Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

EMPTY CHAIRS AT EMPTY TABLES

RememberAll III: All Along the Watchtower

`Freedom´s just another word for nothing left to lose...´ Janis Joplin, " Me & My Bobby McGee"

Draco-present made a little choking sound, almost a whimper, and Harry looked over at him curiously. He was very different from the shining child of memory, the boy whom Harry had once hated more than anyone or anything. Now he was almost something to be pitied--almost, had he less pride, or more kindness. But Harry had seen nothing in Malfoy to empathize with.

In the mirror Draco-past stood coolly staring back at Voldemort, for all the world as if there were not a swordpoint just below his ear. The Death Eater who guarded him looked terrified; it was as if he guarded Lucius Malfoy returned to life and not Lucius´ beautiful, doomed son. "Well?" Draco-past drawled in that hateful, posh voice that had so infuriated Ron when they were children.

It worked on Voldemort, too. The Dark Lord stood, tossing back his cloak, and he must have worked some sort of spell because suddenly he loomed above Draco. He was good-looking--He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was--if you like tall dark men with glowing red eyes. Draco had never seen him in the flesh before, but now staring up at him he thought of his father´s body crumpled in the muddied snow, of ravens eating Lucius´ silver eyes. He was not afraid because he had nothing left to fear.

"Well, what, little Malfoy? What is it you want from me? Did you think you could march in and take up your father´s place? I know what you are."

"Do you?" Draco looked bored. "Do you really? I have come to serve you but if you will not have me I will not beg your forgiveness." The sword bit into his neck and he began to bleed.

"I did not say I would not have you," the Dark Lord answered guardedly. He did not seem to be able to tear his gaze from Draco. Draco looked up at him and silver eyes met crimson and it was Voldemort who looked away first. Even a decade later and a lifetime away the force of what Draco had done was evident. Voldemort beckoned Draco onto the dais, and raised their clasped hands into the air. "My Second," he announced to his warlords. "You will obey him as you do me."

Only, of course, it was not that easy. He had strength enough to sway Voldemort for a moment; it was true, but he did not have enough to change the man´s nature. Voldemort had acknowledged him publicly, which had gotten him in the door, but he must still sell himself to an angry, frightened sociopath. He submitted willingly to the Veritas curse, and answered Voldemort´s questions to the best of his ability. ("Who are you?" "I am Dracovel, Earl of Malfoy, sixteenth of that name, and I am lord of Malfoy House." "What are you?" "I am only a man, my lord." "Why did you come here?" "I came that justice may be served." "Why did you kill your father?" "He asked me to." "How did you get to this place?" "My father gave me a Portkey for `emergencies.´") He submitted willingly to the dark mark, the Morsmorde: stood quietly looking into the distance while the brand heated, and bit his lip to keep himself quiet when he smelled the skin of his forearm burning. It hurt, but he had felt pain before. The Cruciatus curse was worse, but he knew that he deserved it and so he endured. And then Voldemort raped him on the floor of one of the battered drawing rooms, while he admired the rotting tapestry on the wall and wondered if he were the only person in the world to snog the Dark Lord and the Boy Who Lived in less than forty-eight hours. By then he had so far divorced his mind and body that he could barely feel Voldemort´s burning skin on his.

Afterward, when the Dark Lord was dressing to go, Draco said to him, "What of the others?"

Voldemort laughed. "Not to worry, Malfoy. I´ll tell them you´re to be left alone."

"No." Draco struggled to his feet, surprised how much his body ached. "The ones who came in with me. They are utterly loyal--."

"Are they?" The Dark Lord´s voice was dry, disinterested. He was fastening his pants now, tying his shoes. Any moment now he would drop a twenty on the dresser and tell Draco he´d call. "I tell you what, Little Malfoy. Let them stand surety for your good behavior. Let them be hostages for a while. There´s plenty of room in the dungeons; they need not be harmed unless you prove unfaithful."

