Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

EMPTY CHAIRS AT EMPTY TABLES

Remember-All--Before the Fall

At Draco´s nod, she continued, "Very well. Mr. Potter, Mr. Black, the mirror, please?" Harry and Sirius lifted the huge framed mirror to lie flat on the table before the judges, and then took their seats. Hermione turned to Dumbledore. "Where would you like me to start, sir?" Dumbledore chewed thoughtfully on the ends of his beard. "Start at the beginning, child," he said at last.

Hermione spoke the words to invoke the charm softly. She had never grown used to this spell, though she herself had created it. She had never before used it on someone she had known, never used it someone who had once been on their side, never grown used to seeing memories enacted, so. She was a little afraid of what might be waiting in Draco´s mind.

Images had begun to form in the mirror: Draco, kneeling at his father´s feet, in what must be Malfoy House. He looked paler and smaller than she remembered him being, but of course they were seeing everything as he remembered it. The look on his face was intense, focused, as if his life hung on Lucius´ words, but he did not seem afraid at all. She wondered how old he was--fifteen, perhaps sixteen at most. Not so pretty as he had truly been, nor so fragile. Amazing how differently they all saw themselves.

His father´s hand smoothed Draco´s white blond hair, and after a while Lucius said, "I want you to fight against us."

Draco´s body stiffened, and she thought for a moment he was going to cry out, but he stilled, and in the past, memory-Draco said, "I will do anything you ask of me, father, but do not ask me to do that."

Lucius´ voice was calm, his words tinged with sorrow. "We cannot win this war, Dray; must not, if anything of our way of life is to survive. I dare not betray the Dark Lord now, but I will not have you bound as I am bound. I want you to go to Dumbledore, and tell him you will fight for them. Take young Crabbe and Goyle with you if you must; take them all with you if you can. Our house has ever served its own ends and must do so again."

Draco--Draco present, watched, soundless and blank, as Draco past said, reluctantly, "Very well, father. I will do as you ask." And then, moving with the stiffness of a man who has received a mortal wound, stood, and transformed, and flew wearily back to Hogwarts under a starless sky. His audience gasped, all but Harry. They had not known Draco was an Animagus, or that Hogwarts´ security could be breached in such a fashion, though Dumbledore at least must have suspected.

The falcon flew through the open window of the Owlery and turned back into Draco, stifling a yawn as he fastidiously straightened his robes and hair, ignoring the man waiting in the shadows. When he had finished the figure spoke. "Well, boy?"

Draco turned to face him. "Professor Snape. You needn´t have waited, you know; I´m perfectly capable of making my way back to the dormitory alone."

The other man shrugged. "I had little enough else to do. Was all well at Malfoy House?"

Draco sighed, "Well enough, and not well at all. My father--grows tired, I think."

"As do we all, Mr. Malfoy," Snape answered heavily, "As do we all."

"You were called, then, sir? I thought, tonight..."

Snape looked up for the first time, and his eyes were heavy with unshed tears. "It doesn´t matter," he said finally, as if every word hurt him.

"No," Draco breathed. "Let me help, Severus. No one should have to bear this burden alone."

It was clear that these were words that had been spoken before; there was a weight to the scene that was almost that of ritual. Snape made what must have been his usual response: "I cannot, Draco. I dare not, for my soul´s sake. Now leave be and go."

But Draco´s head was up and his eyes were dark, as though all the shadows that sheathed the edges of the room had turned silver to tarnish. "You would not tell my father no."

Snape somehow managed to look as though he´d been bitten and was bleeding to death slowly, though he did not move or react in any way. "You are not your father, child. Now go."

For an instant it seemed that Draco meant to argue further, but he had obeyed one order or another all his life and in the end he went. He was not his father; Lucius would not have gone without a fight. Lucius fought to the end because Malfoys were never made to submit. Only Draco did what he was told--his secret shame, that cowardice, though he told himself it was common sense.

And in the corridor he met Harry with Hermione, and Ron, children still at seventeen, sneaking out to play, who´d no idea how much blood had been spilled to grant them that freedom. Glad of the opportunity for a good clean fight, and well aware he must give Snape time to recover, he hissed something thoughtless and cruel, aware that he only needed to throw in the word Mudblood to drive them all into a rage. Odd, how satisfying it was, to be punched in the mouth, and to hit back.

