Choices

Chapter Twelve - Through the Dawn

Not saying

Not charmed at all;

Not saying

That you weren't worth the fall...

~Tori Amos, Crazy

***

"I need to see the Headmaster, sir."

There was a long silence, without even the sound of breath; to Draco it seemed to stretch out for years. Eventually he couldn't take it any longer, and looked up at the Head of Slytherin. Snape perfectly still behind his desk, fingers steepled before his chin and eyes fixed unblinkingly on Draco.

"Sir?" he asked finally, wondering if he had just made a very big mistake indeed. His entire body felt twisted and tight with tension, and snakes coiled and writhed in his stomach - if only Snape would say something, he thought desperately, put him out of his misery...

"Very well, Malfoy." Snape rose suddenly from his chair, moving towards the fireplace as Draco took a startled step back. "I will ask Professor Dumbledore whether he will see you."

"Thank y-" Draco began, but Snape had already bent forward, lank black hair swinging down to hide his face, and thrown something into the flames that danced in the grate. Like something from a dream, Draco remembered fifth year, and Pansy's giggling speculation that the Potions Master must dye it.

Snape's dark-robed form obscured all details of whatever he was doing in the fireplace; the first Draco knew of any change was when he heard Dumbledore's voice suddenly issuing from below the mantel. "Yes, Severus?" the Headmaster's tones were mild, all gentle curiosity, but Draco could not repress a shiver. He had been brought up to despise this man, and then taught by events to fear him; this was not a course he would have taken, had he any other choice.

"Forgive me for disturbing you, Headmaster," Snape murmured in oily, reverential tones. "I have a student here wishing to speak to you; I can send him away if you wish..." Draco forced himself to close his eyes and breathe deeply - in, two three, out, two three...

"That won't be necessary, Severus," Dumbledore's voice said calmly. "Please send Mr Malfoy up now, if you would..." Draco's eyes snapped open. He... Oh, shit. How much does he know?

"As you wish, Professor." Snape's voice held a hint of displeasure, but his expression was bland as he straightened and turned to face Draco. "You know where the Headmaster's office is, Malfoy." No warning, no encouragement. Draco could recognise the dismissal implicit in the words; that seemed to be all he was going to get, and strangely, he was grateful. At least there was one person who would not make this difficult for him.

***

Huddled miserably in the corner of the forgotten, empty room, Harry hugged at his knees, trying to will himself to relax, to forget about what had happened. It took him several long moments before the familiarity of his surroundings made sense to him; he had fled here blindly, trying to stave off the tears of shame and frustration and loss that welled up in his eyes. Raising his head curiously, Harry started as he realised where his flight had taken him. The room was more than just familiar - this was the place where he had seen what he'd thought was a miracle, reflected in the silver-blank surface of a mirror. With a choked laugh, he wondered bitterly what he would see if he could look into the Mirror of Erised right now.

God, how had it all come to this? He had been so sure that by making that one effort to find Draco and give him what protection he could against the nightmares, he could somehow end it. What was it they called it on those ridiculous daytime TV shows Aunt Petunia watched? Closure? Something like that. He had thought that if Draco no longer needed his protection or assistance, if the thread of shared dream and confessed terror that bound them were to be snapped, that he could finally get on with his life. Forget about Draco, give the past its due and concentrate on the fight against Voldemort.

It just seemed so bloody damned ironic that Draco would have to upset Harry's emotional balance all over again.

What did he think he was doing? Harry wondered quietly, tipping his head back to rest against the cold, bare stone of the wall. His mouth twisted bitterly. Trying to buy me off, to pay me somehow? Maybe he really hasn't changed, after all... the worst thing, the absolute worst, was that Draco had kissed him as though he meant it. It had shocked Harry so much that for a moment he had been helpless, unable to do anything but respond. But then, that sickening tide of bitter revulsion had swept through him, and he had tasted pity on Draco's lips, pity and condescension. It had been far too much to bear.