Not a good solution, but the best he was going to get tonight. And he knew that on matters such as this Voldemort was utterly reliable. They would be safe, even if they weren´t happy, and wasn´t that what he wanted? To keep someone, anyone, safe? "Very well, my lord," he responded, hoping that his voice sounded suitably casual. When Voldemort was gone he put his hand out, caught himself, just barely, on the wall. Time to go home. Time to sleep, to heal, and to work out a plan. He was the Malfoy now, and he had certain responsibilities to his house, his name, and the people who looked to him for protection. He was responsible for the survival of the Malfoy line, where once he had only been responsible to himself.

When he let go of the wall Draco staggered. He could not have Apparated (or, indeed, worked any other spell) to save his life--though at least the mark on his forearm made it possible to Apparate from the house. His back felt like fire and his ribs ached and with every step his knees threatened to buckle. He could not make his shaking fingers do up the buttons on his jeans, or the fastening on his robes. In his pocket the Portkey that had brought him here was a heavy reminder of what he had done, and he wanted nothing more than to get clear of everything and pretend for a while it had never happened.

In desperation he did the only thing he could think of, went the only place that was still safe. Turning the Malfoy crest on his signet ring in toward his palm, he said, "Take me home," and it did. Confirmation, had he needed it, that his father was dead and that he was the new master of Malfoy House. He only hoped his mother and her lover were not holed up somewhere on the property; he did not think he could bear to have anyone see him as he was now, or bear to see anyone.

The Aubusson carpet in the Red Morning Room was filthy, the fireplace cold and empty, the furniture covered in dust. Over the fireplace a rather good (but dirty) Stubbs of two placid carthorses eating hay hung between tarnished silver candlesticks. The horse on the left, the one Draco had nicknamed Blondie, whinnied a greeting but the grey only snorted warily at him. Perhaps it could smell the betrayal on him. He swore as he fell into a chair. He had forgotten that the House Elves would have deserted the Malfoys as they had the other Death Eater families--a particularly brilliant move of Granger´s, more demoralizing than they could have imagined.

It took him a long time to work up the energy to move again. The sun was bright overhead as he staggered down the airless passage to his own rooms. At least the house had sensed his struggle and moved his quarters as close as possible. The dust lay thickest here, in a room that had clearly not been touched since he´d left it last a year and a half before. The bed was cold, and the blankets smelled stale, but at least it was dry. Dropping onto the bed with a force that made his bruised ribs ache, he muttered, "Incendio" and the fire sprang to life. For a moment he considered letting it burn until the house came down `round his ears but he was not yet devoid of all hope--not quite.

Still later, when he´d roused himself enough to shower, Draco leaned against the sink and admired his bruises in the mirror. "My, you `ave grown up, `aven´t you?" the mirror asked fondly, in a tone of voice that would have made him blush had it come from anything but a sheet of silvered steel. On his left forearm the skull brand stared back at him unwaveringly, though the edge of the scar he shared with Snape curled one side of its mouth so that it appeared to smirk. On his right shoulderblade his dragon tattoo yawned delicately, opened an eye, and shut it again almost immediately. There were surprisingly few new marks: only the long scrape on his side where he had fallen carrying Snape, and small bruises on his back from the floor at Riddle House.

He had been afraid he would dream of killing his father; half-afraid and half hoping. But instead he dreamed of Harry Potter--that Potter had come to him wrapped in shadows and said to him, "Make love to me, Malfoy. Pretend that I´m Blaise, and do it to me face to face." And then Potter leaned in awkwardly and pressed his lips to Draco´s, and when Draco pulled away his mouth was full of blood, and Blaise looked up at him with blood on her chin and tears in her eyes. He woke, coughing and shivering, to discover that the sun was setting. Voldemort had told him, "I will send someone for you. Look for my man when it is full dark." There was just time to dress and go into the library. He sat at his father´s desk and flipped idly through one of the estate ledgers, and ignored Peter Pettigrew when the one-armed man stumbled out of the fireplace covered in soot.