Hermione turned away, disgusted, as the three of them flattened Draco Malfoy. She remembered that night--fall of their seventh year, then. They had not been quite such heedless children as they looked; all of them had already borne their share of scars. It must have been just after Bill Weasley´s death, when she and Harry had thought no risk was too great to make Ron smile again. In another moment, Snape would be along to rescue Draco and punish them for their lack of sportsmanship. They had lost Gryffindor quite a few points that semester, between them.

"Right," Dumbledore said. "Let´s move on a bit, then."

The Slytherin common room, somewhat later in the year, and earlier in the evening. Snape had been called more nights than not, that winter, and he was seldom present. Draco was the leader of Slytherin House now in everything but name. He knew that they would follow him, Pansy and Vin and Greg and Blaise and Toby and Iris and the others. He had sounded them out one or two at a time, making certain that they were no more willing to join the Dark Lord than he himself was. None of them truly wanted to serve Voldemort, and yet they could conceive of nothing else. He meant to give them something else to do. He meant to give them another master to serve, one far less cruel if more indifferent.

"I am going to pledge my loyalty to Dumbledore," he said to them, taking care to make each word count. "This war of Voldemort´s is an ill-conceived and foolish thing, and I will not throw my life away for another man´s vanity. I only wish I need not fight against you, my friends, but know that if you survive this war, I will beg clemency for you, Death Eaters or no."

And Greg cried out, just as they had rehearsed: "What makes you so sure we will stand against you, Malfoy?" The others made noises of assent, as he had hoped, and then they were all on their feet, and cheering for him.

"We will swear with you, Drake," Pansy finished, when the noise had died down. "But it had best be done tonight, or we risk more than I care to pay."

Draco bowed to her, as a gentleman did to a lady. She had played her part as well as any of them, though she had not known it was a part. He felt a momentary surge of affection for her, for all of them: they were everything Dumbledore most despised and Voldemort most admired, pureblooded and proud and powerful, and willing to die for a cause they did not even wholly support. They were not kind or gentle or easy, but they had a terrible wild beauty all their own, that spoke of bloodlines old before Guillaime the Conqueror had ridden over the water to England on a fork-hooved horse breathing fire.

It was that world, the feudal, futile world of ancient lineage and primeval magic, of protectorates and great names and thousand year vows and manuscripts engraved in liquid gold and human blood, crosses and Crusades and wars won and countries lost by the sword, that they risked. Voldemort would never let them be. He risked too much, when every one of the old houses was entangled in an impenetrable web of favors and allegiances that no half bred from an undistinguished line could unravel. Any one of the fourteen in that room could raise a banner that all the others might well follow, and the resulting battle would destroy all England. Voldemort could not afford to let them go on as they had been, and Dumbledore would not want to.

The truth was that Tom Riddle was descended on his mother´s side from the younger son of a minor house, and he had always envied the scions of the great purebred houses. But Albus Dumbledore was a Mudblood, brought up in the Muggle world. He did not envy his betters--he despised them. He was a powerful wizard, a much needed ally, but in his way he was every bit as much a racist as Voldemort. They, the pureblood families who once had ruled the world, were not strong enough to defeat the Dark Lord and survive, but that did not mean they were willing to follow the Headmaster of Hogwarts either.

Draco knew what it was he asked of his fellow Slytherins, the sacrifice his father had been unable to make. They were willing to do for love what they had not been willing to do for safety, or for morality or the good of the wizarding world. And he led them as he had been commanded to do, because in the end he feared and loved and respected and hated Lucius Malfoy more than any man on earth. And he liked it as little of any of them.

They spilled into the corridor, in a mob of light and laughter and Draco thought, with the edge of terror that marked a true Divining, some of them will die for me. I will destroy or betray them one by one. And he almost said, then, "Stop," almost let it end there in the hallway outside Dumbledore´s office. He was almost but not quite brave enough to stand up for himself, there where it would have mattered most of all. But they were everything and nothing to him, his friends; they were nothing to the duty he owed his name, his father. By such increments the world is changed.

He did not know the password for Dumbledore´s office, of course, and for a moment he thought that, given check, the little rebellion he led might collapse under its own lost momentum. Dumbledore opened the door to them himself, said as he closed it, "Mr. Malfoy, to what do I owe this unexpected honor?"

