They stood in the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey wailing and the rest of them immersed in the phoenix’s beautifully eerie lament. Bill lay mangled on a bed to the right, but that was barely more traumatizing to Harry than if it had been Dudley. Nothing registered in his overwrought mind—except that the attack was over, and even that thought brought no comfort. Dumbledore was dead, and Harry was numb, physically and emotionally. Or maybe, he thought idly, the intensity of his emotions was simply greater his capacity to feel them.
It was a long time that they all stood there, though not as long as it seemed. When the final note of the song quivered to a halt—the first moment of true silence since the invasion had begun—Harry remembered with a dull thud the predicament that was locked upstairs in a cold cell. For a moment he considered leaving Malfoy there to rot, but a reluctant sense of guilt told him that Dumbledore would not have wanted his mercy to be offered in vain.
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley burst into the door, interrupting Harry’s thoughts, followed closely by Fleur and Professor McGonagall. Harry stood motionless as commotion and conversation swirled around him—Mrs. Weasley and Fleur reconciled in a tearful embrace, Tonks suddenly declared her love for Lupin, and everyone was somberly retelling their versions of the last few hours.
Somewhere in the midst of the chaos, Harry begun his story, and it was his that caused the most disturbance. It was difficult for him to know where to start without recounting the events in the cave, so he just began with the tower and with Malfoy’s reckless entrance.
“Malfoy!” Ron growled, gritting his teeth. “You were right about him all along Harry.”
Harry shook his head. “Not so right as it sounds, Ron,” he corrected, and then briefly recounted the conversation between the headmaster and the blonde, dutifully noting Dumbledore’s offer of protection and Malfoy’s feeble submission.
Everyone exchanged noncommittal glances, seemingly unsure of what to think about this new development.
“And he’s locked up at the present moment, you say?” Lupin asked contemplatively. Harry nodded.
“Thank you, Harry,” Professor McGonagall said, looking a bit troubled, “we will see to the boy from here.”
The hallways were unnaturally still and none of them spoke as, some time later, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny walked back to the Gryffindor wing. The silence was broken, however, (thankfully, thought Harry, for it was all but smothering him) by raucous sobs that grew louder as they neared the entrance to the common room. It was quite a ruckus, and Ron was particularly annoyed, muttering “bloody hell!” and screwing up his nose in revulsion. As they rounded the final corner they saw the source of the disturbance. The Fat Lady sat yowling in her frame, face smothered in a lacy handkerchief that shook like a leaf in the wind as she blubbered. The trio shuffled their feet uncomfortably and Harry cleared his throat loudly.
“Petrified Toadstools,” he croaked. The Fat Lady did not bother to say anything, but threw her hand to her forehead and gave a particularly excruciating wail as the portrait swung forth to admit the trio.
As soon as the portrait opened, dozens of heads snapped up from their bowed positions. Solemn, anxious faces stared up at them—faces that feared for their own safety, for their school. Their friends. Their eyes searched Harry’s for answers; the tension in the air could be physically felt. Dean Thomas stood and crossed feverishly to the four friends, the unspoken voice of the distressed group.
“Harry, what the bloody hell is going on?” he asked in low tones, eyes dark. We’ve heard terrible sounds for hours… explosions, yelling… and when I tried to leave the common room the Fat Lady wouldn’t budge.”
At that moment, Harry felt utterly exhausted. The tragedies of the last few hours weighed heavily on his spirit, and he found the task of narrating recent events a second time to be nearly unbearable. How could he possibly tell them that their beloved headmaster was dead—murdered at the hand of a trusted professor? The expectant looks on the faces of his peers suddenly seemed remarkably naïve, wretchedly innocent. They would not be half so eager to know the truth once they knew it—then they would wish they did not know, that they could live contentedly in their aloof ignorance.
He could not tell them. He could not force such burdens upon them, though he knew that very soon they would all be inevitably exposed to the same sort of horrors that he had experienced that night. No, he could not tell them. Because he also knew, with their questioning faces staring up at him, that they would never truly understand. And that thought wearied him.
