Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

EMPTY CHAIRS AT EMPTY TABLES

Remember-All II: A Long Way Down

He spent the night avoiding Snape, as did the others: lurking in their bedrooms despite the lure of the warm common room with its glowing fire. He spent the night wishing things had gone differently--it would have been so much simpler if he had only been allowed to follow the course nature and his father had once proscribed for him--that of a Death Eater, rising slowly through the ranks of Voldemort´s Inner Circle, until he came to hold a position just under Lucius and the Dark Lord himself. There was a time when that had been everything he had ever hoped for, and now he was doomed to forgo it, and fight by the side of those he most despised.

They none of them slept that night--they were all too awed by what they had done, this decision that would shape the rest of their lives. For some of them it would mean their deaths, or the deaths of their families; for all of them it would mean giving up (or hiding their continued allegiance to) that set of beliefs they had lived by. He was lucky and he knew it; he at least had his father´s approbation for what it was he had done.

At breakfast, Potter and his henchmen glared at the Slytherin table. Clearly Potter did not balk at sharing Council secrets with the Mudblood or the Weasel. Draco sunk lower in his chair, and winced as he saw the Great Horned Owl that was his father´s favorite messenger. It flew away when he took the letter; clearly no reply was anticipated, or wanted.

Using one of the table knives, Draco carefully removed the Malfoy seal intact and unfolded the single sheet of parchment. It was in his father´s powerful, slanting hand, though unsigned: the words, "You are dead to me. I have no sons." Draco glanced at the heavy signet ring on his left hand just in time to see the Malfoy crest disappear, leaving the flat, bare surface of onyx. At his right hip, the familiar weight of the sword Ferux, borne by Malfoy heirs for five centuries and charmed into invisibility here at Hogwarts, was suddenly gone.

With a sigh, Draco cracked the seal of the letter. Instantly words began to appear, forming neatly on the blank outer side of the parchment. Lucius had written, "You have done well, my son. I love you. Fare you well, in this coming war, and may we meet again when it is done. LM." Immediately the weight of the sword returned at his hip, though the crest on his ring did not reappear. Not disinherited then, not in truth, though Lucius would not acknowledge him openly. Biting his lip, he fought back tears, knowing that this might very well be his final communication with his father; it was unlikely, if events unfolded as predicted, that Lucius would survive.

He knew, though he would have liked to keep the letter, that it must be destroyed. It was an effort to put on the mask he must wear, but in the end Draco thought he managed rather well. He flung back his chair, stalking to the great fireplace in his best suddenly destitute yet haughty manner. Tearing the letter to shreds and feeding it into the fire, he was suddenly aware of all the eyes that watched: the eyes that had always watched. He could not even have this moment alone. He kept his back to the room as he choked back a very real sob, and so he was taken utterly by surprise when an icy hand gripped the collar of his shirt.

"My office, Mr. Malfoy," Snape hissed. "Now."

Draco followed him; chin up, waving off a concerned Greg and Vince. Pansy looked positively ill, but Blaise winked at him and waved. Snape turned his glare on her and she hastily pretended to be reaching for the butter.

In Snape´s office, Draco slumped into the chair facing his head of house, aware that he was in for it. "Well, Mr. Malfoy?" Snape inquired coldly. "Do you care to explain any of the decisions you made over the last forty-eight hours?"

Draco was tempted to lip off to him, though it never helped matters. How easy it would be to say, no, I don´t believe I do care to, or something equally snarky. But Snape was known for his temper, even in Slytherin House where sarcasm was expected, and besides he was already in a rage. Better not to chance it. And so he did what he always did, said what he thought Snape wanted to hear: nonsense about causes and redemption that he was not even sure the Potions Master believed. He did not say, my father told me to betray him, or I saved you because you were kind to me. He was not sure how Snape would have taken that. He never told the truth, even to himself. It was hard; to have Snape as an enemy, to know that he should betray the man to Dumbledore, and that to do so would mean Snape´s death. It was hard, knowing that they two were bound forever by blood.

"It was a blood spell," he answered at last. "Old magic, but not illegal. And--we thought it would be worth the cost." He slipped away, leaving Snape sitting silent as the grave.

In March Draco turned eighteen, and his mother came to see him, for the first time since he had thrown his loyalties to Dumbledore. Narcissa Malfoy was the sort of woman men often underestimated; they saw her lush beauty, her golden hair and golden skin, and they did not notice her sharp, analytical mind, or her coldness. Draco loved his mother, of course, but he was not close to her. Narcissa´s Potions research was her baby; her work in the little-explored field of human Transfiguration was her life. She had made sure Draco was fed and clothed, and taught him spells and charms when it occurred to her, but otherwise she had ignored him (and his father) whenever possible.