Draco looked him square in the face, silver eyes blazing. "We have come to offer ourselves, to you, Headmaster."

Dumbledore made a mildly disgusted face, as though he´d been offered candy from the floor, and Draco thought, this is why my father hates him, then. How dare he be so unaware of what it is we risk when we betray Voldemort? How dare he be so ungrateful even to our faces, when we are willing to sacrifice our very lives? How dare he look at us as if we are nothing but dirt, and then expect us to fight beside him?

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said at last. "I am--pleased--to welcome you all to our side."

Draco bit his lip, resisting the temptation to point out that Dumbledore didn´t look very pleased. Even the phoenix perched on the mantel was making sour faces.

After a moment the Headmaster continued. "There are certain oaths you will be required to swear, of course, before the Council. And we will have to decide what role it will be best for you to play. With that in mind, Mr. Malfoy, I would ask you to bring your compatriots to the Council meeting tomorrow evening."

Draco nodded because he could not trust his voice. Gathering the shreds of his dignity he led the others out. Somehow Dumbledore always managed to reduce him to a spoiled five year old, always managed to put him in the wrong. He led them back to the dungeon, all his elation and pride turned sour. In the common room Snape waited, and Draco could see at a glance there was trouble.

They knew what to do; they had done it for him all the last three years as he struggled to prove himself once more. Voldemort was cruelest to those he feared, and he feared Severus Snape, half-bred, powerful son of a very old line, more than most. Of late it had grown steadily worse; soon it would be impossible for them to patch his wounds on their own. Yet they dared not risk revealing Snape as Death Eater, not when mere suspicion was enough to kill. Dumbledore and his Council would tear Snape apart, and never stop to think of the good he had done.

Carefully Draco and Pansy levitated him, wincing at the moans he could not quite suppress. They bore him into his own quarters, the painfully bare rooms that had been his home for more than fifteen years. Draco undressed him while Pansy rolled bandages and Greg brought in a bucket of warm water. As gently as they could they rinsed away the blood, healed what they could and bandaged the rest. Snape moved restlessly and Draco wondered grimly what drugs he had been given and what potions they dared give him, without risking shock or worse. He was a Slytherin, and he understood ambition, but Snape had taken to an extreme, rather.

By morning Snape was vomiting blood, which might have been reaction to any of a dozen drugs, an aftereffect of rape, or the result of internal injuries. Desperate, they argued over ideas, but in the end, they did the only thing they could think of. Draco forged Snape´s signature on a note and took it down to the library. There was a book he knew of, one in Lucius´ personal collection and also in the Restricted Section of the school library. He had sneaked books before, of course, but never for so grave a cause. He did his best to look ordinary and harmless as he searched the shelves and found it.

Blüd Majik, bound in faded black and peeling gold, and translated into awkward, twelfth century Latin from the original Aramaic. Spells so powerful and dangerous they had been illegal for a millennium. There were only two copies known to have survived the Spanish Inquisition, smuggled into England by noblemen who feared the loss of knowledge more than the wrath of God. One copy had been lost and had somehow found its way into Hogwarts disguised as something far less deadly; Lucius had pilfered the second from the ruins of Riddle House.

The Mudblood, no doubt there on some legitimate, Potter-related errand, shot him a curious glance, then looked away. Draco ignored her, too panicked even to snarl at her. As soon he was clear, he bolted for the dungeons, shoving the students in the hall out of his way. Pansy and Blaise waited in Snape´s work room, looking as frightened as he felt. The others had gone to class; anything to keep up appearances--they dared not attract attention just now.

Draco hardly dared breathe as he opened the ancient book, flipping past spells for stealing souls and stilling hearts. "Here," he pointed. "It´s this one, the warding spell. We exchange blood, it says, and that forms a tie between us that will allow me to see what´s wrong with him and fix it."

"It´s unbreakable, Dray. Are you sure you want to try it? If the binding works, and we can´t heal him, you might die with him."