“Harry?” Dean was looking at him exasperatedly.
Suddenly feeling very overwhelmed, Harry brushed past Dean and, without a backward glance, retreated to his dormitory. He collapsed onto his bed and didn’t look at Ron as he followed into the room. Neither boy spoke and neither bothered to undress as they laid on their separate beds and pulled the curtains. Harry thought he could never have slept after such a night, but eventually his breathing slowed and he felt sleep creeping up on him like a dark veil, exhaustion setting into his bones. It wasn’t until morning that he again felt the dull ache of hurt and loss.
******************************************************************
He shivered in the dark. Without his wand (which Harry had immediately snatched and pocketed), Draco had no source of light and no means to warm himself. He was completely and utterly alone. It was fortunate that he didn’t mind small spaces—in fact, he often felt safer in a confined area than in big open spaces. Still, as his quiet breathing echoed in the still silence, he found himself feeling desperately exposed, and he wished the walls would close in just a little further to hide him.
And he was hiding, though no longer from Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix. No more would he be skirting around Professors and wards and seeking moments of pathetic, indulgent refuge in girls’ restrooms. His enemies were now much darker, much more dangerous. He knew that because he knew them.
He had converted, he thought with a rush of fear and shock that nearly made him giddy. He had endured months, stressful and lonely months, of pressure, demands, and punishment. His resolve and confidence had weakened as a result, and so it was here that he found himself—prisoner in the beginnings of a war he wanted nothing to do with, and weak.
With a shudder he realized that, indeed, he was a prisoner. He envisioned himself perpetually trapped in the taunting, dungeon-like cell, blindly eating leftovers that were apparated to him by filthy house elves. His savior, ironically the man he had been striving to kill, was dead, and Draco felt an odd pang with that knowledge. It was more a pang of panic than anything (for who would take pity upon him now?), but it was mixed with a sense of sorrow, which was strange considering that he had never truly liked the wizard. Still, he had respected him, and that had to count for something.
He raked a shaky hand through his hair, which was sticky with sweat. He wondered if he were suffering an anxiety attack. Questions and thoughts pounded in syncopation with his rapid heartbeat, each one shaking him more than the last. What if Potter never came back? What if he were tortured for information? What if he were sent to Azkaban? What if—he gulped—he were turned loose to the Dark Lord? What if—
There was a resounding bang as the door to his cell slid open, bathing him in light and making him blink stupidly at the dark silhouettes of two tall, thin people. There was a moment of silence as the duo observed him.
“Mr. Malfoy,” a tight, thin voice clipped, “you will come with us.”
Restrainedly obedient, Draco tried to stand and found his legs to be quite unsteady, but he was on the defensive and was determined not to make his weakness obvious. The sudden light and the presence of other human beings countered his nervous despair, and he felt a (very slight) surge of renewed sense.
As he walked forward to meet his captors, a deeper, more masculine voice muttered an incantation and his hands flew behind the small of his back, magically binding at the wrists. He moved into the hallway and the two figures fell into step beside him, one on his left and one on his right. As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the torches, he found himself to be flanked by Professor McGonagall and the werewolf Lupin. The flames of the torches licked at the stone walls and cast shadows on the grim faces of his captors. As he glanced sideways at Lupin he remembered the hungry eyes of Fenrir and felt uneasy.
They led him, not speaking, down a series of corridors, to a door that he knew opened into Professor McGonagall’s office—or old office, he thought, for she was undoubtedly the new Headmistress and would in time sit at Dumbledore’s old desk. She flicked her wand at the handle and the door swung forth to admit the threesome. Without looking at him, McGonagall moved behind her desk, sat in the plush armchair behind it, and stood again restlessly, leaning forward with her fists on the desk and looking down. She motioned for Draco to sit in the seat facing her as Lupin leaned against the wall to his left.
Lupin spoke first. “Harry has informed us of tonight’s events,” said Lupin in a voice that was less harsh that Draco had been anticipating, “but we want to hear it from your perspective.”
