Et Ne Nos Inducas in Tentationem

Should the wide world roll away
Leaving black terror
Limitless night,
Nor God, nor man, nor place to stand
Would be to me essential
If thou and thy arms were there
And the fall to doom a long way.

( Stephen Crane)

In the third night after Christmas he finally appears on the tower. I expected him earlier, but then again he's the Gryffindor Hero, the Boy Who Survives Even After It's Become Pointless. The door opens, almost noiselessly. First a head appears - out of nowhere, like aeons ago in Hogsmeade when Hogsmeade was still an object of students' dreams and not a ghost town turned Death Eater operation base. His hair is longer than it was then, and wilder than usual. The face - frozen is the best word I can think of. Another nightly vigil, another quiet, inevitable defeat. The Mudblood's gone, despite the husk that's stowed away in the Infirmary, and if there's any shred of consciousness left it's buried in the furthest depths of her mind, gibbering in pain and terror. Cruciatus does that to you.

The cloak drops carelessly to the floor, a shimmering pool of silk that is quickly absorbed by the cobblestones. Invisible, like me. He walks up to the edge of the tower platform and holds on to the battlements with both hands. A final deliberation, or just his subconscious putting up some last-ditch attempt at self-preservation? It doesn't really matter. He stares out into the darkness, at the dim flickers of Death Eater watchfires in the distance, for a long time.

"Are you quite serious about this?" I ask, softly so as not to startle him. We don't want him to fall, after all.

He doesn't even turn, and there is no hint of surprise in his voice.

"What do you want?"

I can't help smiling.

"You, of course."

Still he doesn't move, but in the silvery shards of moonlight that illuminate the tower I can see the hairs on the back of his neck rising. Good!

"What are you waiting for?"

Yes, there is something almost appealing about Gryffindor poise at its most extreme. I'm not sure if I could handle the situation with such nonchalance. But of course I'd never get myself into a mess like this in the first place. I step up behind him and lay my hand flat between his shoulder blades. You can feel the outline of his spine through the thin Muggle t-shirt. In the midst of winter, Potter, you'll catch your death!

He shivers and waits. Finally he turns, brows furrowed, confusion written all over his face.

"What are you playing at, Malfoy?" he hisses, anger and despair warring in his voice. I enjoy the vulnerability in his eyes, and marvel at how easy it is to hurt him without lifting a finger. Then again, he's been at the breaking point for quite some time.

Immured behind the walls of Hogwarts, the final bastion of light, the last ray of hope for his last handful of followers, and slowly making the transition from symbol of resistance against the Dark Lord to liability. And knowing it.

Without him, the war would have ended six months ago, in the bloodstained office of Hogwarts' headmaster, with a handful of surviving Death Eaters standing over Dumbledore's mangled body. Voldemort had sent a dozen of his best to take out the ancient wizard. Only three had returned. Alain Lestrange had filled me in on the gory details - when they could not overwhelm him with magic, they had resorted to knives, which had done the job. Imagining Marie Lestrange kneeling in a pool of blood, blade in hand, savage ecstasy in her face, surrounded by the bodies of her fallen comrades, had given me shivers, both of revulsion and pleasure. A life for a life. The deaths of Avery, Crabbe, Goyle, Macnair hadn't mattered. Lucius' - had.

Bereft of its guardian, the Wizarding World fell into chaos, then despair, then surrender. The Ministry quietened. Aurors disappeared. The Daily Prophet first stopped reporting Death Eater attacks, then ceased to mention the Dark Lord at all. His enemies died, some in surprise attacks, some under circumstances that circulated through the magical community in the form of horrified rumours.

When everything crumbled, Hogwarts became the sole bastion of resistance. Hogwarts, and Harry. The Boy Who Would Turn The Tables On The Dark Lord. The Boy Who Knew Very Well He Wouldn't.

After the fall of Dumbledore, the Death Eaters went after his friends. Ron Weasley, taken down by a surprise Avada Kedavra on a sleepy Saturday morning in Diagon Alley. Hagrid, beaten to death by renegade giants somewhere in the Norwegian mountains. Black and Lupin, kissed by Dementors only days after the creatures had thrown open Azkaban and joined Voldemort. Ginny Weasley, who threw herself off the very tower we're now standing on, after Voldemort's mental invasion had robbed her of her sanity. And, finally, two weeks ago, Granger. Captured during a reconnaissance mission into Hogsmeade, they had dragged her within sight but out of reach of Hogwarts and tortured her with the Cruciatus Curse until her mind gave out, while the defenders watched helplessly. It was the ultimate revenge. It finally broke Harry.

Yes, I understand his reasons. With him dead, the last defenders could quietly slip away into hiding with a shred of dignity intact. But as long as Harry Potter lives, the war cannot stop. I do understand, but it's not how I want to see things end.