"Merlin," Pettigrew swore, brushing ashes from his expensive robe. "Malfoy, I´ve told you a thousand times, have the damned hearth cleaned out!"

Draco raised a cool, amused eyebrow at him, though he was not in fact amused. "Wrong, Ratface. You told my father a thousand times. Is that why you left him to die?"

The other man went red and then white behind the smears of black. "You killed him yourself!" he blurted out and then looked sick. "Draco, I did not mean--."

Draco stood. This kind of thing--the tiny power struggles that made up day-to-day life for a certain type of people--he knew. This was a game he could play. He knew well that if he crushed Pettigrew now at the very outset, the other man would stay well clear of him and the others would note it and stay clear too. If he was going to be Voldemort´s Second, he must lead. Dumbledore´s people were part of a delicate hierarchy of subtle mannerisms and friendships and unreturned favors; Death Eaters were ranked by blood and power. He had the one and he had the means to take the other. It was a pleasure to have things set out, to know all the rules.

Pettigrew did not grovel, not quite, but he fell back and gabbled an apology as Draco said kindly, "I haven´t given you permission to use my given name, you know." He moved by the other man, summoning the words of the spell, and Apparated to Riddle House.

Pettigrew came after him, his face the color of chalk and eyes wide with fear. "Malfoy," he panted.

"Yes?" Draco turned, raising an eyebrow. He dusted snow from his shoulders and pulled open the great heavy door of the house. How odd, to enter a house by the front door, and have to open it oneself. He hoped the House Elves did not become to accustomed to their freedom. As he entered the hallway, Voldemort moved swift as a thought from one of the rooms on the left and nodded to Draco.

"Malfoy," he hissed, and his eyes sparked red through the gloom. "It is good you have come. I have some...unfortunate news for you. One of your bondsmen is dead."

"Oh?" Better not to show too much interest, surely. If Voldemort knew what he was feeling he could use it as a weapon. "A bit overzealous were we, Tom?"

He would not have believed it had he not seen it, but discomfort, and some other emotion Draco could not identify, flickered briefly on the Dark Lord´s face. He was human enough to feel, still. But Voldemort´s expression was unreadable again in a heartbeat, and his voice was bland as he said, "I did not touch him, Malfoy. There is no trace on him of magic or of murder; his heart gave out."

Gregory Goyle lay on the cot in his cell, his body cold and beginning to stiffen. There was not a mark on him, no sign of poison, and no indication of a spell. He was simply dead, and the others stared at Draco like wild animals from behind their bars. Their eyes were cold and unfriendly and he knew that they wanted to him dead. Without a word he turned to go.

The others--the Death Eaters who were loyal to Voldemort, the ones who had pulled Snape apart, who spent their lives looking for an advantage, for the chance to tear each others throats out with their teeth--the others waited in Voldemort´s warroom. Voldemort, too, had a gigantic map pinned to the wall, decorated with little flags and colored thumbtacks. Draco made a note to himself to invest in one. Clearly it was the must-have campaign accessory this season. Like Dumbledore, Voldemort had used black to mark Death Eater holdings, and crimson for the Resistance army. On Dumbledore´s map the forces had looked nearly even; here black had overwhelmed the tiny drops of blood. Voldemort, like Draco, was a coward--he would not have begun a war he did not believe he could win. It was nice to be on the right side for once.

That night they Apparated to a great Gothic cathedral in the heart of Muggle London, and killed everyone present and torched the building. It was nearly as beautiful burning as it had been in the height of its glory, all shadowed arches and colored flame against the starry sky. It hurt to watch it fall, in a way even his father´s death had not, and the reek of scorched flesh filled his lungs. For the first time he wondered how the Muggles felt, what they thought of such deadly miracles. In all the complicated little world they occupied, was there yet room for crimes of passion such as this? Would they blame their White Christ, or one another? He used the Malfoy signet to Portkey straight back to Malfoy House, despite Voldemort´s orders.