“Start from the beginning,” McGonagall ordered, “and leave nothing out.”
The beginning. Draco felt very agitated, and he wished that his hands were free to tap his fingers or smooth his hair. Which beginning? The beginning of tonight? Of his assignment? Of his involvement with the Death Eaters?
“Mr. Malfoy—” McGonagall sounded more exhausted than angry “—I assure you, we will not hesitate to use Veritaserum should you refuse to talk.”
He almost felt relieved at her words—a threat was something he knew how to handle. He lifted his chin in what he hoped appeared to be a defiant manner and said, “You can’t make me take it.”
Lupin stepped in. “Oh, but there are a number of ways that we could. It would only take one hex to force your jaw open. Or we could always charm it into a vapor and force you to inhale. Of course,” he added, eyes narrowing, “there are less pleasant methods if you prefer those.”
Malfoy knew he was defeated, but tried not to let it show on his face.
He failed miserably.
“I would advise you to cooperate, Draco,” suggested Lupin diplomatically, and Draco was taken aback by the former professor’s use of his first name.
“From this point,” McGonagall added, “it will only be to your benefit if you are working with us and not against us. I am aware that Dumbledore”—Draco inwardly wondered at the strength with which she uttered the name of the late schoolmaster—“has offered you protection, and we are prepared to make good by his promise. However, you must understand our difficult position as well, and you must be willing to compromise.”
Her eyes softened and she seemed to recede a bit.
“Draco,” she sighed, “this decision to join forces with the Order cannot have been easy for you, and judging from what I’ve heard and what little I have observed of your recent behavior and health, I would venture to say that the last few months have been a struggle as well. You may rest assured that the worst of it is over. We are willing to work with you and offer you security in exchange for your loyalty and any information you are able to give us. This could be a good thing for everyone involved, or a bad thing. It’s up to you to decide.”
Weariness and a sudden, irrepressible urge to relinquish his burdens made Draco bow his head and nod slightly. He was in a tough spot indeed, but this woman was offering him a vision of a peace and rest that he had not known for years. Granted, it was an ideal that he knew would not be fully realized in the light of the dawning war, but it was all he had to cling to.
He swallowed. “Ok,” he said, “what do you want to know?”
*********************************************************
It was a long time that they all stood there, though not as long as it seemed. When the final note of the song quivered to a halt—the first moment of true silence since the invasion had begun—Harry remembered with a dull thud the predicament that was locked upstairs in a cold cell. For a moment he considered leaving Malfoy there to rot, but a reluctant sense of guilt told him that Dumbledore would not have wanted his mercy to be offered in vain.
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley burst into the door, interrupting Harry’s thoughts, followed closely by Fleur and Professor McGonagall. Harry stood motionless as commotion and conversation swirled around him—Mrs. Weasley and Fleur reconciled in a tearful embrace, Tonks suddenly declared her love for Lupin, and everyone was somberly retelling their versions of the last few hours.
Somewhere in the midst of the chaos, Harry begun his story, and it was his that caused the most disturbance. It was difficult for him to know where to start without recounting the events in the cave, so he just began with the tower and with Malfoy’s reckless entrance.
“Malfoy!” Ron growled, gritting his teeth. “You were right about him all along Harry.”
Harry shook his head. “Not so right as it sounds, Ron,” he corrected, and then briefly recounted the conversation between the headmaster and the blonde, dutifully noting Dumbledore’s offer of protection and Malfoy’s feeble submission.
Everyone exchanged noncommittal glances, seemingly unsure of what to think about this new development.
“And he’s locked up at the present moment, you say?” Lupin asked contemplatively. Harry nodded.
“Thank you, Harry,” Professor McGonagall said, looking a bit troubled, “we will see to the boy from here.”