Scrubbing his fingers unevenly though his hair - and undoubtedly causing it to stick up even more than usual - Harry sighed and contemplated staying here indefinitely. The idea of facing Draco again, after that scene, made his stomach squirm, and suddenly he was very thankful that the term would only last for two more weeks. It had been a long time since he had been in what he still thought of as the Mirror Room; absently, Harry wondered whether it was one of those Hogwarts rooms that seemed to have minds of their own, appearing in the Charms wing one week and the North Tower the next. When he had first stumbled upon it, hadn't it been near the library?

Of course, if Harry did stay here much longer, Ron and Hermione would send out the search parties looking for him. He had promised Ron - both of them really - that he would come back. Promised to talk to them, although he still had no clue what he was going to say. If nothing else, Draco trusts me, he thought. There was no way that he could let Hermione and Ron know anything about Draco's connection with the nightmares - and there was no way on Earth or below it that he wanted to explain to his best friends that he had fallen for the boy they most despised. Ron hated Draco much more than Harry ever had.

Maybe I could get by with just the bare details, no names? Harry mused despairingly. God, if I don't get a move on they'll be scouring the castle for me... Still, it took him a while to muster the energy to get back to his feet, and he found that his steps, as he made his way dispiritedly back to Gryffindor Tower, were slow and wavering.

***

The sight of the stone gryphon awaiting him at the foot of the staircase almost sent Draco into a blind panic. Its eyes seemed accusing, and he remembered all the other times he had ever been here - times when he had been summoned, usually as a result of some misdemeanour or other, rather than been impelled to seek an interview on his own behalf. None of his previous visits to the Headmaster's office had been at all pleasant; the revolving walls of the stairway had come to symbolise disgrace, and punishment, and the ominous prospect of letters home to his father. It took an effort for Draco to unstick his foot from the ground for long enough to climb onto the step, and the harsh sound of grating stone as the magical guardian beast began to rise upwards clawed and shredded at his nerves.

I can't do this, a little voice was whispering in the back of his mind, what made me think I could do this? Draco shivered a little, staring upwards at the rapidly nearing stairwell roof and imagining the look on his father's face when he found out about this. He wanted to be very far away indeed when the news of his son's perfidy reached Lucius.

As the stones ground to a halt Draco blinked, realising that not only was the Headmaster's door open, but the man himself was standing in it, waiting.

"Ah, Draco." Dumbledore twinkled at him in that irritating manner of his, and beckoned him forward into the office; with nowhere else to go, Draco didn't really have much choice but to follow, despite the shaking of his knees. "Do come in, my boy; have a seat." There was a single, plain wooden chair set opposite the desk, and Draco laid a hand on its back uncertainly, watching with a certain amount of detached interest as his fingers tightened spasmodically and the colour bled from his already pale knuckles. If he sat down, would he be able to get up again? For that matter, would he be able to say what he had to? This was important - the most important thing he had ever done, in a life that had been full of small things blown up into grand gestures. The stark unreality of the setting, of sitting down to a cosy little chat with the Headmaster, seemed to catch at his throat.

Dumbledore's chair scraping against the floor shocked Draco out of his bemused contemplation, and he looked up to find the Headmaster taking his own seat behind the desk, settling his scarlet-and-gold robes around him. "You may sit down if you wish, Draco," he said gently without looking up, apparently engrossed in searching through a drawer full of papers for something.

"I'd... rather stand, sir," Draco managed to get out, hastily adding, "if you don't mind..."

"As you wish, of course." Dumbledore gave him that falsely foolish elderly-eccentric smile again and proffered a paper bag. "Mint humbug? No? Very well, then." He popped one of the striped mints into his own mouth with evident relish, and propped the bag against the inkstand on the desk. When he spoke again, his voice had changed beyond all recognition; it was serious and sober, and his eyes were no longer twinkling. "Now, young Mr Malfoy, why don't you tell me why it was so urgent for you to come and see me this evening?"

Draco took a deep breath, then let it out in a rush, hands clenching even tighter on the back of the chair. What to say? He had focused so hard on actually getting here, on getting himself to this point, that he hadn't thought much beyond it. The image of his father's face came into his mind again, much stronger this time; he could almost hear the condemning words spilling from Lucius' lips. I can't do this, he thought again in terror as the enormity of what he was doing came back to him.

