Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

Joan of Arc

It was deep into his fiery heart
he took the dust of Joan of Arc,
and then she clearly understood
if he was fire, oh then she must be wood.
I saw her wince, I saw her cry,
I saw the glory in her eye.
Myself I long for love and light,
but must it come so cruel, must it burn so bright?

From "Joan of Arc" by Leonard Cohen

It seemed they only wanted to talk to him, or perhaps to stare at him until he said something interesting. Draco stared back; he was no stranger to such tactics, after all. He had thought they were only waiting to attack him; it turned out they were waiting for Granger. She blew in twenty minutes later, trailing assistants and packages, her body enormous with pregnancy under the folds of her Minister's robe. Of course, she would be what? Six months along, now. Too far gone to Apparate. He saw Dumbledore's face whiten, Potter's mouth open and close. Could it be they had not known? Draco felt a fierce surge of pride, as if he had had some say in this baby's conception.

And then Black, as head of the College of Aurors, was calling the meeting to order, and Draco remembered, appalled, just why it was they were meeting. Under the table, Potter took his hand and squeezed it, hard, and Draco did not let himself pull away. This time--this once--he would allow himself this small gesture, now when he was once more on the brink of losing everything. His whole life was a series of almost disasters, and how dare he be such a drama queen? His was not the life at stake here today. But he did not draw his hand away.

"Professor Malfoy," Black said gravely, "I think that we are all in agreement that, what happened today, while tragic, cannot and should not be made public. Ista Flint's breakdown is not something that anyone could have foreseen; rather it is a result of the girl's particular and peculiar background and circumstances. While it will, of course, necessitate a re-evaluation of the support system here at Hogwarts, it is not the intention of either the Hogwarts Board of Governors or the Ministry to place blame. We are very sure that all members of the Hogwarts staff acted with the best of intentions where Ista is concerned.

The fact remains, however, that while we fully believe that we can prevent such incidents in the future, we still must deal with this. We must consider what is best for Ista. We are confident that at this time Ista remains in England. However--." And here, Black's voice faltered, here he stopped, to rub his forehead with his hands. Draco knew just how he felt. It was never easy to sign a death warrant. "However," Black went on, "she must be brought to justice. The penalty for attempted use of an Unforgivable is now not less than fifteen years in Azkaban. Ista's youth will, unfortunately, not mitigate her offense."

Draco started to say something and changed his mind. He was not, after all, sure there was anything that could have saved Ista, and he knew that no one wanted to hear him talk. Snape and Dumbledore, side by side, looked devastated, and even McGonagall seemed to have lost her starch. And could it be that after all these years he was learning tact? Potter gave his hand another squeeze.

"The question, now, becomes who to send after Ista," Black continued. "We dare not send a regular unit of Aurors; we dare not risk the publicity that might result. As most of you know, the Unspeakables were disbanded three years ago. We find ourselves at an impasse. What is needed is a single highly trained wizard, someone unaffiliated with the Aurors, and preferably familiar with Ista." He paused expectantly.

Draco took advantage of the moment to dig through the pockets of his robes for cigarettes and a lighter. He was just lifting one to his lips when he caught Granger's disapproving eye. She seemed to be mouthing something at him. After a moment's thought, Draco interpreted it as "Bad for the baby." And put the cigarette down unlit. That was when he realized everyone else in the room was looking at him, too. Caught off guard, his poise having deserted him, he demanded, "What?"

"Professor," Snape's voice was cold as ever but his eyes were apologetic and kind. "What Mr. Black means is that he would like you to volunteer."

Draco, who had been thinking all along that they meant Potter to go, lit a cigarette after all. "Why?" and he thought, so much for eloquence, so much for complex sentences. He did not wait for an answer; instead he stood, walked to stand in front of the window. The sun was falling--the sun was dying--the last wan December rays shadowed his face and he touched the patterned saints in the stained glass. "Why?" he asked again, and he did not turn to face them.