"Are you really asking me to help you take the cowardly way out, Potter?" I ask, carefully modulating my voice to convey an equal mixture of contempt and disappointment.

"Malfoy!" He pushes a hand through his fringe in despair. "You've never been on our side, really. Why would you try and save me now?"

"I'm not," I reply, smiling, and push back the sleeve of my robes for him to see. The Dark Mark glows green in the moonlight against the paleness of my skin. It's been there ever since our Fifth Year, but this is the first time I show it to somebody I'm not about to kill. Oh, everybody suspects, but as long as Dumbledore was alive he clung to the hope of 'saving' me, and afterwards nobody would have dared to cross Lucius Malfoy's sole heir.

He swallows reflexively, but only nods with the pragmatic acceptance that the worst will always come to pass. I don't like this passivity. True, it might make him more malleable to my plans, but I want to see some life in those empty green eyes, if only to extinguish it again myself. Oh yes, I still hate him!

He groans desperately and leans his head back against the tower wall, baring his throat in a canine-like gesture of surrender.

"Please, Malfoy, stop playing. What do you want from me?" It's a mixture between scream and plea. Pretty. I reach out as if to touch his face, but catch myself in time and pull back.

"Power, Potter," I reply calmly. "I want you to give me the place at Voldemort's right side, the control over the Dark Forces."

I peer into his face, which still shows no comprehension.

"I don't think I'm in the position to give you that," he replies, somewhat cautiously.

"Oh, but you are. You see, after Dumbledore killed my father and most high-ranking Death Eaters, and Snape took out Pettigrew, they left a power vacuum. And I asked myself, what would impress the Dark Lord enough to catapult me right up the ranks?"

This time he understands. He pales and shrinks back further against the battlements, eyes wide and filling with darkness.

"You had your chance," he whispers, trying to drown comprehension in the deepest pools of his soul.

"To kill you, yes. But that's not what I want."

"No." The reply comes automatically, flat and gritty. "I'm not afraid of death, Malfoy, but I will never again put myself at Voldemort's mercy. Never again!"

I had expected the sentiment - it's been evident ever since his participation in Voldemort's resurrection at the end of our Fourth Year - though not the honesty with which he bares his deepest fears to me.

"So, the great Potter has a weakness after all," I chuckle, pleased with the anger that finally creeps in at the corners of the calm facade. "But I don't ask you to surrender yourself to the Dark Lord just for my benefit." That's the first lie I've told tonight. "I'll make you a deal: you help me into a position of power, and I'll use it to make sure your handful of friends can disappear - the Weasleys, Chang, McGonagall even." I lean closer and whisper, "Come Potter, your last chance to go out as a hero."

The mockery doesn't infuriate him further. Instead, he slowly slides down until he's sitting on the cold stone floor, head averted, and buries his face in the crook of his arm. After minutes of tense silence, he asks, in a choked voice.

"Malfoy, do you know what they did to Snape when they found out he was a spy?"

Now it's my turn to swallow hard. Snape's 'execution' is a memory I tend to squash as soon as it enters my head. Snape, whom Voldemort hated almost as much as he hates Potter...

"Yes. I was there." Ok, now be honest. He deserves the truth. "I left, halfway through." Not something I'm proud of, and it did not endear me to the Dark Lord. One more thing this has to make up for.

And then I hear myself adding, against every better judgement, "I'm sorry, Potter." For Snape. For pushing you. For not pushing you. For everything.

"Promise you'll protect my friends." I open my mouth to tell this night's second lie, but I can't help myself.

"Would you believe me?"

He whirls around, and the abject misery on his face is almost painful to witness.

"Just say the words, then!"

I nod, knowing that he needs this reassurance. Even if it is a lie, it's something to cling to.

"I promise." I even might, as long as there are no risks involved.

He curls up even tighter, cheek pressed against the stone wall, shivering in earnest now.

This time when I reach out I don't pull back. I kneel down next to him and put my arms around his trembling shoulders. I'm halfway prepared for punch, but he only buries his face against my shoulder and allows me to hold him in this half-embrace. His hair is soft against my chin, like spiky cat fur.

"I'm so afraid." A whisper so quiet that it's almost a dream, but I hear it anyway. He's crying, desperately, without sound, without tears, without any hope of comfort or relief.

"I know."

I hold him until the sobs quieten and only calmness remains, knowing that I've won. I have finally broken my greatest enemy, forced him under my will far beyond the point of self-abnegation. It's the sweetest victory imaginable, and if it wouldn't hurt it wouldn't be perfect. I will deliver him into the hands of the Dark Lord, and then I will watch him burn in the fires of hell until Voldemort has finally slaked his thirst for vengeance on his body and soul. And this time, I will not look away.

~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~