White Horses

Jackie Stevens

Story Summary:
[COMPLETE] They say that there are no white horses - those that we think of as white are really just a faded and deceiving grey. Names can be misleading, and definitions can be false, and yet through the maze of artifice and deceit, we might just find something true. When Harry returns for his last two years at Hogwarts School, he will find that boundaries are shifting and not everyone is who he thought - including himself. He will have to learn that change is like those elusive white horses: swift, beautiful and irretrievable.

Chapter 18

Chapter Summary:
They say that there are no white horses - those that we think of as white are really just a faded and deceiving grey. Names can be misleading and definitions can be false, and yet through the maze of artifice and deceit, we might just find something true. When Harry returns for his last two years at Hogwarts School, he will find that boundaries are shifting and not everyone is who he thought - including himself. He will have to learn that change is like those elusive white horses: swift, beautiful and irretrievable.
Posted:
08/01/2004
Hits:
5,282
Author's Note:
MWAHAHAH. Told you it wasn't over.

DRACO HAD SAT FOR QUITE a while outside the burning building, in shock. He had done it. He had really done it. Voldemort and his loyal Death Eaters were dead. Everything was finally over.

Ever since Voldemort had come to Malfoy Manor that past summer to demand his servitude, Draco had known that he couldn't be a Death Eater. It certainly wasn't that he objected to Voldemort's ideals or his methods. Yeah, the Dark Lord thought Purebloods should be the elite ruling class; that worked out just fine for Draco. Maybe He wanted to kill Muggles along the way; well, bully for him. But Draco was not about to kill or torture people himself. He saw no reason why he should kill people, especially if it would just land him a cell in Azkaban or whatever new hell the government thought up. And if he was Voldemort's to command, he would be ordered to do just that.

So Draco had decided he didn't want to be a Death Eater. Mildly surprising (to him, at least - used to either getting his way or being ignored), his family had not been pleased with his decision. Well, no one could say what his father thought about it - for all they knew, he was rotting in some jail cell and being driven barmy by fwoopers. His mother, who he had never imagined to be very interested in the family's Dark politics, turned out to be having some kind of an affair with Voldemort - which was frankly more disgusting than Draco wanted to contemplate. She had been quite miffed with him. Thus, she had drugged his dinner one night and he had woken to the flesh-searing pain of Voldemort's Mark.

That, as they say, had been that. Draco was now an unwilling Death Eater and in the most ignoble way he could imagine. Not that he ever showed these emotions to anyone. He had hid behind that Malfoy mask and he had learned what it meant to be a Death Eater. There was no escape. Once you were branded by the Dark Lord's mark, he could always find you, no matter how you ran. And so Draco had begun to plot.

He couldn't escape and there was no way to simply quit being a Death Eater. If he wanted to be free, he was going to have to bring down the whole system - it was either his death or Voldemort's. The first time he had thought this, he had been horrified, and despite his proficiency as Legilimency (Thanks, Lucius), he was sick with the fear that the Dark Lord would see this rebellion in him. But the thought had crossed his mind so many times that it started to leave a rut. And Draco began to hatch plans.

But how could he kill Voldemort? Ignoring the question of whether the monster could even die, there were logistical problems. Voldemort never met with his Death Eaters one on one. He was always flanked by his lieutenants (or so Draco called them), that upper echelon of six or seven Death Eaters whom Voldemort held in esteem. There was no way he would be able to take out Voldemort without one of them killing him first. Or even if he did manage it, they weren't going to simply let him get away. Hardly. And the name of the game was survival.

Then a perfect opportunity had landed in his lap.

"You want Potter?" he had asked, "I can get you Potter."

Voldemort wasn't willing to be humiliated again by Harry Potter. The only ones who would be present when Draco brought the Gryffindor wretch would be the Dark Lord and Malfoy himself. He would summon the boy via Portkey - and be a little extra icing as the Gryffindor realized his betrayal. If the boy managed to escape with his life again, Voldemort would simply kill Malfoy and the shame would be erased with his death. But if they succeeded, all the Death Eaters would be summoned with a signal and they would all bathe in Harry's blood and sing karaoke, or whatever it was they did when they murdered their enemy.