The hallways were unnaturally still and none of them spoke as, some time later, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny walked back to the Gryffindor wing. The silence was broken, however, (thankfully, thought Harry, for it was all but smothering him) by raucous sobs that grew louder as they neared the entrance to the common room. It was quite a ruckus, and Ron was particularly annoyed, muttering “bloody hell!” and screwing up his nose in revulsion. As they rounded the final corner they saw the source of the disturbance. The Fat Lady sat yowling in her frame, face smothered in a lacy handkerchief that shook like a leaf in the wind as she blubbered. The trio shuffled their feet uncomfortably and Harry cleared his throat loudly.
“Petrified Toadstools,” he croaked. The Fat Lady did not bother to say anything, but threw her hand to her forehead and gave a particularly excruciating wail as the portrait swung forth to admit the trio.
As soon as the portrait opened, dozens of heads snapped up from their bowed positions. Solemn, anxious faces stared up at them—faces that feared for their own safety, for their school. Their friends. Their eyes searched Harry’s for answers; the tension in the air could be physically felt. Dean Thomas stood and crossed feverishly to the four friends, the unspoken voice of the distressed group.
“Harry, what the bloody hell is going on?” he asked in low tones, eyes dark. We’ve heard terrible sounds for hours… explosions, yelling… and when I tried to leave the common room the Fat Lady wouldn’t budge.”
At that moment, Harry felt utterly exhausted. The tragedies of the last few hours weighed heavily on his spirit, and he found the task of narrating recent events a second time to be nearly unbearable. How could he possibly tell them that their beloved headmaster was dead—murdered at the hand of a trusted professor? The expectant looks on the faces of his peers suddenly seemed remarkably naïve, wretchedly innocent. They would not be half so eager to know the truth once they knew it—then they would wish they did not know, that they could live contentedly in their aloof ignorance.
He could not tell them. He could not force such burdens upon them, though he knew that very soon they would all be inevitably exposed to the same sort of horrors that he had experienced that night. No, he could not tell them. Because he also knew, with their questioning faces staring up at him, that they would never truly understand. And that thought wearied him.
“Harry?” Dean was looking at him exasperatedly.
Suddenly feeling very overwhelmed, Harry brushed past Dean and, without a backward glance, retreated to his dormitory. He collapsed onto his bed and didn’t look at Ron as he followed into the room. Neither boy spoke and neither bothered to undress as they laid on their separate beds and pulled the curtains. Harry thought he could never have slept after such a night, but eventually his breathing slowed and he felt sleep creeping up on him like a dark veil, exhaustion setting into his bones. It wasn’t until morning that he again felt the dull ache of hurt and loss.
******************************************************************
He shivered in the dark. Without his wand (which Harry had immediately snatched and pocketed), Draco had no source of light and no means to warm himself. He was completely and utterly alone. It was fortunate that he didn’t mind small spaces—in fact, he often felt safer in a confined area than in big open spaces. Still, as his quiet breathing echoed in the still silence, he found himself feeling desperately exposed, and he wished the walls would close in just a little further to hide him.
And he was hiding, though no longer from Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix. No more would he be skirting around Professors and wards and seeking moments of pathetic, indulgent refuge in girls’ restrooms. His enemies were now much darker, much more dangerous. He knew that because he knew them.
He had converted, he thought with a rush of fear and shock that nearly made him giddy. He had endured months, stressful and lonely months, of pressure, demands, and punishment. His resolve and confidence had weakened as a result, and so it was here that he found himself—prisoner in the beginnings of a war he wanted nothing to do with, and weak.
With a shudder he realized that, indeed, he was a prisoner. He envisioned himself perpetually trapped in the taunting, dungeon-like cell, blindly eating leftovers that were apparated to him by filthy house elves. His savior, ironically the man he had been striving to kill, was dead, and Draco felt an odd pang with that knowledge. It was more a pang of panic than anything (for who would take pity upon him now?), but it was mixed with a sense of sorrow, which was strange considering that he had never truly liked the wizard. Still, he had respected him, and that had to count for something.