All his life he had been driven from choice to choice; all his life he had done what others demanded of him. Go here, Draco, go there. Join the Death-Eater Youth, Draco. Go to Hogwarts, Draco. Pledge your loyalty to Dumbledore, Draco. Kill me, Draco. Save me. Play Quidditch, Draco, father my children, teach Arithmancy. He was so tired. Sometimes he could not remember what it had been like not to be tired. Always, he did what they asked of him and it was never enough. Around each corner waited another choice.

Always he chose wrong. "Why," he said a third time, and this time it was not a question. "Why have you done this to me? Christ. How can you ask this of me? What is it you think I am, a tamed falcon to hunt at your command? You are tearing me apart, all of you! I fight and fight, and I can't even remember what I'm fighting for, and still you send me onward. I won't do it. I'm no hound to run at the heels of the Ministry. Why can you never leave me the fuck alone? Why can you never let me live?"

Potter, of course, blazed to the attack. Well, he would. "Why should you get a choice, Malfoy, when none of the rest of us do? Part of being a grownup is having to do things you don't want to do. Like it or not, we are the ones who shape the destiny of the wizarding world these days."

"Is part of being a grownup murdering a sixteen year old girl?" Draco demanded. "Because that's what you're asking me to do, isn't it? To make her disappear?" He had not turned; he would not face them, would not let them see him with his defenses down. All at once the window dissolved in a fall of coloured glass. The adamantine cuffs on his wrists burned and blistered his skin. He had not known it was possible to do magic with them on; he must be farther from control than he had realized, even. Now he swung round, but was disappointed to see that they were all of them blank and disapproving and not at all afraid.

"Yes," Black answered him at last. "That's exactly what we want you to do, Draco, is to make her disappear. And we're fully aware that it's a terrible thing to ask of anyone, and most of all of you. But if this gets out, there will be panic, Draco, like there has never been before. People are afraid, and Ista Flint and Tom Riddle are far too much alike for comfort.

You are a fully trained wizard, Draco; you are the only wizard in England who is not an active Auror and is capable of going up against Ista with a sword or a wand. You are the only wizard in England, to my certain knowledge, who has used the Unforgivable Curses."

"I'm still not going to do it," Draco said sullenly. He forbore on adding, and screw you all, but felt it was strongly implied. Potter stood up, grabbed his arm, and dragged him into the hall. Draco rubbed the spot ostentatiously while Potter glared. "I don't want to do this, Harry," he said at last, in a very small voice.

Potter softened visibly. "I know you don't, Malfoy, and to be honest I don't blame you. If you won't do it, you won't; they can't make you."

"They can't?" Draco was aware that his disbelief bled through, but Potter didn't seem to mind.

"I turned them down already, you know," which was not, of course, an answer. "And, Malfoy, I'm proud of you for refusing. It wasn't a fair thing to ask."

Draco, feeling half pleased and half patronized, asked, "What will happen?"

Potter gave him a sad smile. "To her, you mean? They'll find someone to send after her. And she'll die or go to prison, one or the other. No one can run forever; you of all people should know that."

Draco thought that it was easy to stand on one's principles when one didn't know the people involved. He could picture Ista, terrified and alone. There was no one for her to run to, no one to speak up for her. What did Harry Potter know about being alone? He couldn't go out of his flat without being mobbed. So she would die, alone and unloved as she had lived, or be dragged back to Azkaban, and in a year or two no one would remember she had ever existed. No one would remember that Draco had killed her mother and Potter her father, and that the staff and students of Hogwarts had taken even hope away from her.

"If I go," Draco began, and then stopped. He did not want to follow that thought to the end, not yet. Instead he asked, "Do you ever wonder what it is I'm supposed to do? What it is Dumbledore meant to have me killed for?"

Potter slanted him a surprisingly shrewd glance. "Do I? It doesn't matter, does it? What matters is if you wonder about it."

"Oh, I do." Draco responded dryly. "All the time. Just this morning, I was wondering what the repercussions were, if I chose toast over crumpets for breakfast."

Potter grinned. "How'd you resolve that one?"

"I had both," Draco admitted. "It seemed safest."

"You can't think about it," Potter said after a moment. "That's my advice, just don't think about it."