Only a few of Voldemort's lieutenants had known that Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater. The lower ranks weren't really supposed to know anyone's identities, in case they were caught. New recruits were kept especially in the dark, until they had proved themselves. So it wasn't too difficult to make a show that Voldemort didn't want Draco. There was no way the boy could get into Potter's good graces if everyone knew he was a Death Eater. No, a sob-story where he was abandoned by his friends and alienated from his house would work much better on a Gryffindor.

Draco had followed the plan, with only a few modifications to suit his own private agenda. (Seducing Harry and sleeping with the boy really hadn't been his modifications - more like unexpected bumps.) He had carefully probed those few Death Eaters he could about the Dark Lord's precautions and the spells that protected him. He'd discovered - all in an admiring ploy, of course - that the monster was protected against most Dark magic and even some of the more creative Light magic. Voldemort also had extensive wards and charms that allowed none of his servants to bear weapons when they came to him. If any of them had ever dared to try to a harmful spell against their master, they would have found even their wands were useless for it. Carefully herding his knowledge, he'd set in motion his delicate play with Potter.

For Voldemort, he had gotten the boy to trust him enough that he thought Harry would accept a gift from him, namely the Portkey. Then for himself, he had led Harry to be wary enough to be always armed. (And, of course, Harry had also gotten caught in Hogsmeade, almost wasting Draco's pains, then the Gryffindor had found out that Draco was a Death Eater - also not part of the plan.) But in the end, Draco had made sure that on Christmas day, the boy had the Portkey and his gun, and he had gotten the weapon for himself, just as he had hoped - thus outsmarting the Dark Lord's precautions, which allowed none of his followers to carry any sort of weapon. It didn't count if they managed to get a hold of a weapon once already in his presence.

After he had killed Voldemort, after he had sent Harry back, Draco had given the signal that would bring the lieutenants running. There was no Apparating on the Malfoy grounds, unless you were a Malfoy. And as each had entered the room, he had swooped down on them with the long sword that he had pulled from the blood-soaked wood near Voldemort's body. He didn't have much real practice with a sword, but it didn't take much skill to catch someone unawares and slit their throat or run a blade through them. (Though once or twice he hit bone and the shock left his entire arm numb.)

Surrounded by the gory remains of the highest of the Death Eaters and their master, he didn't look closely at the still warm corpses, still twitching and oozing quickly cooling blood. With a wave, he sent the bodies to lie in a heap in the dark corners of the room. Then he signalled the rest of the Death Eaters with another round of magical flares, green this time.

Things became a little dicier, since there were over fifty people in the lower ranks and as they realized what was happening, some started running and others started firing curses at the young Malfoy. He couldn't allow any of them to get away - for some reason that he couldn't quite wrap his head around in his blood-crazed state - and so Draco locked them all in the hunting cabin with a solid sheet of power. Apparating outside himself, he set the whole damned thing aflame. No one made it out and he thought that eventually the screams would stop.

The fire was still burning merrily when his mother appeared. She had Apparated over from the Manor as soon as she had been alerted to the smoke. Narcissa stared at the blaze in horror and whispered, "What have you done?"

He shook his blonde head, nearly the same colour as hers but even fairer. He had been focussing exclusively on the plan. In his dazed state, he had only thought of how he couldn't let even one Death Eater escape... why? He could remember now that it had been the fear that they would just start a new regime or try to bring back Voldemort, that had demanded each death sentence. He could remember now the anguished, dying faces and the feel of his hands sliding over the blood-soaked hilt of the sword. What have I done?

Draco stared at the collapsing house where he had killed an uncountable number of people. He had hacked them to bits and burnt them alive. He had killed the people he had known most of his life - most of them his Slytherin housemate's parents. He had murdered, and not just one monster, but dozens of people. Narcissa slapped him and screamed furiously, her darker blonde hair flying around her contorted face, "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?" Before he could summon enough consciousness to protect himself, his mother struck him again, knocking him back onto the sooty ground. She beat him until he passed out and the acrid smoke burning his nostrils was the last thing he remembered for a while.



