The Way We Get By

A jet of green light flashed across the room, and Draco Malfoy pulled his arm up over his pale features to cover his eyes. It was not the intensity of the spell, but the result that caused him to do this. As hard as he tried, he could not bear to watch the older man crash to his death. A cold hand wrapped tightly around his elbow, pulling him out of his reverie and dragging him away from the scene. Professor Severus Snape muttered something incoherent under his breath, his eyes focused straight ahead of their path. Draco barely bothered to tug himself away from the teacher's grasp. He was far too ill at ease to even think straight.

"You failed." Snape's words came at him simply and harshly.

"You barely gave me the chance," Draco said quietly. "I would have done it."

"But you didn't," the Potions master replied, his tone like ice. He released the grip on Draco's arm to brush a spot of dust off the front of his own robes. "You stood there like a useless pile of rubbish. It was a bit sad, really. I thought Potter was in the room for a moment."

The pair reached the bottom of the stone staircase and dashed through the battles that lay before them. His witty rebuttal was lost as he watched Professor McGonagall dart a jinx, and as Ginny Weasley hexed anyone who came near her. Why could they fight so easily? There seemed to be nothing that held them back. Why had Draco faltered?

"Faster, Draco," urged Snape from beside him.

"I'm going as fast as I bloody well can," he replied in between intakes of breath.

They had reached the Entrance Hall to the castle, and as Snape darted forward to open the large double doors, Draco could hear a call from behind them. He dared not look back as he recognized the voice. Harry Potter. He had wondered when the boy would have caught up with him, now that his precious hero was dead. He shook his head bitterly, and ran out into the chilly air. Snape and the large blond witch, Amaryllis, were right on his heels.

Sweat was trickling down his pale, ivory skin as Draco ran as fast as he could toward the gates leading into Hogsmeade. Then, a jet of red light flew past his head, and he faltered. Snape screamed, "Run, Draco!" and Draco did not disobey. He turned his head back only for a moment, and he caught a glimpse of Potter. The hatred that was so apparent in the boy's face was unnerving to Draco, and he did not want to stick around to see what came of this.

He reached the cold, iron gates and pulled them open frantically.

"Rosmerta!" he called out hoarsely, as he reached the Three Broomsticks. "Rosmerta, come out here."

The door leading into the old pub slammed open, and the witch appeared before him. She rubbed at the back of her neck nervously, and beckoned Draco inside. His eyes darted back and forth, to be sure that no one was following him, and then he followed her through the front door.

As he expected, the pub was deserted except for a small hunched shape near the back. It was a small man, with a face very much like a rat's. His hair was thin and unkempt, and his watery eyes shone strangely through the darkness. It gave Draco the chills. Peter Pettigrew stood as he neared, his left hand cradling the other one, which looked to be encased in silver.

"Is it done?" Pettigrew asked, his tone filled with curiosity. "M-Master would not like it if it were not."

"Are you daft?" Draco asked him, as his eyebrows arched in exasperation. At many times, the man standing before him seemed nothing more than a cowardly old fool. Treating him as respectfully as he did the other members of the Death Eaters was incredibly difficult. "Do you think I would return if Dumbledore was not dead?"

"He will want to see you then," Pettigrew said quietly, the stray whiskers across his face twitching nervously. "Upstairs. Follow me."

Draco shrugged off his cloak, and tucked it under his arm as he followed Pettigrew to a small, crooked staircase. He had not planned on meeting with the Dark Lord, and he could not say he was looking forward to it. Any visits with the Dark Lord were certainly pushed down the social calendar as far as possible. As he walked, he could feel Rosmerta's eyes on him even before he looked back toward her. They were cold, and empty. He shuddered, and quickened his pace up the staircase.

At the very top, Pettigrew stood near a large wooden door. He was twitching again, his left hand now caressing the silver one. Draco faltered before the door, looking down to his boots, where a bright light crept out from underneath the door.