He might have faltered, then, might have fled back to the dungeons in terror, but a sudden sound echoing through the room jarred him from his panic. A beautiful, eerie song, no more than three notes, but a song nevertheless. Startled, Draco looked up to see Dumbledore's phoenix sitting on a perch in the corner, regarding him quizzically.

"Mr Malfoy?"

Realising he was gaping, Draco re-hinged his jaw with an effort and turned back to the Headmaster. "Sir..." He swallowed, then plunged ahead. "You know that my father is - is a Death Eater." Draco had to fight to keep his voice from trailing off into miserable silence as the Headmaster's tiny nod prompted him for more. "It - he - Voldemort... he wants me too. I'm eighteen this Midwinter, and he... I - I can't. I know my father wants me to, but I..." He stopped the flow of words with a harsh gasp, and tried to fight his way back to the shores of rational speech. "I want - I'm asking for protection." At last he raised his head, and looked Dumbledore straight in the eye, trying to let all his fear and shame and helplessness show. "There's nothing else I can do..."

There was dead silence for so long that Draco began to fidget again, the serpents in his stomach beginning to coil and writhe about one another again. He was going to be refused, he just knew it... Dumbledore stared down at his clasped hands where they rested on the desk, and when he finally looked up at Draco, there was something strange and painful in his eyes.

"Are you quite sure, Draco," he asked very slowly, looking suddenly much older, "that you know exactly what you are asking me for?"

Draco drew a halting breath to reply, but it froze in his throat when an all-too-familiar voice interrupted the quiet sanctuary of the office.

"On the contrary," Lucius Malfoy said behind him, in a voice like razorblades wrapped in silk, "I don't believe Draco knows any such thing."

***

The common room was empty when Harry dragged himself through the portrait hole, only Ron's head visible over the back of a sofa by the fireplace. It took him a moment to realise that the apparent abandonment was because it was dinner time, and the rest of the House would be down in the Great Hall. Harry wasn't hungry at all; the idea of eating just made him feel vaguely sick.

At the sound of his footsteps, Ron looked around and grinned at him, and the motion seemed to dislodge Hermione from his shoulder; she sat up with a tiny groan that faded into silence at the sight of Harry. Absently, he wondered if he looked as miserable as he felt, because they both seemed to be giving him funny looks. He was surprised, though, when Hermione rose and came around the sofa to take his hands.

"Harry." He let her draw him down to a seat, trying to match her relieved smile. It came out shaky and he took a deep breath, trying to will himself to calm.

"Hey, Hermione," he murmured, twisting his hands around one knee. There was an uncomfortable silence for several moments, and at last he heard Ron sigh impatiently.

"Look, Harry, we know you. We know something's wrong. And... we were kind of hoping you might be able to tell us what, before we go insane worrying about you."

That made Harry look up, and he almost regretted it. They were worried about him; he could see it in Ron's eyes, in Hermione's bitten lip, and he simply didn't know what to tell them. How anything he said could make them feel better about it. After all, he thought with a flash of the old humour, it wasn't as though it would make him feel better - not after that afternoon - and it was him they were worrying about.

"I - I was stupid," he said at last, when the silence drew out again and began to suffocate him. "I did something really stupid, and I'm sorry; I should have talked to you about this before." You could have reminded me who Draco is; I should have known better...

***

Draco only barely managed to stop himself from whirling around in horror. As it was, his vision went to grey for a moment, and he thought he swayed on his feet. He had thought things couldn't get much worse - he had just been proved very wrong indeed. There was the sound of steps on the stone floor behind him, the familiar confident stroll, coming to a halt just behind him, and he swallowed thickly as his father's eyes bored into his back.

"Well, Draco?" Lucius' voice was a quiet hiss of restrained fury. "Care to explain yourself?" Dumbledore was staring across the desk at him with something sorrowful in his eyes, but if there was a message there Draco could not comprehend it. His hands were shaking at his sides, and he balled his fists, trying to summon some anger, some kind of energy, anything to get him through this. He was going to have to turn, he knew, and face Lucius, but it took him what felt like forever before he could manage it.