DRANCO DRIFTED IN AND OUT of consciousness. He couldn't be sure what memories had been fancies of his disturbed mind, and which had truly happened. The first thing he was certain about was being locked away in the Malfoy dungeons. He saw the family crest worked into the lock that swung from the door - wouldn't want your prisoners to forget who to thank for their suffering. Not questioning why he was locked away beneath his own house, he let the sweet blackness take him again.



SOMEONE WAS SPEAKING TO HIM. Blinking his eyes, a golden-white figure swam into Draco's vision. It resolved into his mother and he blinked some more, trying to comprehend what she was saying in her low, decorous voice. "Finally awake? Oh, mon étoile du matin... You see what you make me do?" She tutted to herself, "I know that it's not your fault. You were flawed since you were born and no matter how many times I've tried to help you, you are still flawed."

Draco tried to shrink away; he knew what it meant when his mother talked in this sickly-sweet way. He knew what her idea of 'help' was. She stroked his hair gently and said in a voice dripping regret, "I think you need another stay in the oubliette." When he started to protest, she hushed him softly. "Shh, I know. I know you find it uncomfortable..."

Draco would have laughed if he'd found it possible. Yeah, and Hell is just a sauna...

"Draco, you've done bad things and you must be punished. I thought that your last trip to the oubliette had been enough, but it seems you didn't learn your lesson." Her voice was brimming with grief, though none of it was for him. "First you took Alexander from me, then your father. And now, even sweet Tom. You've taken everyone I love away from me. I have no one now."

Of course Narcissa blamed him for Lucius' capture, although Draco had had nothing to do with it; he hadn't even known about the raid on the Department of Mysteries until it was over. But he couldn't be outraged over that, because her words had brought back just what he had done - the feel of the sword passing through flesh and jarring against bone, the sound of the burning screams. He tried desperately to focus on her words, momentarily preferring her false kindness to the real horror. He asked weakly, "What about me?"

She smiled sweetly, her cool hand cupping his cheek and asked softly, "What about you?" He tried not to wince and fell silent, but Narcissa wanted an answer now and her long nails dug into her jaw. "What about you, étoile du matin?"

He didn't want to have to ask, but he wouldn't risk infuriating her further by refusing. He asked miserably, "Don't you love me?"

Her laughter was like silver bells, dancing lightly in the gloomy dungeon, "Oh, Draco, who could love you? No one would want something so flawed."

With a liquid flick of her wand, she cast a silencing charm on her blonde little boy. "Now you must be punished. You do understand, don't you? I have to help you escape from your sinful nature." He begged without a shred of the pride everyone expected of any Malfoy, but not a word could be heard. She shook her head in disappointment and cast a quick Petrificus totalus on him, and then he couldn't even plea silently anymore. He couldn't close his eyes and he had no choice but to watch as his mother lowered him down into the dank hole that was the Malfoy oubliette.

Once he was at the bottom of the thirty-foot deep hole, Narcissa released the Petrification spell that had held him in its grip. He quickly scrambled at the walls, though there was nothing grip, no way to climb out - he knew it from experience, but it didn't make him try any less hard. His nails scrabbling over smooth stone, Draco fell back to the bottom of the pit, feeling old bones crumble beneath his hands. The last little pinpoint of light disappeared as the door of the oubliette clanged shut above him, and he screamed silently for no one to hear.



THE DARKNESS CONTINUED UNABATED AND whether it was for days or weeks, the boy trapped in its unforgiving grasp couldn't say. The perks of a magical dungeon meant you didn't actually have to interrupt punishment by delivering any sort of sustenance - there were spells enough to keep the prisoner alive without ever letting them feel free of want or need. With nothing to alleviate the long dark of his personal hell, he had no way to tell how long he had been left alone.

The pit he was in was only four foot across, making it impossible for him to lie down properly - if he would have ever wanted to lie on a bed of bones. He had tried to keep his bodily excretions to one side of the hole, but had quickly lost any idea of which side that was. Luckily, that problem went away the longer he went without food or water. The silencing spell had never been lifted and there was nothing to hear except the dry rustle of the bones beneath him.