"That's easy for you to say," Draco snapped, but there was no edge to the words. "Merlin, Potter, what am I going to do? If I kill Ista, if I don't, if I go after her, if I don't, I end up second-guessing everything. For all I know, it's too late, and one of the little creeps I teach hasn't got the grounding in Arithmancy it needs and will never be Minister of Magic. For all I know Granger's baby will grow up to be some kind of monster."

"Dumbledore can't live forever, you know."

Draco did know--as a matter of fact he was counting on it. Still, he had thought Potter rather liked Dumbledore, and so he only raised an eyebrow.

Potter shrugged. "I just meant that whatever he meant, it almost has to happen in the next ten years or so."

"That's true," Draco answered thoughtfully. "It has to happen, and the consequences have to be clear, all before Dumbledore succumbs to extreme old age. I rather fancied the spawn of Satan theory but I expect that one is right out."

"What are you going to do?" Potter asked very quietly.

"What can I do," Draco sighed, making it a statement and not a question. "What I don't want to do but am afraid not to do. Go after her, make sure the job is done right, make sure she's not too scared. Let her die the way I would want to die, if it were me."

"You're going to do it, then?"

"There is no one else more suitable, is there? No one else with the right combination of experience and efficiency." He thought, but did not say, no one but me--and you. One did not expect Harry Potter to execute children. Draco Malfoy, in contrast, was capable of any infamy, any atrocity. He had turned to go back in when Potter put a hand on his arm.

"Malfoy, is Hermione's baby yours?" he asked.

Draco considered lying, but really, what good would it do? "Yeah," he answered warily and braced himself for a punch in the face. But once again, Potter surprised him.

"I'm glad," he said, giving Draco a smile that could have melted stone. "I'm really glad."

"Well." Draco searched for an appropriate response. "Good."

They had clearly given up hope that he would go; he could see they had been discussing other options. They were eager enough that he could tell they had not been successful. He might have been flattered if he had not known what it was they wanted. As it was he felt curiously flat, as if he had suddenly been reduced to two dimensions. All they saw was paper-Draco, who was whatever they wanted him to be.

They had decided, or perhaps Potter had requested, that he not be sent on his little "mission of mercy" until the following day. Draco suspected it was because they'd forgotten to bring his wand. When they had gone he slipped into the bathroom and ran cool water on his wrists. The bracelets had left puffy white bands on his skin overlaying the scar tissue; they burned, but not nearly as much as he deserved. He was a Malfoy; he should have kept his temper.

The door opened and closed and in the mirror Potter's face appeared above Draco's shoulder. "Malfoy?" he asked softly, tentatively (which meant that Draco had succeeded in disturbing someone, because Potter was rarely tentative.) "They want you to meet with a solicitor, someone about the Malfoy Trust."

Draco swung around, wiping his hand on his robes. "They want me to what? There is no Malfoy Trust; there is no more Malfoy legacy to be entrusted. All I have is my clothes, Potter, and I'll be more than happy to leave them to you--if anyone could use the sartorial assistance--."

"Very funny," Potter interrupted, but the edges of his mouth twitched, as if to balance his cool words. "She's waiting in your office."

Draco, more curious than anything else, went on his way. What he had said to Potter was essentially true; the Malfoy fortune, as well as the estate, had been forfeit since the night he had signed it over to Lestrange. Anything that was left--he winced, thinking of the Rembrandt in the Blue Drawing Room, the Gainsboroughs and Landseers in the dining room, the small Turner in his own bedroom, the shards of Merlin's staff and the nail from the True Cross under the altar in the chapel, the magical artifacts looted or liberated over a millennium-- had no doubt long ago been taken by the Ministry. But there were always the things in the safe, the things no one could get to but him. There were perhaps half a million Galleons there, and whatever was left in the Malfoy accounts.

The solicitor, thankfully, was no one he had ever seen before--a dumpy blonde woman who gave him a cool and appraising look before sitting down unasked.

"Well?" Draco asked her, raising an eyebrow.

She was not flustered by his rudeness. "I'm Violet Devonshire, Professor Malfoy. I'm here to go over the terms of the Malfoy Trust with you."

"I'm sorry," Draco said, making it clear that he was not, "but I think there must be some kind of mistake. There is no Malfoy Trust; I sold Malfoy House and all its lands and contents just before the war ended. So there is nothing left but my--personal fortune, which is probably not worth my attention, much less the Ministry's."