A younger Draco had often wondered how Lucius had managed to court her, much less get her with child. Unwittingly, she had given him the answer when he was fifteen, and she´d taught him the Animagus spell and absently revealed that she´d wanted a baby so that she could study the effects the charm had on a fetus. But by then, Draco was old enough to understand that some people were simply not made for parenthood. He had had Lucius, who was everything a father could have been, and so he could afford to be proud of his brilliant, beautiful mother, who had written his sixth-year Transfiguration textbook and who knew things he could not even imagine.

That was why he was able to react calmly when Narcissa handed him his gift (a black cashmere sweater) and the news that she was leaving his father. "Really," he replied, raising one eyebrow in the gesture he had learned from Lucius, the one he knew she hated.

But Narcissa was not looking at him. Instead she was rubbing the bare spot on her finger where the Malfoy diamond had once resided, when she was in human form. "His work--for his Master--was interfering," she said in clipped tones. "And, I´ve met someone else."

When she went, Draco was left staring into the flames, trying to imagine her cheating on his father. She had not even told him whom she was having the sordid little affair with. He could not bring himself to care, except for what the news must have done to Lucius. The urge to owl his father was almost overwhelming; only the knowledge that it might mean both their necks kept him from it.

In April, Aurors killed Vincent Crabbe´s mother and younger sisters in a botched Ministry raid, one spearheaded by Arthur Weasley. Draco stood with Vin at the funeral, and listened to his friend cry that night in the dorm, and wondered whether there was anything to choose between the sides. A week later Vin´s father was dead, too, by his own hand. Snape, who had been called the night he died, would say only that there were some things no one could heal.

In June Draco graduated second in his class, just behind the Mudblood, and he and Vin and the great Harry Potter stood on the fringe of the celebration and watched. And Draco wondered where his father was, and what he was doing, and hoped that he was safe. In June the war began in earnest, and people he had known all his life died. People whose names he had never heard died. The Death Eaters attacked the Ministry and the Tower and all the strongholds of the wizarding establishment, and Fudge died, and the Minister for Magical Education died, and Blaise Zabini´s father, and Neville Longbottom´s grandmother, and two Hufflepuff girls; and Dumbledore´s Magical Resistance Force seized the property and the funds of the Flints and the Lestranges and the Notts and all those who had sided with Voldemort.

Dumbledore himself commanded his tiny army as if he were Napoleon reborn. He had assigned his people into units, and named a leader for each unit. Harry Potter headed the Reconnaissance Squad, Hermione Granger served on the Research Squad, and Draco and his Slytherins were the entire Personnel Retrieval Squad. Their mission was to rescue operatives lost in the field or captured by the Death Eaters. While Draco was moderately pleased with his shiny new lieutenant´s badge, it was a shit job and he knew it. They were to risk their necks to rescue Potter´s people (no doubt the Weasel would delight in having them come after him) whenever Potter was stupid enough to get them captured.

Draco complained: it was a waste of talent, he told Dumbledore and everyone else who would listen. He was as bright as Granger and as fast as Harry Potter; Pansy and Blaise could plot with the best of them; Toby was a phenomenal marksman and Millicent and Vin could outhex any Gryffindor. They would do well anywhere, but they should be divided because they all had different strengths. Dumbledore was not giving them a chance to prove themselves--he was hoping they would be killed. It hurt, not having Snape to confide in any longer, not having him on their side. Their relationship had been destroyed the night Draco had pledged himself to Dumbledore, and it seemed nothing could repair it.

By July he wore Ferux openly at his side, though he had charmed her to look like an ordinary blade. Voldemort´s army burned the Weasel´s family home, and Iris´s with her whole family in it, and a score of others belonging to Council members, and refugees flooded Hogwarts. Snape was gone for good, having finally and irrevocably chosen sides. Professor Sprout was gone, too, albeit in a different way. Vector had fled for the States. They did not any of them pretend anymore that the war would end with the summer, that things could ever be the way they had once been.

August was hot, almost too hot to fight--almost. Draco spent most of his time sprawled on the stone floor of the dungeons, or making slow, sticky love to Blaise. He could not seem to bring himself to care, not about the fate of the wizarding world, or his own future, not about how the war would end. In August, he killed for the first time, and burned himself with a Muggle cigarette for the first time.

