“I’m just not sure what to make of it,” Tonks sighed holding up the Daily Prophet and jabbing at a headline: Five Muggles Found Stuck to Tall Buildings—Death Eaters Assumed Responsible. The article below it described the incident, greatly detailing the process of removing the people from the buildings and the difficulty in reconstructing their memories as well as those of the disturbed Muggles who had witnessed the bizarre sight. Specialists were currently investigating the origins of such a spell, which was a severe form of the sticking charm, and further information would be released upon confirmation.
“It doesn’t add up, does it?” Bill said thoughtfully, “You would think Death Eaters would be more up for, oh, say killing people than playing practical jokes.”
“Now Bill, don’t judge them just because they're Death Eaters,” chided Fred, “a good practical joke can be good for the soul.”
“Downright therapeutic, in fact,” George nodded, sipping at his steaming tea.
Tonks folded the paper. “I think the twins are right. Looks like a prank to me… and a pretty sick one at that.”
They all mused over this possibility.
“Could it mean something?” Ginny asked. “Like… like a code? Were the Muggles placed in any sort of arrangement? A symbol or something?”
Bill grinned at her, “You always have been bright, Gin. We’ve got a team of code breakers and translators working on it—”
“Which your brother is heading up!” Molly said proudly, patting Bill on the shoulder.
Bill rolled his eyes. “But so far there doesn’t seem to be any sort of structure to the placement. Which isn’t surprising… when Death Eaters attack they usually do it with violence and loud bangs, not with subtlety and hidden messages.”
“Mmm,” Ginny agreed.
Lunch being finished, the twins left to open their store for the afternoon while Molly began to pile the dishes neatly for the house elves. “Ginny, dear, would you make up a plate for Draco while I Floo your father? Just have Dobby take it up when you’re finished.”
“Where is Dad?” Ginny asked as she set about arranging the biscuits, ham, and corn on an empty plate. “And the rest of the Order?” It was common for various members to disappear for meals, or even for whole days, but today it seemed like a larger number than usual were missing. In fact, besides her brothers and her Mum, Tonks was the only one who remained.
Molly hesitated. “I’m not quite sure, Dear. I believe they’re all at the Ministry for something or other.”
“It’s a conference,” Bill offered as Tonks and Molly looked at him sternly. “Scrimgeour wants to make some sort of agreement with the Order regarding high-level, round the clock security for certain Muggle officials that the Death Eaters may see fit to eliminate.” He glanced at his mother. “What? She’s nearly grown up, Mum,” he said of Ginny, who was listening intently, though the information wasn’t as substantial as she had hoped.
“Well in any case,” Molly sighed, “the meeting should be on Lunch break, and I need to go Floo your father about the… well, I just need to speak with him,” she said, clearing her throat and leaving the Great Hall.
Ginny bristled inwardly as she finished making the plate. Living among the Order wouldn’t be quite so aggravating if she had any clue what was going on.
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Draco sat on a stiff-backed, maroon chair looking out over the Hogwarts grounds, an open book strewn forgotten across his lap. The chill permeated through the frosted windows seeped through his robes, but he barely noticed. He was used to the cold—the Slytherin dungeons in particular were dank. And shadowy. And mysterious. And dangerous, on occasion. But they were familiar, and that was why he walked them in the afternoons sometimes, between lunch and training sessions, when no one would think to look for him. Living in the Gryffindor tower everything felt foreign—too warm, too bright, too populated—and the dungeons provided a much needed escape.
There was a soft knock at the door, and when he didn’t say anything it opened to admit the Weasley girl carrying a plate of food. An uncomfortable feeling needled him as he battled between the agonizing urge to make a scathing remark about the gross amount of food on her plate and the head knowledge that he should at least act civil. She was, after all, dedicated to the organization that was keeping him hidden and therefore alive, and probably had enough influence to turn the tables out of his favor if she so chose. But as she stepped across the room to where he was seated with a determined look in her eye, he remembered the brief look of pity that had crossed her face when she had caught him unawares with her pitiful Legilimency. He could not stop the brainstorm of possible insults that then beset him. Oh, bloody hell.
“What’s that, Weasley? Did you sneak away with the family dinner before anyone noticed?” he drawled.
