concerning information actually received in the books. Anything Rowling said in interviews, while interesting, won't necessarily be used. In the book, I don't believe Harry screams, but here he does because it's important that Draco know that Harry was there, and important that it happen in that way. All will be explained in time.
Please read, review, and stay tuned for the next chapter!
Coming Soon - Chapter Two: Saving Demons