He raked a shaky hand through his hair, which was sticky with sweat. He wondered if he were suffering an anxiety attack. Questions and thoughts pounded in syncopation with his rapid heartbeat, each one shaking him more than the last. What if Potter never came back? What if he were tortured for information? What if he were sent to Azkaban? What if—he gulped—he were turned loose to the Dark Lord? What if—
There was a resounding bang as the door to his cell slid open, bathing him in light and making him blink stupidly at the dark silhouettes of two tall, thin people. There was a moment of silence as the duo observed him.
“Mr. Malfoy,” a tight, thin voice clipped, “you will come with us.”
Restrainedly obedient, Draco tried to stand and found his legs to be quite unsteady, but he was on the defensive and was determined not to make his weakness obvious. The sudden light and the presence of other human beings countered his nervous despair, and he felt a (very slight) surge of renewed sense.
As he walked forward to meet his captors, a deeper, more masculine voice muttered an incantation and his hands flew behind the small of his back, magically binding at the wrists. He moved into the hallway and the two figures fell into step beside him, one on his left and one on his right. As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the torches, he found himself to be flanked by Professor McGonagall and the werewolf Lupin. The flames of the torches licked at the stone walls and cast shadows on the grim faces of his captors. As he glanced sideways at Lupin he remembered the hungry eyes of Fenrir and felt uneasy.
They led him, not speaking, down a series of corridors, to a door that he knew opened into Professor McGonagall’s office—or old office, he thought, for she was undoubtedly the new Headmistress and would in time sit at Dumbledore’s old desk. She flicked her wand at the handle and the door swung forth to admit the threesome. Without looking at him, McGonagall moved behind her desk, sat in the plush armchair behind it, and stood again restlessly, leaning forward with her fists on the desk and looking down. She motioned for Draco to sit in the seat facing her as Lupin leaned against the wall to his left.
Lupin spoke first. “Harry has informed us of tonight’s events,” said Lupin in a voice that was less harsh that Draco had been anticipating, “but we want to hear it from your perspective.”
“Start from the beginning,” McGonagall ordered, “and leave nothing out.”
The beginning. Draco felt very agitated, and he wished that his hands were free to tap his fingers or smooth his hair. Which beginning? The beginning of tonight? Of his assignment? Of his involvement with the Death Eaters?
“Mr. Malfoy—” McGonagall sounded more exhausted than angry “—I assure you, we will not hesitate to use Veritaserum should you refuse to talk.”
He almost felt relieved at her words—a threat was something he knew how to handle. He lifted his chin in what he hoped appeared to be a defiant manner and said, “You can’t make me take it.”
Lupin stepped in. “Oh, but there are a number of ways that we could. It would only take one hex to force your jaw open. Or we could always charm it into a vapor and force you to inhale. Of course,” he added, eyes narrowing, “there are less pleasant methods if you prefer those.”
Malfoy knew he was defeated, but tried not to let it show on his face.
He failed miserably.
“I would advise you to cooperate, Draco,” suggested Lupin diplomatically, and Draco was taken aback by the former professor’s use of his first name.
“From this point,” McGonagall added, “it will only be to your benefit if you are working with us and not against us. I am aware that Dumbledore”—Draco inwardly wondered at the strength with which she uttered the name of the late schoolmaster—“has offered you protection, and we are prepared to make good by his promise. However, you must understand our difficult position as well, and you must be willing to compromise.”
Her eyes softened and she seemed to recede a bit.
“Draco,” she sighed, “this decision to join forces with the Order cannot have been easy for you, and judging from what I’ve heard and what little I have observed of your recent behavior and health, I would venture to say that the last few months have been a struggle as well. You may rest assured that the worst of it is over. We are willing to work with you and offer you security in exchange for your loyalty and any information you are able to give us. This could be a good thing for everyone involved, or a bad thing. It’s up to you to decide.”
Weariness and a sudden, irrepressible urge to relinquish his burdens made Draco bow his head and nod slightly. He was in a tough spot indeed, but this woman was offering him a vision of a peace and rest that he had not known for years. Granted, it was an ideal that he knew would not be fully realized in the light of the dawning war, but it was all he had to cling to.
He swallowed. “Ok,” he said, “what do you want to know?”
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