Vain Tenderness

Prologue: Sea of Waking Dreams

I am - yet what I am, none cares or knows;

My friends forsake me like a memory lost:

I am the self-consumer of my woes -

They rise and vanish in oblivions host,

Like shadows in love frenzied stifled throes

And yet I am, and live - like vapours tost

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,

Into the living sea of waking dreams

Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,

But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;

Even the dearest that I love best

Are strange - nay, stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man hath never trod,

A place where woman never smiled or wept,

There to abide with my Creator God,

And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,

Untroubling and untroubled where I lie,

The grass below, above, the vaulted sky.

24 June, 1995

Draco Malfoy sunk his head into his lap, curling into a ball in the most remote corner of the Malfoy Manor library. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, as if trying to warm his cold, frigid body: in reality, there wasn't a difference that his arms could make anyway - they themselves were sapped and frozen, numb. In the middle of June, to add to the ridicule of it all.

He closed his eyes, dilated and painful in the bright sunlight streaming in from the long panes of a nearby window. They had stripped the windows bare of the stately, heavy curtains that had once graced them, leaving them stark and naked. The windows reminded Draco morbidly of fleshless skeletons, their wide gaps between the wrought metal grinning toothlessly at him, mocking him for his existence.

Already the dust had settled into the Manor: Draco could see the spiralling particles falling lightly through the air in the shameless sunlight, dancing amongst the polished, endless rows of shelves; the books that Father had prized most had been raped from those shelves, defiled by the hands of those who had condemned Father.

Even the air tasted wrong, thick with the absence of Father. The books that remained were classified as harmless, rejected because of their Muggle authors. Of course Mother had left, too. Only that her leaving was entirely out of her own volition; Draco had returned to the Manor, seeing no one. And then --

Draco opened his eyes, unfurling himself. He looked up at the books that were left beside him, the rejects that both they and he were: deemed useless, and thus neglected. Draco almost wished he had been thought to be a threat; he would have liked to see what they would do to him. The Good side. The side of Light. A sardonic smile flitted across his face. He reached a slender finger towards a book, its spine so badly kept that the words had long since faded away. The cover was as mouldy, sickly grey as the grey rings under his eyes; he had not slept well, if he had slept at all. Draco flipped through the pages, smelling the bittersweet scent of faded words and letters as he did so. His eyes flicked casually, tiredly over the sloping lines - it was a poetry anthology.

'a tip balance, then a spiral, / then a thirty year gap as it falls through / the dust hole into my waiting hand.'

The Aurors had descended upon and ravaged the Manor starting yesterday, and they were still around in their batches, trying to dig further and deeper into Father's secrets. It had felt empty when they had not yet arrived; when they did, it had been as if an invisible bloodshed had torn through the house. There had been an intense interrogation of Draco, throughout which Draco had just stared, emptily, at the nameless faceless Aurors who questioned him; demanding to know Father's secrets, demanding to know where Mother was. The unsaid was that obviously, Draco knew Father's secrets, but would not tell, and that Draco did not know where Mother was, but then regarding that Draco wasn't surprised, just numb, numb and cold as they ripped and cursed and ripped and cursed...

'Such concentration on a single rose, / you look as though you watch it breathe the scent/ till I am watching you and held intent,'

He could still hear the slashes of the fabric as they clawed on their furniture, like moles and rats, searching ceaselessly for things hidden...

'like moon-men lost on the moon / watching the earth's green flush / tremble and perish.'

He hadn't noticed his own hot tears glistening his cold, pale cheeks until they fell onto his thirst-dried lips; in the reflections of a mirror - Father's mirror in Father's drawing room -- which had been smashed right into the centre he saw a hundred of himself, grey-eyed, grey-skinned, grey-lipped. A transparent tear which had slipped off his lower lashes had plummeted silently down to the edge of his upper lip, wetting it; a slight colouration formed beneath the tear, as if the tear itself had brought back some of the colour of his lips.

'I'm always here, if you want me -- / For I am the centre of the universe.'

Draco would have always thought himself too worldly-wise, too intelligent to revolve his life around someone so much that his absence could affect him so. Father had been a constant - more so than Mother, she never seemed very prominent, fading in and out appropriately into the expensive wallpaper...that had been stripped too...the fact that Mother left was entirely lost on him. She did not matter: and obviously Draco did not matter to her.

So much had changed in such a small space of time: he was spent.

'I would like kindness, assurance,'

More than anything, Draco wanted to block out the multitude of voices in his head. Unanswered questions dormant for so long were resurfacing, mocking him.