Draco thought, no one expects me to do this. No one could reasonably be expected to do it. Let one of the others risk it. But he was remembering what it felt like to be eleven, and afraid and alone, and that Professor Snape had been the only teacher who did not fear or hate him, based simply on his parentage. He was remembering Snape patiently tutoring the first year who could work advanced spells and make any potion, but who could barely read; Snape´s cool hands on his forehead when he was sick; Snape listening silently to him cry, and knowing enough not to offer comfort he could not have accepted; Snape healing the bruises he had hoped no one would ever see. He remembered Snape, exhausted and ill, waiting in the Owlery to make sure Draco came back safely. He would have liked to walk away but he knew he could not.

"I´ll do it," he said softly. "Blaise, you´ll help me make up the potion? Pansy can watch Snape."

Silently they prepared the necessary ingredients, borrowing heavily from Snape´s stores. Resin, wine, galangal root, juniper berries, root of aromatic rush, asphaltum, mastic, myrrh, grapes, honey, and crushed garlic (for courage.)[1] The potion turned a pale pure gold, as they heated it, and Draco began to feel cautiously optimistic. It was mid afternoon by the time they finished and carried the potion into Snape´s bedroom. He looked worse than ever, gray with pain, and Pansy said nervously, "I hope we haven´t left it too long. He´s dying, Drake."

Draco held out his left wrist and Blaise smeared it carefully with the potion while Pansy did the same for the unconscious Snape. He felt himself going into a trance even before Blaise pressed the silver knife into his hand. And then he drew it carefully down the length of his arm, pressing as hard as he could. He was surprised how much pressure it took to break the skin. He was surprised how little it hurt, and how much it bled and how quickly. Catching his breath, he bowed his head and recited the necessary words, and then cut Snape´s arm and pressed the wounds together.

Almost immediately, he began to feel lightheaded, as if he were running a fever. Snape´s pulse sounded in his ears, much too quick and in awkward counterpoint to his own heartbeat. "It´s working," he managed to say thickly. He could see, now, what was wrong with Snape, as if the man´s chest was made of transparent glass. Laying a hand on Snape´s forehead, he worked spells he had never known: spells to cool the fever, slow the racing heart, force blood to injured areas and then away. He healed torn tissue, joined broken bone, and repaired the damage to Snape´s stomach and kidneys.

He could feel Snape return to consciousness, could feel the surge of rage as Snape realized what he done. "You little fool," the professor hissed at him, and Draco stepped back. As soon as the physical link between them was broken, the connection thinned to almost nothing. Draco realized, relieved, that distance would make it nonexistent. And then Snape was on his feet, face set, and anger rolling off him in waves almost visible to the naked eye. "Merlin, Draco, do you know what you´ve done? What was that spell?"

Draco swallowed, but before he could force the words out, Snape continued in a rush. "I dare not wait to deal with you children now. But know this: you have done well, and yet no one life is worth what it is you risked." As he spoke he flung on his robes and dashed out, leaving Draco, Pansy, and Blaise to stare after him white-faced. The cut on Draco´s arm began to throb, and he absently pressed Snape´s sheet to it, to slow the bleeding. After a long moment of awed silence, there was a barely audible click of the door opening and Greg slunk in.

"It worked, then?" he asked. "Drake, you´d best let us bandage that arm, before we go."

"Go, where?" Blaise sounded as dazed as Draco felt, but she was methodically tearing another strip from the sheet.

"I thought you knew," Greg said. "We´ve got to be at the Council meeting in ten minutes. You all have cut it rather fine." Pansy and Blaise laughed tremulously, but Draco felt sick thinking of what might have been. How had he let time get so out of hand? He glanced down at his arm again, this time in wonder. It had been amazing, to hold such power, and now he was too tired even to heal a simple gash.

Luckily the blood came out of their robes with just one Charm. There would not have been time to change, and still be ready for the meeting. And where had Snape gone in such a rush? The others were waiting in the corridor, faces very pale, and quieter than he had ever seen them. They, too, felt the gravity of what they did, as they made their way up to Dumbledore´s passageway once more. No need for passwords tonight; a man waited in the shadow of the great door--Draco recognized a Weasel, no doubt the brilliant Charlie, recalled from the dragonfields. His face was closed, expressionless, but Draco had no doubt he was furious that they had come.