August rolled into November and the rains started, and Draco quarreled with Blaise over some small thing, and that was when Potter caught him sitting in the window seat in a long empty hallway of disused classrooms, and confronted him. It was the first time they had been alone together, really alone, that Draco could remember. The first time since they were eleven, anyway. Potter looked absolutely the same: his expression still a mixture of confusion and good will, his body hard and wiry, his eyes clouded behind the glasses and slightly wary the way a dog that has been kicked once too often is wary.

Draco stubbed his cigarette butt out on the ledge and stood. He and Potter were better matched than ever, wide-shouldered and narrow-hipped, muscled from their months of training; Draco was an inch the taller and Potter perhaps a stone heavier, and it took all of Draco´s skill to give the illusion that he was looking down on Potter from some great height. "Yes?" he asked now, managing to make the words sound lofty and cool, a nobleman dismissing a superior.

He could see Potter´s eyes narrow, as the other man tried to understand why he suddenly felt inferior to Draco Malfoy, minor lackey in the great Resistance army, and he could feel Potter´s sudden fury at himself. It was difficult to restrain a smile at the indignant Boy Who Lived, but Draco managed it; no sense in giving away his secrets. No sense in giving anything away to Potter.

"Why do you do it?" Potter demanded. "You must see we don´t want you, don´t need you. You must see that Dumbledore is sending you all to your deaths."

Draco flinched. It was true; his team had higher losses than any other. He had wondered, when Toby died, and Millicent, if there was something wrong. But he was a Slytherin, and he saw treachery everywhere he looked. For Potter, Gryffindor´s golden boy, to comprehend it, it must be very, very clear. Or Potter had a part in it, as well as Dumbledore. Was there some Gryffindor plot afoot? Was he so blind he could not see what was beneath his very nose?

There was really only one response he could make; he dared not use magic and risk Dumbledore´s notice and though he would have loved to throttle Potter with his bare hands he was not sure enough of his superiority to risk it. Instead he drew Ferux, the enchanted blade springing into his hand at a thought almost, while Potter fumbled for his heavier weapon. Draco had seen him train with it, had seen him fight even, one night when they had been too late to save the oafish Hagrid from disaster. He had cut Marcus Flint to pieces, while Draco destroyed Marcus´s wife Fleur and tried not to think of the baby they left orphaned.

Potter was good with a sword, particularly in close quarters, but he was not Draco´s equal. Draco did not pick fights he was not sure he could win. Raising Ferux in salute, he engaged. He drove Potter back, and back again, and the other man gasped for breath and shouted angrily, "Stop, Malfoy! I did not come here for this!"

Draco feinted, and the blades rang in protest. "No? Do not speak to me of betrayal, Potter, and expect me to thank you and smile. I will have the truth. Why is it you think Dumbledore wants me dead?" His sword caught Potter´s, held it, just as his eyes held Potter´s.

But Potter twisted, broke free, and Draco was forced to step back. "I don´t think it, Malfoy. I know it." He dropped his blade with a clatter, and Draco, who had not expected so easy a victory, stumbled, overbalanced, and nearly stabbed him by accident.

"He wants you all dead," Potter said. "I´m not sure why, maybe he bears your father some grudge he´s transferred to you, maybe he doesn´t trust the others to stay loyal, maybe it´s just that you defied him. But he does not want you on his side. Merlin, Malfoy, how can you not see it? He sends you where the action is, it´s no accident."
Grudgingly Draco dropped the point of his sword. "Why?" he asked.

"I don´t know, I told you-- ".

"Not that. Why, Potter? Why are you telling me this? Don´t expect me to believe you want me for an ally."

Potter´s eyes fell, and when he looked up again they bored into Draco like green lasers. "Do you think so little of me that you believe I would see you betrayed for an old man´s whim?"

"Is that all it is," Draco demanded, as with a flick of his wrist he raised his sword to Potter´s throat. "An old man´s whim?" He pushed Potter back until the other man was flat against the wall. "Is that all it is?"

Potter turned his head and spat. "I swear to you Malfoy, on my parents´ graves--and there is nothing I hold dearer--that this is not some Resistance plot to trap you, or your father. I want to see you dead, but not so badly I will betray everything I stand for." And in as neat a move as Draco had seen, his sword came out of nowhere, to lie cool and deadly along Draco´s jugular. This time it was Draco who gave ground, who ended back to something unyielding.