“No,” she answered sweetly, “we have a right banquet downstairs, in fact. But since you seem to be too good to eat with the rest of the world, I brought you the leftovers.”
He frowned at the plate. “They usually send a house elf up with it. The help around here seems to get shoddier by the day.”
Although the girl said nothing as she forcefully handed him the plate of food, he thought her saw a muscle twitch in her jaw and her nostrils flare briefly. She then proceeded to stand with her arms crossed as he poked at the ham with his fork. He raised an eyebrow at her.
“If you’re planning on waiting for me to finish you may want to take a seat. I’m not in the habit of gobbling like your half-starved brothers.”
She didn’t move.
“Or were you expecting me to tip you? Because all I have on me are Galleons, and your service hasn’t been worth near that. You haven’t even smiled once.”
“I was waiting for you to thank me,” she said through gritted teeth.
If he had been one to laugh, or if he were even familiar enough with the urge to recognize it, he would have. Instead he just stared at her as he buttered a biscuit and took a giant bite.
She gave a grunt of disgust, turned, and strode toward the door, and Draco was almost disappointed that the battle of wits was over. He thought fast for another insult, some offensive remark to offer in parting, something to spark a reaction or at least spite her one last time before her exit.
“Why did you lie to the Order about your precious trio?” he heard himself ask before he was sure of his next move.
Her reaction, if there was going to be one, was delayed. “Excuse me?” she said, turning slowly.
“Well seeing as how they questioned me about your friends’ disappearance, I assume they asked you as well.”
She said nothing.
“No? Perhaps I’m giving them too much credit.”
She eyed him suspiciously and said, “Of course they asked me… but what makes you think I know where they went?”
He had no reason other than speculation, so he just shrugged and took another bite of the biscuit.
“And if you’re so sure I know where they are, why haven’t you ratted me out?” she asked testily.
He sneered. “If I had done that, they might have found Potty and his sidekicks by now and ruined their chances of getting killed.”
Weasley narrowed her eyes and Draco grinned—this was the reaction he’d been pushing for. He took another bite of the biscuit and chewed absentmindedly as the girl nearly growled, “Let’s get one thing straight, Malfoy. I understand your circumstances and I am willing to tolerate you. I am willing to be civil towards you, and I had even started to feel a twinge of compassion—” she wrinkled her nose in disgust at herself, “—and I brought you your dinner because I thought you could use some company. But I will not stand here like a bloody troll and listen to you insult my friends! I realize that you’re a Malfoy and there’s no hope for you to change, but I thought that with all the Order’s done for you, you would have at least had the decency to suppress your vileness a little bit.”
With that she spun on her heal and slammed the door behind her. And strangely, it wasn’t her anger that left Draco feeling miffed and out of sorts, it was his own lack of pleasure in provoking that anger.
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They returned on Saturday, and that night Harry lay in bed unable to sleep. Anxiety coursed within him as his mind darted distractedly, first hypothesizing about Horcruxes, lingering for a minute on Ginny’s slender shoulders, and finally resting upon the war.
Until yesterday, Death Eater activity had been completely absent since Dumbledore’s death—a fact that surprised everyone. With the Order’s wise leader out of the picture, the time seemed ripe for Voldemort to execute his plans. The stillness made Harry uneasy. The war had started with the attack on Hogwarts, there was no doubt about that, but so far it was a cold war. The Order was antsy, nervous, waiting for the next battle, the next attack, the next anything.
Harry, on the other hand, was hoping to put off the climax of the war as long as possible—or at least until he had found and destroyed all of the Horcruxes. His mission to Grimmauld Place with Ron and Hermione had proved fruitless. The heavy golden locket was nowhere in the building, he was sure—Kreacher’s stash had not contained it.
And their return to Hogwarts had been just as discouraging. The minute they appeared in the dining hall they were pounced upon by Mrs. Weasley, who was followed by nearly every other member of the Order, all of them outraged and ecstatic in the same breath.
“For Merlin’s sake, where were you three?! We’ve been worried sick! Leaving without telling anyone?!”