He had begun to lose his grasp on the outside world, and even on his own internal thoughts, when - in one moment of time indistinguishable from every other never-ending moment - the heavy metal door clanged open high above him. It frightened him more than the dark and the bones and that little spot of light high above seemed blinding as he tried to cower back against the wall.

"Draco?"

It was his mother. For some reason, the realization caused a confused rush of emotions from him. If this woman was his mother, then who was he? He couldn't remember, but he knew that the woman could do... something to help him. He knew that she could make things better, though he had no conception of what would be 'better.' There had never been anything but the lonely dark, had there?

His lips cracked as they shaped the words, "Q-qu'est-ce que c'est?" But there was no sound. The distant woman seemed to realize the problem and she cancelled the silencing spell, then called out to him again. Draco - he must be Draco, right? That was what she had called out, the mother - felt magic tingle through him for the first time in ages. The orihalcon stone that surrounded him prevented him from using any magic himself, and now he was remembering for the first time that he should have been able to use magic. He licked his bleeding lips with a nearly dry tongue and said hoarsely, "Oui, je suis ici. Je suis ici, mère."

Draco could hear the commiserating smile in her honeyed voice as she also replied in his native tongue, "Mon étoile du matin, I'm afraid I have had some bad news. I've just heard how you were having some sort of perverted relationship with Harry Potter." Her words meant nothing to him, but the new name caused a different rush of emotion to flood his starved mind. "My poor boy, this flaw demands much more attention. I had thought to let you up soon, but now I have no choice. You will have to remain here until your perversion is cured."

Draco thought distantly, Harry...? He had a sudden flash of green eyes, sparkling with dark humour. A small whimper escaped him as he tried not to remember and he heard his mother's light laugh as she watched him from so far above.

Whether it had been intentional or not, the mother had provided him with a whole new set of nightmares. Now he was plagued with hallucinations; stress induced fantasies that Harry Potter had come to save him in a rush of sweet words and kisses. The reminder forced him to remember this other boy, with messy dark hair and a wry smile. Although he didn't know himself, he knew Harry, and that somehow the fantasy boy would save him.

So when Harry called down the hole to him one night, he wasn't terribly surprised.

The door clanged as someone fiddled with the bar that held it shut and the boy flinched at the harsh sound. He heard Harry's voice, haunting him as it had for weeks now, "Draco? Malfoy, are you there?"

He was rather tired of the visions and, from the depths of his dark prison, he cried hoarsely, "Va te faire voire!"

The other voice sounded perplexed, and it's sweet, simple tones were familiar, "What? ...Draco?"

Trying futilely to clear his throat, the boy croaked out, "Laissez-moi tranquille! Piss off!"

There was a moment of silence and then the Harry-voice muttered to itself, "Well, bugger that. Never had someone I saved tell me to piss off before."

The bo - no, Draco looked sharply up into that blinding light, not quite daring to hope. But none of his fantasies had ever spoken to him like that. He asked in a small, scared voice, "Harry?"

The black head reappeared in front of the door hole and there was a brief sheen of light reflecting off ridiculous round glasses, "Who else, Malfoy, but the bloody Boy Who Lived himself?"

Draco continued to stare at that vague shape and said stupidly, "I can't get up there, Harry." As soon as he said it, he felt a spell levitate him and he rose free from the offal and human remains that had been his life for so long.

He was lifted free of the hole and landed gently in the torch-lit dungeon. Even that gloomy lighting seemed far too harsh and bright to Draco and his eyes watered as he blinked furiously, the fragile lids refusing to open all the way. Harry laughed and performed a scouring charm on him, saying, "Gods, you're filthy, Draco." He didn't feel any better, but looking down at the clothes he had been wearing since...(Christmas, a little voice in his head whispered), Draco realized he was at least clean.

He tried to blink up at Harry as the boy pocketed a mahogany wand that was somehow familiar. The black-haired boy stooped down beside Draco and slid a hand over that white face, his thumb stroking a sharp cheekbone. Harry spoke softly, "Oh, Draco. You know I love you more than the world?"