In the central part of the house, in the part that had been Malfoy Keep and before that Malfoy Castle, before his grandfather had sold of the county of Malfait and kept only the manor and its grounds--in that central part that had been built a century before was the small door that only the current heir to the Malfoy legacy could open. It was locked three times, once with a word--Veritas--and once with blood--Draco used his dagger to make a shallow cut in his palm--and once with magic--so that when he pressed the crest of his signet ring to the knothole in the door´s center and worked the Alohamora spell it opened beneath his hand.

Inside the safe were the keys to the Malfoy vaults in London and Lucerne (both which would be drained by Dumbledore as soon as it was confirmed he had changed sides) and a sheaf of papers with account numbers for overseas investments--holdings in the Grand Caymans and New York, neither of which were allied with the British Allied Resistance Force. It was not nearly so much as he had hoped, barely enough to start over with when the war was over. There were deeds to the house itself and to the London flat that would have been made over to his mother had she not abdicated. A brief will, naming Draco sole heir. A thousand Galleons, and a pouch of uncut gems. And, of course, a letter addressed to Draco, and sealed with silver wax.

Shutting the safe, Draco wandered back into his father´s library, and sat down at his father´s desk. He looked for a long time at the folded sheets of parchment in his hand before he slit the seal and began to read.

Draco,

If you are reading this than I am dead and at your hand. I ask your forgiveness, my son, for the burden I placed on you, and yet I cannot bring myself to be sorry. Malfoys do what they must, Dray--so it has ever been. Remember this, wherever you go: there is no Heaven waiting for men such as us, and so we must survive whatever the cost.

The Malfoy name--the Malfoy bloodline--must survive if the wizarding world is to survive; the great houses are bound now to the English soil and their magic sustains the very land. The Malfoys were chancellors in Britain and kings in Normandie once, and it has been prophesied more than once that the destiny of our family is the destiny of our world. Remember this, if ever you are in grave danger, that if your heart´s blood is spilled the land itself may rise to your defense.

I find as I write this that I am not afraid. "It is the just man who like a bold lion, should be without fear." Everything I have done and been, all of it was for this moment alone.

You know everything that must be done, Dray; you are better prepared than I could ever have hoped for the position you will hold. You have become the man I always hoped you would be. Malfoys have always shaped their own destinies, by the sword if need be, and I know that you will do the same. May the wind be ever beneath your wings, my dragon.

Lucius

So, his father forgave him--as if that made any of this easier to bear. Draco folded the sheets in half, and then in half again, and slid them into his pocket. Lucius would not have been so proud had he known what it was Draco would do before his body was even cold. His father would not have let friendship, nor pride (and be honest, pride had driven him more even than love) force his hand. His father would have had the truth from Dumbledore before committing himself.

That night Voldemort came for him, himself. The Dark Lord did not use the Floo Network; instead he came striding into Draco´s bedroom looking as pleased as a dead man walking could. He wore muddy riding boots beneath his cloak and carried a crop in one hand, and he said to Draco, "Hurry and change, Malfoy--tonight we ride to Hogwarts."

Draco had been struggling with his shirt studs (almost enough to make one miss Dumbledore´s host, where informal dress was not only permissible but encouraged.) Now he dropped a cufflink and was forced to mutter a quick "Accio." "Hogwarts?" he asked neutrally.

Voldemort looked rather like a child with a new toy to show off. "I thought you had some possessions to recover?"

"Of course," Draco responded, "I´ll be with you in just a moment."

The Dark Lord had tethered his Thestraals to the railing and they were busily eating the hedges, the roses, and a juniper bush. Draco was torn between annoyance and amusement. Trust a Mudblood not to know what the hitching post was for. But it was pure joy to fly again, even on another´s wings. The gray mare Voldemort had allotted him was beautifully broken, powerful and fast and responsive to his very thoughts. He was honestly sorry when they landed outside the gates of Hogwarts.