“Don’t you realize how dangerous that was? No place is safe anymore…”
“Ron, we were worried your chocolate frogs would go bad, so we saved you the heartache of finding them ruined…”
“We’ve been sending search parties for days—what could have ever possessed you to pull a stunt like that?”
“Let them rest, they look exhausted… we can question them later…”
And the questioning, indeed, had proven to be both vigorous and hostile. Thankfully, Lupin had refuted the proposal to use Veritaserum, wisely suggesting that they give the teenagers the opportunity to reveal the truth on their own accord, and if necessary, resort to Veritaserum to fill in the gaps. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had appeased the Order momentarily with half-truths and vague answers, and were finally dismissed in frustration with the promise of meticulous surveillance and further questioning in the morning.
Harry was wracking his brain trying to come up with a convincing story when he heard Malfoy writhing in his bed. He snickered to himself, finding the idea of the arrogant Slytherin having a nightmare amusing, but when the boy began to mumble feverishly, Harry became irritated and yelled, “Malfoy!”
Instead, Ron sat straight up and spoke blearily, “Huh? What’s going on? Are the curtains getting you, too?”
Malfoy continued to wrestle and finally Harry got out of his bed and yanked open the curtains to his bed and yelled “Malfoy!”
Malfoy’s eyes flashed open and he immediately gripped his left forearm. Harry was surprised to see that the boy’s hair was matted to his sweaty forehead and his cheeks were wet. He was panting and looked terrified.
“You had a nightmare,” Harry said coldly and took a step back, trying not to appear startled.
Draco sat up with difficulty and gulped a few times. A look of intense pain etched his features. “I—the mark…” he gasped, and Harry immediately understood.
For a minute he wasn’t sure what to do. What could he do? His first thought was of Snape, who had often endured the burn of the mark, but the slimy Professor and only inside connection to Death Eater meetings had betrayed them.
“Harry, what—?”
“Ron, go get Professor Lupin.”
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It was only a few minutes before Ron returned with Lupin—and the rest of the bloody Order, it seemed—but it felt much longer as the fierce pain in Draco’s forearm began to creep its way up his shoulder and into his neck. He sat on the edge of his bed, keeled over and gripping his arm to his stomach. The pressure did little to alleviate the pain, so he held his breath and gritted his teeth; the more he moved, the more it hurt. He had never ignored the Dark Lord’s summons before. He had never needed to.
When Ron returned with the werewolf, Madame Pomfrey was also with them. They were followed by Tonks, McGonagall, Shacklebolt, Moody, and the entire Weasley family. The nurse knelt by the bed and asked him irritating questions which he answered in a strained voice.
"How bad is the pain?”
“Indescribable.”
“Is it limited to your forearm?”
“Hell no.”
“Is it causing you to feel dizzy?”
“Yes.”
“Nauseous?”
“Very.”
The nurse finally stood to speak to Lupin. "I’m not sure if there’s much I can do, but I have some potions that combined may ease the pain a little.”
“What did you do for Severus?”
“Nothing. He never ignored the call.”
The witch left, but the dormitory was still crowded and unmercifully noisy. It seemed that every occupant of the room was discussing his condition and just what to make of it. He felt like screaming, like telling them all to bugger off (though less politely) and leave him alone to concentrate on breathing steadily and keeping his tense muscles from twitching. If any of them had been paying attention to him, he might have done just that. But ironically, none of the detestable bunch seemed to have any awareness of the object of their conversations. They were oblivious to his pain.
Heat flushed him from both inside his suffering body and from the number of people in the small room. Suddenly the little oxygen he was now rapidly sucking in did not seem enough, and as the perspiration dripped down his scrunched face he felt a twinge of panic. He was keenly aware of his exploding heartbeat and the tightness in his throat, and was quite certain he was about to faint, scream, cry, or vomit, when a cool cloth pressed gently against his forehead and he released a gasping breath of relief.
“Try to calm down,” a soft voice said, “it’ll be over soon and then you can rest.”
He glanced up feverishly into the calm eyes of the Weasley girl. Potter stood behind her. For a moment he felt like sneering at them, snapping at the lowly girl not to touch him. But as she tenderly dabbed at his temples and neck, his breathing became less labored and his racing heart gradually began to slow. He rarely felt gratitude, but her kind touch and the relief that accompanied it were so soothing that a dry sob rose in his throat. He swallowed it hard.