The reality was worse than his worst imaginings. His father's face was flat, impassive and masked in Malfoy dignity, but Draco could see the scorn and contempt in his eyes. "Father, I..." He didn't make it any further; Lucius' gloved hand drew back and the next thing Draco knew he was reeling back against the desk with the right half of his face on fire.

"I know very well what you're doing," Lucius hissed at him, flexing his gloved fingers jerkily. Draco's eyes flickered from his father's hand to his icy eyes, and the words dried in his throat. "I suggest you attempt to convince me, very quickly, that this is some kind of practical joke, or..."

Draco stared, cradling his smarting cheekbone with one hand. His father had never struck him before; all his punishments had been in the form of confinements, and even as a child his discipline had been left to his mother. He simply couldn't seem to think past the shock of it now. Lucius lip curled disdainfully, and his eyes raked his son in contempt. "What, Draco, nothing to say for yourself? You do surprise me," he murmured. Draco squeezed his eyes shut for a long, painful moment, trying to push all the confusing emotions aside. Half of him was clamouring for him to back down, to relent and apologise and beg his beloved father to forgive him. The rest of him was nothing more than a whimpering bundle of terror, curled in the corner of his mind with shuddering arms wrapped about itself. He had to say something - he had to do something...

"Father, I... I'm sorry," he choked out through a throat that felt raw. "Please... try and understand..." Lucius' snort hit him like a physical blow, and for a moment Draco thought his legs might give out after all. "I have to do this," he all but whispered, unable to look his father in the eye.

"Understand what?" Lucius' voice was light and careless, all needles and poisoned honey. "That my only son and heir is a traitor to his own name? That you have decided to turn your back on everything I have ever taught you, that you have wilfully joined with my enemies?"

Draco's head snapped up violently, and he stepped back involuntarily, words of protest finding their way to his tongue. The motion seemed to confirm something to Lucius, and his mouth compressed into a thin line of displeasure. Dimly, in the back of his mind, Draco recognised the expression; it had been the one his father had worn at the end of second year, the one that told the world to run before something very painful happened to someone.

***

"Harry," Hermione said after a moment, in a very quiet voice that made him look up. "Saying things like that is not helping us to stop worrying about you. Will you just please tell us what's bothering you?"

Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I'm just not even sure where to start. There's... some stuff I can't tell you..."

"We're your friends -" Ron began, but Harry overrode him.

But you're not Draco's. "It's not my secret to tell, all right?" There was an odd silence after that for a moment, and he looked up to find them exchanging a strange glance. Sighing, he just waited for it.

"Harry," Ron asked after a long and awkward moment, "have you been... seeing someone? Behind our backs?"

"No!" Harry protested automatically, but then he sighed and pressed a hand to his forehead. "Not... exactly. Not the way you mean."

"But there is someone?" Hermione pressed and he just nodded miserably. There was silence for another few minutes, then Ron's hand squeezed his shoulder gently.

"Can you tell us?"

I suppose I'm going to have to, was his first uncharitable thought, but he suppressed it. They cared, he told himself firmly. Cared about him. It wasn't as though they were the bloody Dursleys; Harry knew neither of them would breathe a word of anything he told them in confidence.

"I - he - needed my help," he murmured, saying as much as he dared. Hermione made a tiny gesture of shock, but Ron didn't react at all, and Harry wondered how much his best friend actually knew. "I was stupid," he repeated miserably, pulling his knees up to his chest. "I... misinterpreted things, is all," he murmured into the scuffed knees of his jeans.

Hermione's hand on his hair startled him into raising his head. Her eyes were strangely sad, and Harry wondered at it. "You fell in love," she murmured, and he stared at her for a moment, then laughed bitterly.

"I suppose I did." There was a difference, he realised, between thinking such a thing in the privacy of his own head and actually admitting it to someone. I love him. He could feel his mouth quirk into a smile as he stared into the fire. God, I'm an idiot.

"With a boy?" Her voice was faintly questioning now, and he realised what she was trying to ask.

"Yeah. Suppose that makes me gay, then, huh?" He realised with a shock that he didn't need to see her face to know that she was smiling. God, when had he got so far separated from his friends? He had spent too much time concentrating on Draco this term; he would have to do better in future.