Mocking him.

'The tool, the not-quite-fool,'

Questions and memories pulling him under, Draco felt too old and weary...he had already been through the procedure of being duly hacked off with Saint Potter in Hogwarts just three days ago - it seemed more than an eternity ago.

It was no use anyway. Whenever had it been of any use?

'degenerate white dwarf'

Father. There to pull the family out of any mess, and there to tell Draco what to do. There to be simple and straightforward in ordering Draco as to what he was supposed to believe in.

Draco really did laugh this time. Mirthlessly, slightly insanely. To think about it. Lucius Malfoy. Simple and straightforward. Until two days ago those two adjectives would have been the furthest words Draco would have used to describe him.

'And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world / Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes -- / On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands -- / there is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.'

More than glass between the snow and the huge roses...

Draco leant back into a wall, his eyelids hanging so low over his eyes, he could barely see through his lashes.

Too many miles away from salvation.

~

14 December 2003

"Good evening, Mr. Malfoy," came the unhurried voice of Albus Dumbledore, as the slender young man slipped through the doors entering the Headmaster's office. Minerva McGonagall, stern as always, stood across from him, along with Severus Snape, expression inscrutable. Opposite them were none other than Ron Weasley, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Seamus Finnegan: all of whom wore expressions that somehow managed to convey disgust, dislike and disapproval of Draco all at the same time.

Gryffindors were always creative in their facial expressions - Draco had to give them certain credit.

"You must be wondering, Mr. Malfoy, why we invited you to our little, shall we say, rendezvous?" Dumbledore continued, motioning for Draco to stand next to Finnegan, a gesture that Draco chose to ignore. Instead he stood in the middle of the room, a picture of stoic cool. Dumbledore studied him closely for a few moments, and then continued, his tone slightly less obliging. "Mr. Malfoy. I would say that you know, or at least were acquainted with Mr. Weasley's younger sister, Miss Virginia Weasley during your years in Hogwarts?"

I would say that I knew her better than any of you even fathom you do.

"Yes," replied Draco, "I do know that she is one of the Weasley brood."

Weasley glared daggers at him, his fingers clenching into his palms, whilst Potter stared at him angrily; Finnegan looked away, as if thoroughly repulsed by just looking at Draco. Only Granger acted nonchalant, but her eyes had become over-bright.

"Well. Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore glanced sideways at the four Gryffindors, "we would like to know if you knew what would have inspired Voldemort - " - Weasley gave an involuntary shudder, and Finnegan went a few shades paler - "himself to kidnap Miss Weasley."

Draco's eyes immediately narrowed, having been caught momentarily off balance, but he managed to maintain his composure, as much as his brain had begun to race. "I do not know what you are talking about, Professor. I know nothing as to why the Dark Lord would want to do such a thing; to expound upon it myself, I did not even know of Weasley's disappearance until just five seconds ago."

Oh heavens it can't be it can't be...Riddle couldn't have known...

Dumbledore continued to gaze at Draco for a few more moments, and a bubble of fast-rising worry ascended within Draco; Ginny, Ginny with everything that knew Draco more than he knew himself...

"Actually, Mr. Malfoy, I think you do." Dumbledore had finally spoken again, filling the overlarge gape of previous silence. "Miss Granger here," he indicated Granger, "has just informed me of certain theories - and should I also say certain truths - that you and Miss Weasley had kept from a lot of us throughout your last two years at Hogwarts. Would you please care to elaborate upon that?"

Draco's eyelids fluttered for a millionth of a heartbeat - Merlin, they knew. They bloody, sodding knew. Draco felt the sides of his face harden - Granger couldn't possibly have known too much, he and Ginny had been careful.

At times of no certain evidence, deny, deny, deny.

"As I've said before, Professor," Draco's voice was surprisingly well-modulated and calm, even to his own ears, "I know nothing about this."

There was another long stretch of silence. Draco met Dumbledore's gaze unblinkingly, hanging on to the last shreds of resolve as he tried to piece in his mind what could have possibly happened to Ginny.

"This, Mr. Malfoy," said Dumbledore, gesturing towards something flat and silver on his table, "is a Time-Turner. I presume you do know what that is?" he continued dryly.

Draco nodded, his senses sharpened - he knew full well what Dumbledore was going to require of him.

"Well." Dumbledore was still gazing intently at Draco, "And I suppose you would know that the Time-Turner does not actually go back in time, as many tend to oversimplify it as such, but rather allows the witch or wizard who uses it to travel to another parallel alternate universe?"