As Weasley continued to tend to him, the pain in Draco’s arm slowly began to ebb, starting with his cramped neck and working its way down his shoulder. The Dark Lord must be getting ready to lift the call, Draco realized, and wondered with a stab of fear if he was able to know that one of those branded had not responded. He pushed aside the thought and glanced up once more, slightly embarrassed at his state, to find Weasley gazing at him with a neutral expression. Potter, however, was eyeing him bemusedly.
“What are you staring at, Potter?” Draco sneered.
Harry shrugged and was quiet for a moment before asking, “It hurts worse when you ignore it?”
“Obviously,” Draco spat.
“And you feel it at the whim of the Dark Lord?”
Draco just rolled his eyes as Weasley looked between him and Potter. “What are you getting at?”
Though the other boy was looking at him, he seemed to be staring straight through him as he said, “I guess we both have our scars.”
***********************************************************************
Back in the Gryffindor commons where the occupants of the castle (minus one exhausted and ill-tempered Slytherin) congregated in the wake of the excitement, Ron was having a conniption.
“This is bloody ridiculous! That pompous git isn’t safe. We’re not safe! Here we are, Harry and I, sharing our dormitory with an evil, murderous Death Eater, and he’s not even grateful for it! He struts around with that ugly black mark on it and acts like the castle belongs to him!”
“For heaven’s sake, Ron,” Molly scoffed, “you’re not in any danger. And you knew he was marked long before this… what difference does it make now?”
“But—but, isn’t it against the laws to have the mark? Shouldn’t he be sent directly to Azkaban? I mean, think of what he probably had to do to get it,” he said, shivering a little.
Hermione rolled her eyes discreetly and said, “Honestly… there’s no need to be so dramatic—”
“I’m NOT being dramatic! I bet he had to drink Thestral blood, or… or torture a Muggle… or even kill one!”
“Then why don’t you ask him?” Ginny said testily. “If you’re so concerned about it just ask him nicely and maybe he’ll tell you. He’s been acting much less childish than some people,” she said, glaring at him pointedly. “Besides, you haven’t even been here the last few days. If you had been, you’d know that he doesn’t strut around the castle so much as he holes up in the dormitory.”
Ron spluttered. “Ginny! You’re on his side!” He stomped over to her and put a threatening finger in her face. “Something happened while we were gone, didn’t it? I saw the way you were with him just now… you almost acted like you felt bad for him… Ginny, did he do something to you?”
“Merlin, Ron!” Ginny nearly shouted, “What if I do feel bad for him? Didn’t you see how much pain he was in?”
“That is quite enough!” Arthur said sternly, coming up behind Molly and shooting Looks at his two youngest children. “Ginny, lower your voice. And Ron, I won’t have you storming about causing a ruckus over something that the rest of us have come to terms with.”
“Do you really think we haven’t taken precautions?” Mad-Eye Moody growled from the corner, having had quite enough of Ron’s outburst. “There are spells, boy… wards and enchantments that can prevent a person from leaving… from communicating……… booby traps, if you will. Do you think the Order would be stupid enough to give the boy complete freedom?”
“I’m sure he feels trapped as it is,” Tonks added from behind Lupin, “he has no friends and nothing to do with his time.”
“And his poor mother,” Molly said tearfully. “Who knows where she is… or if she’s even alive…”
“He’s just a boy,” Lupin said gently. “If we don’t help him, he has no one.”
“It’s what Dumbledore wanted, Ron,” Harry offered softly.
Ron glanced around at them all defensively, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly before finally realizing that he was outnumbered. Resignation and a hint of shame flitted across his face, but Ginny sighed as she watched him muster his pride, say “I’m sleeping with Fred and George,” and stomp out of the room.
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Author notes: Anyone got any ideas on why the Death Eaters would put Muggles on buildings? Because I don't. Hahaha. I have an idea of where I may take it if I don't get any better suggestions... buuuuut your input would be much appreciated! And you can still review even if you don't have any ideas! :)
To Be Continued.
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This story is a favorite of 23 members. Members who liked Redemption also liked 898 other stories.
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