"Follow me," Voldemort hissed when they had tied the horses. He had worked some kind of obscuring spell, one Draco didn´t know. It made him look ordinary, harmless, made his scarlet eyes a watery blue Draco suspected had been their natural color. Now, with their hoods up, wands in their sleeves, and swords sheathed, they could have been anyone--if anyone had come to Hogwarts in such times. Voldemort led him round to the back, through a small, unguarded door into what must have been the servants quarters when Hogwarts students had been allowed personal servants.

They moved undetected and easily as a dream through the castle, while Draco wondered why Voldemort had not simply killed them all in their sleep. He gathered those of his things worth keeping and magicked them small and cast a last glance around the rooms that had been his home. "I´m ready," he told the Dark Lord. The two of them were almost out when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, feeling rage and panic well up within him.

"Thank Merlin," the Weasley prefect panted.

"Peter," Draco stifled a groan. He could feel Voldemort´s eyes on him, could almost hear the other man thinking of death.

"Percy," the Weasel corrected. "My name is Percy. But it doesn´t matter. "You´d best hurry. Dumbledore´s called an emergency Council meeting--he has something he wants you to hear--."

"I have something I want him to hear, too," Draco said pleasantly. "Tell him he can shove his Council--." The Weasel was so agitated that he made the mistake of putting his hand on Draco´s arm. Draco brought his dagger up and stabbed, hard, and Percy fell back without even a scream. "Up his pompous ass," Draco finished. He wanted nothing more than to be gone, but Voldemort had his kid in a candy store look again.

"Perhaps we should join this little meeting," the Dark Lord purred.

"Okay," Draco sighed, "but we can only stay for a minute. It´s getting late."

The guard let them in immediately, and Draco turned to say something to Voldemort (Behave!) and realized that it was truly He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named that followed now. Tom Riddle was handsome enough, a fortyish man of average height and size, and ordinary except for his eyes. What stood behind Draco now was no man--it was taller by a handspan than the tallest man he had ever seen. Its face was a skull´s, paper-white and gleaming in the torchlight. It put its hand on Draco´s shoulder and steered him down the passage into the council chamber. Draco paused just inside the doorway with all the light of the room on him, just as he had that first night, and waited to be noticed.

After a long, drawn-out moment, all of the heads turned to him, mouths opening in terror or confusion, and Draco said them, "As I was summoned, so have I come. But I have a new master now, and I serve a new cause. I shall not come again."

The bony fingers on his shoulder tightened painfully and then released. Voldemort was pleased. At Dumbledore´s right hand Harry Potter said flatly, "Avada Kedavra," and the air swirled.

When everything had stilled again there was no sound but the Dark Lord´s laughter, harsh and dry as the rattle in the throat of a dying man. "Bravo," Voldemort remarked. "Well fought, and yet I am twice safe from your little spells. First, because death magic has no place here, and the Unforgivable Curses, no effect, and second because with your blood I gained your mother´s protection. I may no more be killed by that spell than you."

"No, child, I did not come here to kill you but rather to warn you: tonight this war begins in earnest. All those who died before are nothing to those who will die in the future. Here--a token of the first--." He threw something small and silvery to Harry Potter. Draco recognized it as the Weasley prefect´s wedding band.

Dumbledore was shaking his head sadly. "Mr. Malfoy, what have you done?" he asked, and beneath the disgust Draco could have sworn he was pleased. Had he hated having Draco fight under him so much that he would countenance even this?

It didn´t matter anymore what Dumbledore thought or did. Soon enough he and all those who stood with him would be destroyed, because Draco had loved his friends too much, and his father too little. "It gets easier, you know," Draco told him. "Watching your friends die." His fingers closed around Voldemort´s bony wrist, and he pulled the other man out of the room and they both ran. Not until it came time to mount their horses did he look at the Dark Lord again, and by then Voldemort was only a man once more.