Draco remained silent. He kept his gaze directly at Dumbledore's, refusing to even glance at the Gryffindors or McGonagall and Snape.

"I will give you this Time-Turner. I believe it belongs to you, Mr. Malfoy?" Dumbledore motioned for Draco to move forward. Draco stood in his place. "And I believe you will know what to do with it. You will have - " Dumbledore glanced shortly at his wrist-watch, "exactly seven days from midnight tonight."

Draco did not move. Finally Dumbledore leant forward; his half-moon glasses slipping slightly down his long, narrow nose.

"I trust, Mr. Malfoy, that Miss Weasley will be waiting for you."

~

15 December 2003

As twenty-three-year-old Draco Malfoy stepped into the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic to report to work at the ridiculously early hour of six o'clock ten days prior to Christmas, he was allowed the rare privilege of letting his mind wander.

Six years ago, when he had graduated from Hogwarts, he had been left with nothing: the Malfoy Manor had been torn down to ruins, Father had been killed, Mother had disappeared (not that that was entirely devastating), he had no access whatsoever to the Malfoy family's money, his Gringotts account being entirely accounted for by Father, and only when Draco had turned twenty-one could he get his share.

But someone had provided for him, this someone being in the form of the last person Draco would have depended on: Albus Dumbledore. Somehow, Dumbledore had found the time to ensure that Draco would be employed. And who else, Dumbledore must have thought, to provide the ideal job for a cynical, jaded, sullen young man, than the Department of Mysteries itself?

They had needed new blood, the Department of Mysteries. None too surprisingly, since Father himself had finished off with one of the two permanent personnel within the Department, Broderick Bode, with the most creative usage of Devil's Snare that Draco had ever heard of. Also, considering that the Department of Mysteries wasn't exactly the Department of Magical Games and Sports, it couldn't possibly start giving out brochures to impressionable fifth-years -- something, Draco was certain, seriously affected its publicity. Croaker, Head of the two-man show (and then one-man show) Department, had been ardently on the look-out for somebody to assist him; somebody who had seen enough to not bother wanting to see anymore, and somebody who had enough secrets of his own to keep his mouth shut about other people's secrets. In other words, someone who somehow managed to be completely married to his job, but was, paradoxically, also completely removed from it.

Draco had accepted the job offer. He had been perfectly happy building up the empty life around him, earning more money than he had expected, getting his hands on his inheritance money with much less difficulty along the way as well, surrounding himself with beautiful things that caught his fancy all over again.

And then last night had to happen.

Draco should have suspected that something was wrong the minute he had received an owl from no less than Ron Weasley himself. Very cautiously opening the letter, Draco should have been even more suspicious to find that Weasley's words had a rather strained, polite quality to them.

Malfoy:

Due to some rather unforeseen circumstances, I regret to inform you that your presence is requested at Hogwarts as soon as possible. Dumbledore, Snape and the rest of us will be meeting you at the Headmaster's office. Please do not inform anyone else about this. The password is 'sherbet lemon'.

Ronald Weasley,

Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor,

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

If anything, the first thing that had ran through Draco's mind was wonderment that Weasley could compose such a letter by himself. He deeply suspected that Granger had a hand in it, or it would likely have come in the form of a Howler, with a good couple of expletives attached. Weasley was never one for subtlety. The second thing that ran through Draco's mind was wonderment at whom exactly 'the rest of us' would mean. The third thing that ran through Draco's mind was wonderment that, whatever said 'unforeseen circumstances' were, that Draco himself would be invited. The fourth thing that ran through Draco's mind was wonderment that Ron Weasley had actually managed to become the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor of Hogwarts.

Irrelevant thoughts aside, the most important thing that Draco had wondered about was whether Ginny Weasley would be there. Almost in the thread of hoping and dreading to see her at the same time, and hoping and dreading the thought of being involved in something for once in the ongoing Second War, Draco had decided to make his way to Hogwarts, leaving the Department of Mysteries early the day before.

And now he could feel the cold metal of the Time-Turner in the inner pocket of his robes, against the linen of his shirt.

Draco was tired. Draco was exhausted. Draco just wanted very much that he had never did what he had did. He had not slept the entire night, the first time in a long time since he had left her, and now it was because of her again.

It was a blight in his mind, slowly unfurling itself, even as he knew that she was still alive; he would know if she was not.

Draco straightened himself. He had no choice, he knew: The decision was already made.

~