"Oh, not necessarily," Hermione murmured, still stroking his hair. It felt strangely comforting, and Harry repressed the impulse to duck out from beneath her hand, to shrug away. "You're still just Harry; labels don't really mean anything at all."

"It's going to bother people," Harry muttered, knowing that this was one of the things he had tried to avoid thinking about for the past few weeks. "The Prophet will have a field day."

"Like it's any of their business," Ron scoffed irritably.

"You know what they're like, though," Harry protested, lifting his head to try and analyse Ron's expression. "It... doesn't bother you?"

Ron gave him an uncomfortable grin. "That you like boys? Nah - I've kind of got used to the idea." He saw their puzzled expressions and rolled his eyes. "Bill," he informed them, and it was Harry's turn to blink in astonishment, trying to process the information. "Don't let on I told you, though, okay?"

Hermione took control of the conversation with a deft twist that made Harry wonder if she had known or guessed that already; it wasn't as though he had really ever paid much attention to... that kind of thing. He ground his teeth in irritation; this whole mess with Draco had rather graphically demonstrated to him that he was probably going to have to get used to it.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Hermione was asking, and Harry bit his tongue.

"Not really," he murmured, but then sighed as their concerned expressions came clear in his sight again. "There's not much else I can tell you, all right?"

"Okay," Hermione soothed him, patting his shoulder in that annoying motherly way. "We're just worried about you, Harry. You've been so distant for the last couple of weeks."

***

"So that's the way it is," Lucius hissed. "I should have known you'd never amount to anything, boy, you always were a whining, snivelling little coward. I don't know why I'm even surprised, I should have seen something like this coming, you were never fit to be a Malfoy." Distantly, Draco realised that his eyes were as wide as saucers, pinned like a butterfly to a board under his father's furious glare. Those words, words that he had thought to himself in the dark loneliness of the night, seemed to reach into his soul and strip him bare. Suddenly, desperately, he wanted Harry with him more than anything. Harry was so strong, Harry would know how to face down his father - but Harry wasn't here, and Harry wouldn't help him anyway, Harry would never be his again. That hurt, but it was a distant pain, incomparable with his father's vicious, poisoned words.

"So tell me, Draco," Lucius all but purred, "When, exactly, were you planning on letting me know about this little scheme of yours? Before, or after you betrayed all our secrets to the enemy? Planning on taking us down yourself, are you? Going to join the forces of light," there was a palpable sneer in the words and Draco winced helplessly, "and fight for the pathetic Mudblood army?" He was leaning forwards now, his words lashing like whips, and Draco simply stood there frozen, unable to move in the face of this assault. Unable to protect himself, just as he had been unable to protect himself from the nightmares, from Voldemort.

"You know, there was actually a time when I thought you might amount to something," Lucius sneered down at him. "I halfway hoped you might grow up into a decent, respectable representative of the family. Obviously I was grievously mistaken; you're not a Malfoy at all. A Malfoy has strength, and honour; a Malfoy knows his duty." Lucius moved closer, his voice lowering to a venomous hiss. "A Malfoy never betrays his own."

Draco was lost, just letting the words wash over him and slice at him as they would. He stared into his father's furious eyes, seeing his own face mirrored there, his own pale aristocratic features curiously altered. This was Draco Malfoy as he had been meant to be, the true heir of his ancient name and bloodline, worthy of the power that was his birthright. It was like looking in a mirror, and seeing a face subtly different from his own. With a blinding flash of insight, Draco realised that it was he himself who was the flawed reflection; it was he who was inferior, he who was lacking. Draco looked at his own reflection in his father's eyes, and saw himself, for the first time, as perhaps he truly was. Traitor to the Malfoy name, Lucius' voice seemed to whisper to him, backed by the reedy hiss he had come to associate with Voldemort. Worthless coward, weakling child, you should never have been born. You are not worthy of a single instant of the care we have lavished on you. Unable to hide from that chill stare, Draco knew that it was true. It was all true.

***

Harry dropped his head, the guilt creeping back to gnaw at him again. "I'm sorry."