He could have got free, of course; Potter´s defense was weaker on his left, and he knew a thousand different countermoves. But he knew that Potter needed to be in control and so he pretended to be beaten. He let fall his sword and raised his empty hands, and the cuffs of the shirt he wore fell back to reveal his unmarked arms, and unexpectedly Potter kissed him hard and inexpertly on the mouth and Draco froze. He had kissed boys before; had lain with anyone that caught his eye. He had kissed men, too; his father had taught him long ago that his body was just another tool to be used to get what he wanted. Such relationships were forbidden in the wizarding world, but they were not unheard of.

But Draco had never imagined Harry Potter would kiss him, there in the late afternoon sunlight outside the room where they had once studied charms and snarled at one another. He had never imagined Potter leaning into him, bracing himself against the cool rough plaster with one arm, while the other touched the side of Draco´s face softly and tentatively. He had dreamed of killing Potter, often enough. And then the other man stepped back, eyes wide and stricken, chest heaving. Draco thought that he looked like a disillusioned child. "Hey," he said as gently as he could. "It´s okay, Potter. I mean, don´t make a habit of it or anything, but this one´s free."

Potter shook his head. "Merlin, what have I done? What have you done to me?"

Draco stared at him, amazed at his naiveté. Had he ever been that much of an innocent? "Potter, look. It was a kiss, is all. Not the end of the world. Not very different with me than it would be with anyone else. It happened, is all. If we never talk about it again, it will be like nothing happened." And in his head, Lucius said dryly, `Make note of your enemy´s weaknesses. Surprising, how many people are floored by sex. What you have to remember is that it only matters if you want it to matter. No one balks at using brains, or magical talents, or physical prowess, to advance a cause. Your looks are a gift like any other, Dray; take advantage of them while they last.´ Good to know that Potter wanted him--there was little doubt he could use it to his advantage some day. More important, the half-relayed information about Dumbledore. He would willingly lay with Potter if there were lives at stake, but he did not think the other man would be ready to barter. Not just then.

Before he could say anything else, Potter stammered out an apology and fled. Draco stared after him bemused, noting his lurching progress, the fading arousal his jeans had failed to mask entirely. He muttered, "Accio," and then sheathed Ferux.

Later he made up with Blaise, mostly so he could take her to bed. Lying with her on the embroidered linen sheets (BZ with a blank spot for her husband´s initial, but she had been betrothed at birth to Silas Troxon and he served the Dark Lord now) that had once been part of her trousseau, he stared up at the cracked plaster ceiling of the bedroom that that had once been Snape´s, and thought of Harry Potter. No doubt Potter was jerking off in his claustrophobic curtained bed, listening to the whistle of the wind through Gryffindor Tower. Ironic, to be given such a weapon, to be given the means to destroy his greatest rival and not to be able to take advantage.

The chandelier made shadows like dark stars on the flawless white of Blaise´s back as she slept, and he kissed the hollow of her back and traced them one by one. Blaise had laughed when he told her about Potter. But after, when they were alone in the silence of the big bed, she said breathily, "I´ll be him, Dray, Harry Potter. Do it to me from behind, and pretend I´m him." Blaise liked to play games. All the same, he wondered what it would be like to lie with Potter, the real Harry Potter. Would he squeal, the way Blaise had, and bite Draco´s neck? Probably not. He would probably not beg, either--no doubt he had too much pride. Draco had never lain with a virgin before--.

As if at the thought, the alarms in the Great Hall went off. Trouble. Draco sat up, glancing out the window. Full dark, and a moon so bright it looked like daylight reflecting off the falling snow. It was a night for trouble. He and Blaise dressed, unhurried but quick with the ease of long practice. They had done this so many times before it was almost routine, if anything could be a routine that killed.

In the Slytherin common room that had remained their headquarters that year when the world had changed and survival took priority over education, seven of his former housemates waited. Seven, and he and Blaise made nine, and once there had been fourteen. Soon there would be five, three, none, and Dumbledore would have to do his own dirty work. Thoughts of snogging Potter had distracted him from Potter´s thoughts of the old man´s treachery, and here in the warm familiar torchlight even the idea seemed mad. Voldemort might do such a thing but surely Dumbledore would not. But if he would not, why would Potter have thought it? Thoughts for daylight; now his attention must be all on the work ahead. Wordlessly he led the way to Dumbledore´s office and the briefing.