At Malfoy House Voldemort did it to him once again, on the couch in the shabby Blue Drawing Room, and Draco closed his eyes to block the crimson gaze and closed his mind to what must be done. For five months of fire and blood he pretended he was anywhere, anyone else; he went where he was told and he did what the Dark Lord asked of him. Gradually he began to recognize faces in the Death Eater ranks, men and women who fought for Dumbledore but spied for Voldemort, and when he could he sent them to their deaths. He told himself that it was because he hated traitors, and perhaps part of him did hate to be reminded of his own treachery.

In late May the flowers began to bloom on the ground where his father had fallen and the temperatures soared and tempers flared. Voldemort was winning the war, but slowly, and at great cost, and when Peter Pettigrew put his hand on Draco´s arm once too often Draco forgot himself and killed him there in Voldemort´s campaign room beneath the black-covered map of England. For the first time Voldemort turned his rage on his second-in-command.

They took his wand away and cuffed him with adamantine, and threw him at the Dark Lord´s feet. "So, little Malfoy, you think you can defy me?" Voldemort demanded. "You think that you can kill my servants? Pettigrew was a rat, yes, but even rats have their uses. He was not to be--thrown away--so carelessly." Draco stared at up him sullen and wordless and no longer afraid to die, as Voldemort said, "Make him sorry."

The other Death Eaters fell on him: Lestrange, Nott, Rosier--cold and hard and angry. They had hated Draco being raised above them and they were glad to see him fall. Draco had been beaten before, had felt the Cruciatus Curse before, and he did not cry out. He did not even cry out when Rosier took his jackal form and tore at his shoulder, though that was partially because he had passed out halfway through.

When he came back to consciousness he was on the floor in a puddle of his own blood. The Death Eaters had gone, and Voldemort was holding a searing blade to Vin Crabbe´s eyes and laughing softly to himself. Kelso´s head regarded Draco from the table, mute with horror, and he could see Tarquin´s body slumped to the left of the door. Mustering what strength he had, Draco croaked, "Stop!"

Voldemort turned to him. "Did I not tell you the penalty for disloyalty?" he asked, and though his voice was cold, his eyes were merry and bright. He enjoyed a spot of torture now and again. Draco rolled slowly onto his side, to his knees, and finally to his feet. Though he hurt more than he had ever hurt in his life he was relieved to find that everything still bent as it was supposed to. He had been lucky; there was no serious damage except to his shoulder, and thank Merlin, he was left-handed. He could still fight, even if there was no one worth saving.

Voldemort seemed very sure of himself. He watched (head cocked to one side like a particularly vicious robin) as Draco came at him, sword drawn. And then suddenly he too held as blade, a burning, terrible weapon. When the two swords met, Ferux flew from Draco´s hand. He did not stop to wonder that Voldemort had managed to disarm him. He did not stop to think at all. Instead he flung himself on Voldemort, saw the other man´s eyes widen with fear as Draco´s weight bore them both to the floor.

Voldemort was protected from any spell ever written, any weapon forged. But he had never imagined--could never have prepared for--an attack so fierce. Draco had lost all command over himself; some times his hands were on the Dark Lord´s throat, while at others it seemed he was in hawk shape, and his talons raked the other man´s face. He fought as he had never fought before, now when it seemed he had nothing left to fight for. Voldemort fought back, but he was no match for Draco, and his struggles grew weaker and weaker until they stopped altogether.

Draco tore him apart and spread the pieces round the room, and, in hawk form, ate a few of the choicest bits. Coming to himself again, he stumbled wearily to his feet and saw Rosier and Terry Nott in the doorway, holding Malcolm Baddock between them, and Lestrange a stride behind them, clutching Pansy Parkinson by her hair. When they saw his eyes on them, Rosier and Nott Disapparated, dropping Malcolm. Lestrange came forward, laughing, the madness he had brought with him from Azkaban very clear on his face. Lestrange liked blood, his own or others´.