"You said you weren't exactly seeing... this person." Ron gave him a measuring, tilted-head look that suddenly made Harry feel very much like a chess problem. "I take it there's nothing doing, then?"

Harry shook his head mutely, but there was a long silence, and eventually he muttered, "He made it pretty clear he wasn't interested." Hermione's sympathetic hand on his shoulder suddenly made him ache for Draco's quiet, introverted presence, but he suppressed it ruthlessly. Time to start getting over this; there was a war to be fought, after all. "I picked a damn stupid time for this, didn't I?"

"Could have been worse," Ron laughed. "I mean, we're not actually in a battle situation right now..."

"Yes, but what with planning, and exams..." Harry trailed off helplessly.

"Tell the truth," Ron said after another, less comfortable silence, "I was kind of expecting it sometime soon." He grinned at Harry in an attempt to lighten the mood that fell thoroughly flat.

"You two just want everyone else paired up, as well," Harry groused, feeling for a moment as though he would like to throw a very thorough sulk.

"And you kept telling us you didn't need anyone," Ron returned quietly. Harry sighed.

"It's just - I can't bloody well deal with this," he murmured.

"All the more reason to let us help you," Hermione retorted acerbically, and he had to grin.

"Sorry." The silence this time was warm, comfortable, and after a while Harry found himself heaving a huge sigh. "This is really stupid, anyway. It's been a week; I ought to be able to get over this," he muttered, and Hermione patted his hair again.

"Give it time," she soothed. "Are you sure you don't want to come back to the Burrow with us for Christmas?" Harry saw her eyes meet Ron's, and a warm sort of contented smile come over both their faces. He had to look away. He wanted that; he wanted that so badly, and for a while he had thought he might be able to have it, lying in the darkness of the dungeons listening to Draco's calm breathing. But that had turned out to be an illusion, and like all illusions had been shattered. The shards still dug at him, sometimes, like this.

God, why me? Harry wondered for the millionth time. Why Draco - Malfoy? It wasn't as though he had ever really looked twice at the other boy - how had he suddenly come to represent everything Harry wanted? And why? Was it simply the connection that the nightmares represented? He found himself remembering the soft glow of wandlight on Draco's pale hair, and groaned softly, scrubbing at his face with his hands. Maybe he would just skip dinner altogether and go straight to bed - but then he knew that sleeping would be the last thing he'd be doing.

"Harry," Ron began in an odd tone, interrupting his musings. "Are you sure you can't tell us who..."

Harry had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping out a furious negative. "This isn't just about me," was all he said, and they seemed to accept it, sitting back with a sigh. "Look," he began wearily when the silence got too much again. "I'm sorry I've been so.. different lately. I'm sorry I worried you. I'm just going to have to get over this, is all." Pulling his bruised feeling strictly under control, he quirked his mouth into a tired grin. "The war won't go away, after all," he murmured, and Ron's soft punch on his shoulder went a long way towards making him feel better.

***

Lucius' harsh voice jarred him from the pained stupor that seemed to have hold of him. "Kneel, Draco," he ordered, and Draco had to clutch at the edge of the desk to keep his knees from buckling against his will. "Kneel, and beg my forgiveness, and perhaps this... incident will be forgotten." His voice held the promise of endless hours of pain, of Dark spells and promises under Imperius, and Draco shuddered helplessly, caught in its grip. He tried to speak, but no words came out of his mouth, and all he could do was shake his head spasmodically, knowing that he was refusing more than just his final chance.

His father's hand drew back again, and Draco flinched back, expecting another blow, but Dumbledore's voice cracked out like a whip. "Lucius!"

There was warning in that tone, and Draco watched as if in a dream as his father's jaw clenched for a moment, and thought for a moment that he would receive the blow anyway. Eventually, though, the frozen tableau dissolved and Lucius lowered his hand slowly. "So be it then," he hissed in a voice that made Draco flinch just as hard as the anticipated blow. Desperately, he tried to muster words.

"Father, I..."

Lucius cut him off ruthlessly. "You are no longer my son."