The guard in the passage, a small dark girl he didn´t recognize, let him in with barely a nod. Everyone knew him, now. Inside Dumbledore stood with his back to them, head bowed, somehow looking even older than usual. Harry Potter slumped, boneless and exhausted, in the chair before the desk, and it was clear from the doorway that he had been crying. Draco was suddenly and inexplicably afraid, as if something in him knew that what was about to happen would change everything forever. Beside him Blaise reached for his hand, and he linked fingers with her gratefully.

Dumbledore spoke, at last: "Mr. Longbottom was captured during a raid on Lord Voldemort´s headquarters in Wales this evening. It is imperative, Mr. Malfoy, that the information Mr. Longbottom possesses does not fall into the wrong hands. We will need you to retrieve Mr. Longbottom, at any cost."

Draco blinked, startled. That was it? Neville Droopybottom? Neville one-step-away-from-a-Squib? "Of course, sir." It was the sort of mission at which his team excelled. A shame, though, to have to risk his people for the little fool. His anxiety drained away as he focused on what must be done. They had been inside Voldemort´s fortress at Dolwyddelan only once before, and it had been difficult. At least, though, they would have a rough idea of where to go this time. And Dumbledore had just given them tacit permission to kill Longbottom if they must. He turned to go, and Potter said after him, sharply, "Be careful, Malfoy." It was neither a warning nor a benediction, but it touched a chord in Draco.

It was snowing hard as they Apparated into the forest a mile outside Dolwyddelan. Abruptly Draco was very sure that something was wrong. He held up a hand for silence, and everyone froze. They had done this before and they were very aware that their lives were at stake. After an excruciatingly long moment in which absolutely nothing happened, he motioned them forward. The ground beneath their feet was torn and muddy, no doubt from the fight that Potter´s team had put up escaping. On a clear day he might have been able to see the lurking towers of the rebuilt Riddle House; as it was he could barely see his hand in front of his face. They dared not use magic, and so he led them slowly and carefully through the tangled thicket, sword at the ready.

It was too quiet. He could hear their breathing as they crept onto the grounds, careful to keep to the shadows. The house towered over them, stark and unfriendly, a ghost of its former self brought to life by a powerful dark spell. Longbottom would be in one of the rooms on the ground floor; most of the others were mere illusions, set to give the place an air of normalcy should it be discovered. Voldemort did not know their spies had discovered it long ago. They climbed through a dark window into a deserted room that led out into an empty hallway. The Divulgence Charm (once used exclusively to detect adultery) Draco held showed only one presence anywhere in the building, and in the seventh room they tried they found him.

Severus Snape, unbound and unconscious on the floor, and very nearly dead. In the chair above him, Neville Longbottom sat. He had torn out his own eyes before he died, and his face was frozen in a scream. Too late, then. Draco turned his head, willing himself not to be sick. Behind him one of the others gagged. He forced himself to kneel and check Snape. He could not have found a pulse on the torn throat even had he brought himself to touch it, and so he reached for a wrist instead. It was Snape´s left, and the arm he bared was as unmarked as Draco´s own. Suddenly everything was appallingly clear: Longbottom, with his remarkable (and unexpected) skill at ciphers, had been Dumbledore´s spymaster, and if he had broken under torture, and revealed their chief spy, than Voldemort must have turned on him--turned on Snape.

"What do we do now?" Greg asked.

"We´ll have to get him home," Draco responded absently. "He deserves that much at least--to die among friends if he cannot be saved." Blaise had begun to tear strips from her robe to bind Snape´s ripped throat. Draco took them from her with a nod of approval. "We´d best bring Longbottom as well," he added with a sneer. "He´s not earned it, but no doubt he´ll get a hero´s burial anyway."

In his ears Snape´s heartbeat pulsed, weak and thready. Draco dared not try to heal him here; the last time had drained him so he was afraid he would not be able to Apparate home. They could not even risk a simple levitation spell without setting off Voldemort´s wards. Carefully he lifted Snape and Greg rushed to help. They moved slowly through the empty house and back into the night, waiting for the ambush they knew must come.

They were almost to safety when it came. Tarquin was in the lead, only a step or two from the edge of the wood. Vin, a stride behind, carried Longbottom´s body, and Blaise was after him, and then Draco and Greg, with Snape. There was a scream behind him, and he saw Blaise turn, raising her sword, and an arrow took her full in the chest. Snape´s pulse sounded in his head--too slow, by far--and she fell and he knew she was dead. He did not remember what happened next, only that he and Greg were on the ground, crouched beside Snape, and Thea was dead and Kelso was down as well, an arrow in his thigh. There were pops as Tarquin and Vin, obedient to the last, Disapparated to safety. Pansy had her wand out, but her face was very white. She knew how close to death they were.