The woman reached into her briefcase and began removing stacks of neatly bound papers. Draco barely kept himself from pacing or jumping up and down screaming. There were so many things he needed to do and here he was arguing over an inheritance that didn't exist for an heir that wasn't yet born. All so that he could be sent to die or kill a girl he was horribly sorry for. He felt--he felt guilty, which was an unfamiliar feeling and one he did not much like; he felt as if there were bugs crawling under his skin.

Violet Devonshire seemed to have found what she was looking for at last.

She took out a tiny book and tapped it with her wand. Draco watched as it expanded into a heavy volume bound in green leather, one he recognized at once: Marmaduke Burke's Peerage, the book that listed lines of descent for all the pureblood houses in England. Despite himself he craned his neck to see his own name.

Malfoy, Earl of

THE 16TH EARL OF Malfoy, of Malfoy House, Co Malfait, Viscount Ednam, of Ednam, Co Roxburgh, Baron Ware of Birmingham, Co Warwick (Dracovel Lucifer Thomas Narcissus PB); Bro SNAPE, SEVERUS HB; [The Rt Hon The Earl of Malfoy, Hogwarts School, Hogsmeade; 6 Desturn Alley, London W8 5PR; Malfoy House, Putsborough, Devon EX33 1LD]; b 5 Mar 1980 (HRH LORD VOLDEMORT stood sponsor); educ Hogwarts; Lieut Pers Ret (MRA) Vol. War II (wounded), Second to Vol.1998-2000; UK National Quidditch Team, Seeker 2010; Professor Hogwarts School 2010-; and has:

Issue

1a Alexander Ivanovanitch HB, of Moscow, RUS, son; b. 27 Oct. 2001; by Iliana Ivanovanitch M

1b Name, gender, birthdate unk PB; by Marthe Quelfois yr dau Comtesse Dumas, m. Duc de Rouche (see also Dumas, Quelfois, de Rouche) PB Fr.

1c Name, gender, birthdate unk PB; by Pansy Parkinson dau Jonathan Parkinson heiress du Parc, never married (see also du Parc; Parkinson; Lestrange-Parkinson, Mari) PB

1d Name, gender, birthdate unk PB; by Hermione Granger, Min of Mag 2007-, MB

Not very much, to sum up thirty years, and yet Draco knew it was much more than many lesser mortals were granted. He wondered what had happened to Elizabeth's baby, and felt a brief, unkind stab of pleasure that she had not conceived. Tracing the words with his finger, he asked, "So, I just pick one of these as my heir?"

Violet Devonshire smiled at him, no doubt glad he had decided to cooperate. "No," she answered, "I'm afraid it's not that simple. There are four children listed here, and there is also your half-brother, Professor Snape. However, one requirement of the Malfoy entail is that heirs be of pure blood, which of course eliminates both Snape and your, er, first born son. Now, as I am sure you understand, this is highly irregular; it is uncommon for a wizard to have more than one child, and it is very uncommon to have three eligible, all with different mothers. It would be--unwise--to choose the French child, as de Rouche is known to be a jealous husband, and as there is an additional requirement that your heir be willing to take the Malfoy name..."

Draco knew what it was she was saying, but he could not quite believe it. "You think I should leave everything to the Mudblood's child?"

The woman grimaced at his language (well, it was possible she was Muggle-born, herself, and really this wouldn't happen, if only they could make them wear some sort of mark) and Draco stared at her, daring her to say something to him. "I think that that would be the best choice," she responded carefully.

"Fine," Draco snapped, growing tired of the pissing contest, "but there's nothing to leave anyway."

Devonshire raised an eyebrow back. "I wouldn't call Malfoy House and twelve million Galleons nothing, Professor."

"If I had twelve million Galleons," Draco struggled and failed to keep his voice from rising, "would I be working here at this crap job? Well? Would I?"

Sadly, she failed to flinch; he must be losing his touch. "I can assure you, Professor Malfoy, that you do not have twelve million Galleons--the money belongs to the estate and is held in trust for your heirs, hence the words Malfoy Trust. You have access only to the interest, which comes to approximately nine hundred thousand a year."