The words had been expected, really, but the reality was far harsher than anything Draco's imagination had supplied. The truth of it hit him like a blow to the stomach, and he gasped as if for breath. It was real, this was really happening, and more than that, this was final. This was it. He could see it in the suddenly distant look in his father's eyes as Lucius turned away, and somewhere beneath the stunned shock that wouldn't seem to go away he wondered bitterly if he had thought he could actually escape that ultimate condemnation.

"So," Lucius snarled at Dumbledore, and Draco was taken aback by the sheer level of venom in his voice. "You've managed to turn another one. I suppose you think you deserve congratulations?" Dumbledore simply sat there, giving Lucius that level, emotionless look that Draco remembered having been on the receiving end of more than once. It was a look that left empty spaces, that prodded people to fill up the conversational holes, and Lucius was not immune to its power. "Well, I wish you luck trying to pry information out of this pathetic child," he grated without even looking at Draco. "He may think he holds important information in that thoughtless head of his, but he knows nothing - and I don't doubt he'll turn on you just like he has on us, either. Once a traitor, always a traitor; he's worthless rubbish, and I wish you joy of him. I don't know why you'd even want to take him in; he'll be no use to you."

Dumbledore simply continued to gaze calmly at Lucius for a moment, while the fear that perhaps, after all this, he would be turned out of the office and sent back to Voldemort anyway twined in Draco's gut with all the others. Then, slowly, without once dropping his eyes, the Headmaster said quietly, "Draco has asked for my protection, and at present that is all he has asked for. I will not deny it to him." He leaned back in his chair and spared a sober glance for Draco before turning his attention back to Lucius. "Was there anything else you wanted, Lucius?"

Draco barely heard his father's growl; those words had been for him only, he knew - a message meant to reassure. He would have protection. He would not be abandoned to Voldemort's scant mercies. It was meant to reassure, but it only made him feel worse; he realised with a start that he was hunched over with his arms wrapped about himself, trying to hold himself together. He would not break under Lucius' gaze, he could not. Eyes on him made him look up into his father's icy eyes, and he shivered uncontrollably. He knew this look, knew what it represented, and waited helplessly for his father to pronounce sentence.

"You are not my son," Lucius told him again just as he thought he could bear no more of that frozen expression. "You are not a Malfoy. You are nothing." He looked down at Draco's bowed and shivering form with utter contempt. "Narcissa tried to tell me you weren't worth the trouble of raising. I should have listened to her."

Draco didn't see him leave the office; he could no longer see anything beyond the burning in his eyes. Lucius' retreating footsteps were masked behind the sound of his own choked-off sobs, and the room blurred before him as he raised his hands to his face and hot, stinging tears welled between his fingers. He could not let Lucius see him like this, he could not... Oh God. Oh God. Father - Mother - I... There was nothing left now, he knew. Lucius' words had taken his fragile, unsteady self and crushed it into jagged pieces; he felt crucified, abandoned with his pain. Shaking, racking sobs tore at his throat, and Draco desperately tried to suppress them, but a tiny sound escaped him anyway. Oh God. That's it - it's all gone. My name, my family - everything he'd ever been taught was important had been ripped from him in this room, and all that was left was his bruised and cowering self. There was nothing to hide behind now, no masks left to him. He had thought the nightmare terrors had been painful, but none of it compared to the hurt of being rejected by his parents - by the people who he had always thought loved him.

Maybe his father had been right. Surely, if he had been worthy of their love, worthy of them, he could have...

A hand on his shoulder made him jump, and Draco looked up through blurry, watery eyes to see Dumbledore's sorrowful eyes looking down at him. A single harsh sob escaped him, and he desperately tried to claw back some of his self-control as he waited for the headmaster to speak. The words, when they came, were not what he had expected.

"The rest of the school will still be at dinner." Draco stared at him for a moment, trying to force his breathing steady. He didn't understand, not at all, but the next words out of the Headmaster's mouth knocked all his efforts flat. "I believe the Gryffindor password this week is snow lily."

That broke him. Draco felt his eyes go wide at the knowledge, and at everything that silly, simple phrase implied, and the sobs broke free of the shattered remnants of his control. Tears ran down his face like molten glass, burning and choking, and then suddenly it was just too much and he was running blindly.