Out of the snow, dark robed and faceless as shadows, the Death Eaters came. He was not sure how many there were, only that his decimated squad was desperately outnumbered. His wand was in his hand, seemingly of its own volition. He spoke the words Dumbledore had forbidden, the words that meant Azkaban even if used in self-defense, and one of the Death Eaters went down. "Avada Kedavra," he said again, and again, and he knew that in the snow they could not see him, could not be sure who was voicing the spell they had never had to face. Death Eaters died, but they died cleanly, by the sword, or messily when put to the question, or swiftly as an axe hissing downward in an execution. They did not die by magic. Now they faltered, and became human. They began to Disapparate, and he counted the pops. Five, and three more dead, and two left.

Both of those were men, one tall and straight and slender as a blade, and the other short and plump. Two of them, against Draco, Greg, Pansy, Malcolm, and the wounded Kelso. The odds had changed. The shorter man seemed to have realized this. He hissed, "Come on, Malfoy. There´s no shame in running from death."

The other man pushed back his hood to reveal hair like silver-gilt and a tired, handsome face. "Is that what you think, Peter?" he asked, sounding almost amused. "I´ve tired of running. I´ll not go back to my master a coward as well as a failure."

There in the snow and the growing pool of Snape´s blood (and how could any man lose so much blood and live? He must have a will like admantine) Draco said softly, "Avada Kedavra," and watched his father die. Two things happened immediately. Peter Pettigrew Disapparated so quickly Draco rather suspected he´d splinched himself, and on Draco´s finger, the Malfoy crest etched itself into the onyx of his signet ring.

Draco went blank for what seemed like a moment, and when he regained awareness he was sitting in a chair in the Hogwarts infirmary staring at the floor. "Snape," he yelped, scrambling to his feet.

Dumbledore, beside him, said curiously, "Don´t you remember? You´ve done everything humanly possible for him. Only time will tell, now."

Everything came back to him in a rush, and he said thickly, "I´m going to be sick." A basin moved itself into position, and for a moment Draco did not have to think at all.

Afterward Dumbledore stroked his back, and Draco, who hated to be touched, resisted the urge to pull away. "It gets easier, you know, as time goes by," the old man said at last.

For a moment Draco was not sure he had heard correctly. Then he began to get angry. "What does?" he asked icily. "Patricide? Murder?"

"Watching your friends die," Dumbledore answered him. "Eventually it won´t hurt at all."

If he had not felt so wretched, Draco might have killed him then and there. As it was he ran. In the Slytherin common room they waited for him--six, where once there had been thirteen. Great houses without heirs, parents without children. Seven dead, and every one of them a piece of his heart cut out, and now there was nothing left. "Come with me," he told the ones who were left, and they came because they loved him and had given their souls to his keeping. Malfoys do what they must, and he knew what he had to do.

As they walked silently down deserted hallways where once children had laughed, he thought of Snape, who had given up everything for love, and been used and discarded like a broken glass. His valiant little group deserved better, deserved a chance at least of survival. In betrayal lay safety, and he would betray them to save them.

They did not question him, those who were left. Blaise might have questioned him, but she was dead in the snow with her blood leaking from her mouth. These fools followed him as if he there were no blood on his hands at all. He could picture them behind him, though he did not look back. Pansy and Malcolm, holding hands; Greg and Tarquin flanking the wounded and slightly lame Kelso, and Vin, alone as always. He was destined to kill all those who loved him, but he would save anyone he could.

They followed him into the room he had shared with Blaise, where the sheets were still rumpled and the air smelled faintly of her perfume. They waited while he pried up the stone in the floor and found it, and they linked hands when he asked them to. He knelt and took Vin´s hand, and reached into the hole and drew it out. A carved silver seal, heavy and familiar and strange, that flashed as the light changed. It was done; there were no more decisions to be made. He stood in the campaign room at Riddle House, and waited for his pupils to adjust to the dimness. They had trusted him with their lives and been wrong, and they stood as if frozen when he detached himself and stepped forward into the light.

"My lord," he said to Voldemort. "I have come to take up my father´s position." And on his left hand the Malfoy signet gleamed. He did what must be done. He was his father´s son.

AN: Just to clarify a question that came up: the "spell" Draco used on Sirius in Ch. 2 was not Dark Magic per se. Sirius assumes this because he wants it to be the case. It wasn´t wandless magic, either, but you´ll have to stay tuned to find out exactly what it was. Love, Ishafel.