"You mean to tell me that I spent ten years eating out of dumpsters and sleeping in the rain, ten years of having sex with Muggles for money, for Merlin's sake, and you all were sitting on that kind of cash? How? I gave the house to Lestrange, you must know that."

"Indeed, Professor, we do." Violet Devonshire practically smirked at him, and he wondered if it would be difficult to have her fired. She seemed to sense this, and schooled her features into a more conciliating expression. "All convicted Death Eaters forfeited their holdings. Only those not of legal age in the wizarding world--those not twenty-one--were exempt. In fact, Professor Malfoy, wizards under twenty-one, and more specifically, you, ten years ago, are not able to inherit at all. Therefore, your transaction with Lestrange was invalid. When you 'left the country,' your property was still held in trust."

"Oh," Draco said blankly. It was past midnight and he'd been up since six. He scrawled his name where he was told to, waited while the solicitor flooed away, and left. Potter was waiting for him in the corridor, his face set and pale. He smiled a little anxiously, when he saw Draco; clearly he had been expecting a temper tantrum. Malfoys did not cry, but they were well known for throwing fits. What Draco did next surprised them both; one moment he was staring across the hallway from Potter, noticing the way Potter's dark hair fell over his scar into his eyes and the next he was pushing Potter up against the wall, sliding his hands up under Potter's shirt, shoving his hips against Potter's hips and his mouth against Potter's mouth.

It was as if, suddenly, they were sixteen again: transformed into the children their families and the war had never given them a chance to be. Because they were not going to make it to a bedroom, Draco knew; they were not even going to have to touch each other. He had never been this inelegant, this desperate, at sixteen. He had never felt this way before. His cock strained against the button-fly of his jeans, against Potter's cock, as if there were not layers of clothing and robes between them. He rolled his hips and thrust, once, twice, three times, and then he was coming in his pants, there in the corridor outside his office, and thank Merlin all the students were locked in their common rooms and no one was going to wander along. Potter, a heartbeat behind, came too, and his eyes glazed and his breathing faltered and he leaned his head on Draco's shoulder as if in gratitude.

"Come on," he said, after a moment, "it's past time for bed."

Draco glanced down and was glad to see their robes covered a multitude of sins. "That's for sure," he answered, laughing.

When they were both lying in Draco's far too narrow bed, pressed shoulder to shoulder and nearly asleep, Potter asked, in a small voice, "What's between you and Snape?"

Draco rolled over onto his elbows and looked Potter in the face. It was so dark he could see almost nothing, a white blur, a green gleam. Was that what it was like to be blind? "He's my brother, you know," he began carefully."

"What?" Potter's body tensed.

Draco laughed again but this time there was no humor in it. "Well--half, anyway. My--our father raped his mother. She was a little Muggle girl from a town outside Hogsmeade. Lucius and Tom Riddle caught her and raped her; it was part of the ritual to open the Chamber of Secrets. I've always wondered if Tom couldn't get it up, he had this thing about women. But good old Lucius came through. After--the girl topped herself. It was an enormous scandal; my grandmother had it hushed up. The baby--Severus--was fostered out to a wizarding family on the estate. But they gave him the Dark Mark when he was only a few months old. He was their prototype, their perfect little Death Eater."

"Does Dumbledore know this?"

Draco sighed, and Potter moved closer. "He knows. He's the one who told Snape the truth. That's why Snape turned, you know, that first time. He fought with my father and they never spoke to one another again, even after Snape came back to Voldemort. I've wondered since then, if my father knew Snape was a spy. It's not widely known, his parentage, even now; there is nothing Snape counts more shameful. I always admired him, when I was younger. He's the loneliest person I have ever met."

"I thought..." Potter's voice trailed off.

"I know," Draco said, and was amazed to find it didn't hurt anymore. "I did, for a while. But there was no future in it. I've given it up, and I've got a new dark broody chap now." In the blackness Potter found his hand and squeezed it, hard, and they fell asleep like that.