The blonde opened his mouth to ask, "What?" but Harry had bent in to kiss him.

Something was wrong. Draco still wasn't sure who Harry was supposed to be to him, but he was nonetheless sure that the boy had never spoken to him like that, and never kissed him like this. As soon as Draco thought it, he struggled away. Harry sat back on his heels with a bemused smile, "What's the matter, Draco?"

He was still having trouble focussing through the light, his eyes wanting to roll back in his head as he forced them open to stare at Harry. His voice was hoarse from disuse as he accused the boy, "You're not Harry."

The green eyes winced in pain and Harry sounded hurt when he said, "Gods, Draco. How can you say something like that?" But Malfoy had seen enough. He reached out and tore apart the spell, though he had no idea how he had done it or that he shouldn't have been able to. Instantly, a rather pug-nosed girl was kneeling in front of him, the clothes made for Harry's small frame stretching unattractively over her curves.

Pansy Parkinson, the cool voice in his mind supplied the name for him.

She stared at him without even the grace to hide her shock, "But that's impossible!" Draco had no better idea than she about he had been able to do something like that. As knowledge started to filter back in, he knew somehow that what he had just done was not normal. His only guess was that not using any magic for a couple months had left him with a little overabundance of power. Pansy screeched at him, "Your mother assured me that you would be broken and powerless! You were mine to play with!"

Draco's silver eyes were slits and his pupils were contracted to pinpoints just from the dim lighting in the dungeon. His glare was no less frightening for it though, and Pansy was already scrambling back. He could barely lift himself to stand up, but picking her up with a bit of wandless magic was no problem. He tossed her down the oubliette, leaving her with her mahogany wand, since he didn't want to kill her. He had a feeling that there had been too much of that already. It wouldn't do her much good down there, anyway. "Play with yourself, Pansy," he spat darkly in his rough voice, before slamming the door on her.

He could hear the muffled screams, but it didn't slow him at all. Someone would find her. He held himself up against the manhole and trembled with exertion from that single action. But he could feel his magic coursing back through him like a long draught of cool water. If I were a Muggle, I probably would have died in that hole. The thought came to him even though he couldn't immediately say just what a Muggle was. But pieces were beginning to fall into place and the thoughts rushed on even if he couldn't fully explain their meaning. I'm lucky that I didn't die of my own weaknesses. Probably have Mother to thank for that, she wouldn't have wished her punishment to end too quickly.

Draco was sure that Narcissa would find out before long that he had gotten out. He needed to get away from this place - Malfoy Manor - though it wouldn't be much of an escape. He knew he was only sixteen (or maybe seventeen now?) and still under the control of his parents. Even if he ran, it would be within his mother's rights to send out the authorities to hasten his safe return. If she didn't report him as a Death Eater (A what?) and simply have him hunted down, that is. He had to go someplace she wouldn't or couldn't find him.

Though there were still many gaps in his memory, he had some vague idea of his life and world, and all its major players. Now that he remembered, did he dare try to contact Dumbledore? Could he be kept away from his family at Hogwarts? But the only good thing about that place was Harry. Then he suddenly remembered kneeling by a bed somewhere and looking at a crumpled picture that had been carefully smoothed out. There had been writing on the back of that still picture, a scrawled address, Number 4 Privet Drive. Little Whinging, Surrey.


Author notes: Once again, told you so. Uh, I promise that things will get more positive in the next couple chapters. For a while, at least.

And yes, it is rather a problem that Draco killed V, but they won't realize it for a while. I promise that it will through a wrench in the works, though.

Thanks to all my loffly reviewers. I'm so unspeakably thankful to everyone one of you who keeps coming back. And I'm chuckling evilly for all of you non-slashers who I've managed to drag over to the Dark Side. XD

And a special wink to those Utada fans. I'll just t00b off now and hum to myself, 'Devil Inside.' Here's hoping that I'll update before I go to Nagoya. ;)

"...Maybe there's a devil, somewhere really deep inside me..."