"Go on, then," Pettigrew said. "You can't keep him waiting all day."

Draco turned his head to face Pettigrew and shot him a look of the utmost disdain. The rat-like man bowed his head down, whimpering softly. Satisfied, Draco's hand curved lightly around the doorknob of the door.

"You may enter," a low, hiss-like voice came from inside.

Draco jumped back slightly from the door, the sweat once again appearing on his forehead. He was not ready for this. He could run, and never again see the likes of any of these people. His eyelids closed for a moment, and he took as deep a breath as he could. Who was he kidding? If he backed away now, his whole family would die.

He turned the knob and pushed the large wooden door open. The room was desolate save for a large, high-backed chair with its back turned towards Draco and a fire crackling in the fireplace on the far wall. Draco stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers and looked around the room, not exactly knowing what to say.

"I must say, I am surprised to see you back, Draco," Voldemort said from behind the chair. "I had my doubts about you."

"You had doubts, my Lord?" Draco asked him quietly, shuffling his feet as he looked down at the old wooden floors. His voice stammered as he tried to find something to say, "I, well, I suppose I see your point with that whole not actually ki--"

He stopped. There it was: the word vomit. He clamped his mouth shut, wanting to absolutely kill himself. But before Draco had time to burn himself alive in the fireplace, a low chuckle filled the room and a thin, pale hand came into view.

"Come, Draco," Voldemort said. "We have important things to sort out. We must not waste time with asinine jokes."

Draco stepped around to the front of the chair, and did his best not to cringe outright at the sight in front of him. Dressed in long black robes, Voldemort sat stately, yet still so frail. His pale, balding head was hooded, and his scarlet eyes peered from within. If Draco wasn't mistaken, his lips were curved into a slight smirk.

"Tonight, one of the most brilliant wizards of all time has fallen," Voldemort began. "He fell at my mercy, my power and that is all thanks--"

Draco's eyes widened. Does he really think I did it?

"Do you think me a fool, Draco?" Voldemort suddenly said shrilly, his scarlet eyes focused directly on Draco. "Has Snape still not taught you to close your mind?"

"I--er." Draco stood there dumbly, rocking slightly on his heels. What was he supposed to say? "I'm sorry, my Lord."

Voldemort waved a hand, as if to shoo away the matter.

"We'll make sure to work on that," he said simply, as if Draco hadn't yet learned how to tie his shoelaces properly. "Until then, we must find a place for you."

"Excuse me, my Lord?" Draco raised his eyebrows quizzically. "Find a place for me?"

Voldemort shook his pale, white head and clicked his tongue quietly. He pushed himself up from the chair, and stood towering over Draco, who, in return, took a few awkward steps back.

"My dear child, you have just taken part in an assassination," he replied dryly, beginning to pace slightly. "Do you not think that the whole of the wizarding world will be looking for you?"

Draco bowed his head slightly. "You're right my Lord, but what of my mum? Where will she go?"

"That will all be taken care of."

---

Leaving at the very crack of dawn, Draco met Rosmerta downstairs in the pub. The light of the early morning sun shown through the windows as he sleepily rubbed his eyes awake. It had been a fitful night of tossing and turning, and his back ached.

"The Dark Lord has left you instructions, young Master Malfoy," Rosmerta said, her tone dreadfully monotone.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Draco asked, agitatedly. "It's just Draco."

He sighed as she merely shrugged her shoulders and held out a small envelope. Draco came forward, and took it from her quickly. He could hear a small hissing sound, and as he turned it over, he let out a small chuckle. The seal was a deep emerald green, and in the shape of a snake. The wax seal hissed and wiggled. As if I didn't see that one coming.

"Always out-showing the rest, isn't he?" Draco asked Rosmerta, looking up to the woman. She just stared back at him, and cocked her head to the side. He sighed. "Oh, never mind."

Tearing open the envelope, he was surprised to find only a small bit of parchment. Written in blood red ink with a loopy script was just one sentence: 21 Seething Lane.