In the morning Black woke them, pounding on the door. Draco slid into his clothes, pulling on the warm black coat that had been Potter's and gathering up his cloak. He had nothing else to take; he would have to go to Malfoy House first thing and collect his sword. The thought of Ferux made him smile. He had missed the familiar weight of the blade against his leg. Black handed him his wand and the Malfoy signet, and Draco put it on his finger.

He kissed Potter goodbye, already thinking of the hunt. If he were Ista Flint, where would he go? Not Dolwyddellan; Riddle House was a museum now, a monument to Muggle-Magical relations. He held out his wrists to be freed, shook Black's hand, and twisted his ring and was gone. He landed, stumbling on the rolled carpet of the Red Morning Room, and fetched up against the shrouded form of the sofa. The paintings had been taken down and (presumably) stored in a crate against one wall; the drapes were gone and the furniture wrapped in dustcovers. The whole house was like that, half-empty rooms that echoed as he walked past them over bare, shadowy floors. It was the same and vastly different.

It was while he was opening the safe that he heard it: a noise that sounded indefinably wrong, different. Something too big to be a rat. He took out Ferux, before he turned; in his hand she melted from a gun into the sword he remembered best. Sword in one hand and wand in the other, he moved to face the threat. Ista stood perhaps fifteen feet away, her eyes very bright in the dimness. Draco had seen madness like that before, had seen the way Tom Riddle seemed to shine from within, as if all his energy and focus are turned outwards. It is as if they are destroying themselves from the inside out. He had thought she would have been saveable, if he'd gotten to her six months ago, but now he was not so sure.

"Ista," he said as neutrally as possible. "How did you get in here? I thought the fireplaces had been blocked."

"I knocked and your gatekeeper let me in," Ista snapped, clearly annoyed at his stupidity. "I told him I was your mistress."

"I see," Draco answered, aware that laughter might be fatal but very sure that no one in their right mind would believe Ista Flint was any man's mistress.

"Your daughter." Ista's voice was sulky, her tone familiar; she sounded like any other sixteen year old. She sounded the way Draco had, caught in a lie by a man he both hated and admired. He did not point out that as she was sixteen and he was twenty-nine he'd have been one of the youngest fathers on record. After a long moment she caved. "I told them I was one of your students, here to pick up a book for you. They think I Portkeyed out hours ago."

"Look, Ista," Draco began in the careful, reasonable voice he used all too often on Potter, "I'm not going to deny that you're in trouble, okay, I think we both know that." Ista stared intently back at him, her eyes wide and intense. Draco was more or less sure that as soon as he stopped talking she was going to strike. She was practically drooling for his blood. "Maybe something can be worked out...if you just give me your wand, Ista, I promise I'll do my best to help you. The important thing is that--." And what was the important thing? Whether she came quietly or not, Ista Flint was doomed. No one walked away from fifteen years of Azkaban, not if they were mad to begin with. It was kindest to put her out of her misery the way one destroyed a rabid dog.

Ista stepped back, as if she had heard what he was thinking, and suddenly her wand came up. "Crucio," she breathed. This time it worked. Draco felt the curse burn through him and instinctively tightened his fingers around his own wand, around the hilt of the sword. The pain was very bad, but not, he thought, as bad as he remembered it. Voldemort had been able to drive one to one's knees with a whisper, to break one with a thought. Ista only made him want to fall.

Clearly she had expected to liquefy him; now she looked surprised and a little hurt by her failure. Draco could do nothing but grit his teeth and hope for the best as she moved closer. If she were armed, if she wanted to kill him, there was nothing he could do to fight her off. Instead she reached for his sword and for a moment her concentration failed. Draco waited, and as her fingers closed around the blade, he said it: words not heard in England since the end of the Voldemort wars. Ista's hand tightened; there was a green flash and then she was nothing but a dead black-clad lump at his feet. The palm of her hand was open, turned up to the light, and he dipped his fingers in her blood and touched them to his lips. He could not think what to do next.

After what seemed like forever Draco took off his coat (well, Potter's coat) and put it underneath her head. It was a stupid thing to do, but she looked so uncomfortable there on the marble floor. He fell back on old training: he raised the Morsmorde over the house and transformed into hawk shape. He was free, finally, and there was nowhere he wanted to fly.