"Malfoy, then?" he said in greeting. "You have the look of your father about you. You lot, I´ll need to see your arms before you can go in." One by one, the Slytherins rolled back their sleeves, revealing unmarked forearms, until at last it was Draco´s turn. Head high, he waited, unprotesting as Charlie carefully unfastened the bandages `round the wound he shared with Snape. The eyes he raised to meet Draco´s were stunned and pitying. "So that´s the way it is, then?" he asked so softly that none of the others heard. "You poor little git. But you want to be careful, doing that. That one´s deep, almost to the bone." Draco stared fixedly at the wall. He had cut himself before, it was true, but this one was legitimate enough, and he hated pity. After a moment, Charlie sighed, "Go on through, then. You are all clear."

They emerged, blinking, into a large cavernous room that should not have fit where it was. It was very crowded--perhaps thirty people sat around an enormous wooden table, and ten or so others stood at the room´s edges. Dumbledore, of course, was at the head, backed by an enormous map of England covered with tiny waving flags of black and crimson. It was no surprise to see that he used Gryffindor colors to mark the strongholds of his alliance.

As those at the table became aware of their entry, there was a great rumble of voices and all the heads in the room turned. Draco used the moment to memorize faces, as many as possible. Weasel Senior, no surprise there, when his oldest son had bitten it fighting Voldemort. The former Minister for Sport, Ludo Bagman, wearing an ugly striped shirt. Cornelius Fudge, looking worried. Pansy Parkinson´s oldest sister, the one she had always claimed was dead--he heard Pansy catch her breath. Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, and Snape, the last of whom looked rather breathless still. One of the Weasley twins, in Muggle clothing. The man who worked at the wand store in Diagon Alley, three barmaids from Hogwarts, one of them Rosemerta herself. Oliver whatever, the old Gryffindor Keeper, and several Ravenclaws he almost recognized. The great Harry Potter, flanked by his two staunchest allies, the Brain and the Brawn. No shocks, although he had not known that Snape sat so high in Dumbledore´s Council.

"As you have called us, so we have come, Professor," he heard himself say from a thousand miles away. He could feel his arm bleeding again, and surreptitiously pressed it against his side.

"Very well," Dumbledore answered him. "But before you can be welcome in this company, you must kneel and swear to obey the will of this Council in all things. These are difficult times, and all those who serve, those present and absent, must have assurance of your good faith. Arthur, the oath, please." Around him the others knelt, until he alone stood with all eyes on him, fighting the urge to blush. Arthur Weasley limped toward him, sword in hand, but Draco stood his ground.

Abruptly Potter was on his feet as well. "Well, Malfoy?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

Draco stared him down. "Malfoys do not kneel, Potter."

Potter´s face tightened. "I could make you kneel, Malfoy. I could break you so fast--" and the Mudblood´s hand was on his arm, her voice cautioning him.

"I will not kneel before anyone willingly," Draco let his voice ring out so that they all heard him. "Break me, but I will not." He could feel himself begin to sweat; he was not sure what he would do if they did try to force the issue, but he dared not kneel. Malfoys knelt only to God, and even then it was after a fight.

The others stood, and suddenly their warm solid strength was at his back. "Break him," Vince echoed, "but you must break us all first. Take him on his word alone. The word of a Malfoy is his bond."

Blaise moved beside him, face set and eyes hard. "I will not kneel to you either. My loyalty is to Draco and I swear to love him, serve him and obey him, in all that he shall ask of me. I will serve your cause, only because he does."

And then they all were saying it, all throwing away their lives, throwing him their support. And still Dumbledore stared down at him, and Harry, daring him to defy them, not knowing he would do it in a heartbeat if it were not for his father. And at last he bent his head, if not his knee, and said, solemn and proud, "I pledge myself, body, heart, and soul, to you, abjuring all other allegiances except those of blood, which cannot be broken in life. And I bring to you these others, valiant and true, and I swear that we will obey the will of this assembled Council in all things."

Dumbledore answered him, coldly, "I accept your pledge of support, Draco Malfoy, and accord to you and those under you, the protection of the Council so long as you remain loyal."

"Then we are agreed, Headmaster. I await your orders." Draco finished it, throwing a cool smile over his shoulder as he left.

Harry present looked over at Draco present, but the other man was staring intently into the mirror, as if it held all his hopes for salvation. Which it probably did, if Draco had any hope left. And Dumbledore present said, "Yes, child, a bad beginning to a most unpleasant story. But we´d best continue."