"What will you give me for the girl, Malfoy?" he asked now. "I grow hungry."

Draco named the first thing he could think of. "Malfoy House." It was the only thing he had the man might value; he had no comprehension any longer of the value of money and no need for a sword when he could use his teeth.

Lestrange considered, and at last said, "Yes. It is enough."

Draco scribbled words on a sheet of paper, and handed it over. What use was a house to him? He was a dead man now; he would never dare set foot in England again. Dumbledore and his hounds would hunt him forever, and he had no heir to worry about. He said to Pansy, "Do what you can for him," and she moved around the table to kneel by Vin. He could see her hands shaking as she fumbled to bandage the oozing burn where the man´s eyes had been. To Lestrange he said, "Give me ten minutes start, raise the Morsmorde, and then run." Lestrange nodded. He was a beast but he had an honor of his own. Draco twisted his signet ring and was gone.

He fell and the threadbare carpet rose up to meet him. But he was on his feet again a heartbeat, trying to ignore the pain. He transformed Ferux from a blade into a snub-nosed and silenced pistol, sleek and deadly if lacking in elegance, and wished her invisible. The weight of her in his hand was the weight of a friend, but after a moment of thought he stashed her in the safe and pocketed a handful of gems instead. There was no time to write a letter, and no one to read it if he died. The Malfoy line died with him.

In his bedroom Draco managed the spell to stop the bleeding, though he could do nothing for his shaking hands. Shock. How could Voldemort be dead? How could thirty years and more of war be ended almost at random? Surely rage and terror could not have succeeded where so many elaborate plans had failed? And with Voldemort gone no one stood between Draco and the wizarding world, all of whom would want him dead for once reason or another. He changed into jeans and a faded shirt, clothes that would go unremarked anywhere he found himself, gathered his resolve, and changed to hawk form and flew into the fading night.

He did not remember so much of what happened, very clearly. He remembered that every wingstroke was agony, and he remembered stopping to rest, but he did not remember changing to human form, or bleeding in the street. When he regained consciousness he was in a hospital room with a pretty nurse bending over him and a dying man in the bed to his right. "You gave us quite a scare," she said to him, blinking flirtatiously. "Can you tell us your name?"

Draco raised guileless eyes, blue as the summer sky, to her face, and shook his head regretfully. "I´m not sure," he answered. "Everything´s a bit blurry just now." (True enough!)

"You just get some rest, then," she told him with a smile. Draco watched through narrowed lids until she was gone, and then he stood up. His shoulder was a dull throb, counterpoint to every other ache in his body.

In a cupboard by the door he found his things--his shirt, ruined now, and his jeans, still wearable, the Malfoy signet, his wand, and the little bag of gems. Clearly they had not believed they were real. The other cupboard yielded a wallet belonging to a Michael Conway and a set of clothes. Draco put on his own jeans and Conway´s shirt, and went into the bathroom and locked the door.

Conway´s wallet yielded a thick wad of bills of some sort, and a few coins, a shiny identification card with a picture of the man on the other bed, and a few scraps of paper. Draco unlocked the door, took a long look at the dying man, shut the door, picked up his wand, and looked in the mirror. It was simple enough to do, if you knew how: a little Glammerie Charm, the kind of thing one barely needed a wand to perform. It had been a favorite charm of the Dark Lord´s because it could be adapted easily. In the mirror his face grew subtly rounder, his skin pinker, his hair sandier. When he looked down at his hands, they were broader, the nails ragged. He pocketed Conway´s wallet, the gems, and his wand, and went out into the city.

"Yes," Dumbledore-present said to Malfoy-present, "But it doesn´t stop there, does it? Where did you go from there?"