The Readiness Is All

Draco woke in the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night, utterly disoriented. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. He began to panic. He was alone.

No, not alone.

There was someone among the trees. There was no moon, no light, yet he could still see a man or, rather, the ghost of a man, standing there, leering at him, motionless. Draco tensed, weighing his options. He was in the middle of this damned forest. Lost.

He couldn't very well turn and stroll off in the opposite direction, in any event. Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd, he thought with a shudder, and called out to the ghost.

"Who are you? What are you?" He had to take a moment to steady himself before continuing,
"I'm a powerful wizard. There's no telling what I may do to you if you attempt to harm me, you bastard. Don't even try it." Draco projected a supreme confidence he was far from feeling.

It would be impossible for the ghost to tell from this distance that he'd clenched his hands to keep them from trembling. But fear was unacceptable. He set his jaw and narrowed his eyes in challenge. This, too, would be impossible to see, but it gave him a flicker of conviction, and that was enough. He found his voice once more.

"Answer me, you prat! Speak, I am bound to hear."

"So art thou to revenge when thou shalt hear." Draco froze. That voice.

"What?" But he knew what was coming, and the anticipation of it was so overpowering that he could not help but shrink back.

"I am thy father's spirit,
Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night,
And for the day confin'd to fast in fires,
Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature
Are burnt and purged away..."

Draco felt himself take a step forward. Then another. And again. His feet were carrying him toward his father. Step. Toward the ghost of his father, Draco reminded himself. Step. He reeled at the thought and felt, for a moment, as though he might pass out once more. Step. But he did not. Step. There was no escape, it seemed, from the specter of Lucius Malfoy-Step-which continued to speak those familiar words-Step-to recite them like a prayer. Step. Hail Mary, full of grace. Step. Draco almost laughed aloud at the thought of his father in a church, of how incongruent that would have looked. Step. But sobered instantly upon realizing how incongruent he looked now, right in front of Draco, radiating an oddly bluish light, his visage wavering a little as if unsure of its own existence. The one thing Lucius had ever been was palpable-in his rage, in his violence, in his obsession with material things-and Draco was unable to fully grasp this shadow, this whisper of the man who had exerted unshakable control over his whole life for his entire life.

"... If thou didst ever thy dear father love-"

And did he? Had he ever loved Lucius? He didn't know.

"O God!" he managed to breathe.

"Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder."

Draco could not find the voice to respond (Murder!) as he knew he ought. He stood frozen, trying desperately to look impassive but only managing abject terror. In life, Lucius would not have been pleased with this lack of fortitude. His ghost, however, seemed not to notice, and continued still.

"Murder most foul, as in the best it is,
But this most foul, strange and unnatural."

Draco had another line. He knew what it was.

Haste me to know't, that I with wings as swift
As meditation or the thoughts of love
May sweep to my revenge.

But he had no voice for those words. Worse yet, he had no belief in them. He would not avenge his father. He could not, and the knowledge of it swept through him as crippling fear. He was a failure.

Lucius would have then said, "I find thee apt."

He would have looked down upon his son, not in disgust, but in approval. Approval, which he had not offered in life but would suffice in death. Yet Draco could not speak, and so would not have it even then.

****

Draco woke in the infirmary in the middle of the night, utterly disoriented. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. He began to panic. He was alone.

Sluggish realization as he took in rows of empty beds and Madame Pomfrey's unoccupied desk. It had been a dream.

Moonlight sliced through the windows all along the west wall, casting the empty infirmary an eerie blue. It was all too reminiscent of the way his father's ghost had... glowed.

But it was only a dream.

Only a fucking ridiculous dream, and Draco was not a child. He had the power of perspective on his side and this would not scare him.

Madam Pomfrey was nowhere in sight, but his clothes and cloak were laid out on the cot next to him, as though poised for his escape. He dressed quickly and quietly and left in the same manner, making sure that his father's letter was still in the pocket of his cloak, undisturbed. It was, to Draco's great relief. He had no idea how late-or early-it was, but instantly disregarded the possibility of going back to Slytherin. He would simply wait morning out, sit somewhere and clear his head. Draco knew without a second thought that sleep was a hopeless cause.

Instead, he made for the East Tower. There, at the top, was a leaded glass window, set far back in the wall. He had often gone there in search of solitude. It wasn't as high as the North Tower-where Trelawney's perch encouraged the coming and going of students-but there were no spying portraits, and it still afforded a decent view of the lake and the north end of the Quidditch pitch. As he made his slow assent, Draco thought back to the Weasley twins' party. Their alcohol.

"Enough to last all night," Pansy had said, "Saturday behind the pitch on the north end. Everyone is to sneak out and meet at eleven. Of course Dumbledore knows. Of course he isn't going to stop it. Actually, the twins have his blessing."

He had watched it all from this window, feeling a vague sorrow at his isolation underscore his pervading distaste for their plebeian revelry.

Plebeian revelry. Those were his father's words. But his father was dead now...

... and that party had been-Christ-only two days ago. It felt as though a gulf of years lay between Then and Now-between being practically fatherless and actually fatherless. In theory, it didn't seem like much of a leap, but everything was different.

Draco sat on the window sill, tucking his legs beneath him. This way, the leaded pane bit into his thigh, but the discomfort made him feel solid, it kept the flickering image of the ghost's face at bay, and he did not want to move.

Dreamed or not, Draco retained the lingering knowledge that, if called upon, he would not avenge his father. Couldn't. Of course, he wouldn't be called upon, but the knowledge was enough. The only thing Draco had ever known to be true was his fidelity to his father and, by extension, his family. He had lived by that fidelity, having henchmen instead of friends, taking a leadership position over his housemates that he did not want-that he had never wanted-and allowing himself to be molded in the likeness of his father.

"How am I supposed to be the protégé of a fucking ghost?"

But there was no one to answer him, not even Filch or Mrs. Norris on patrol. For once, Draco needed to be caught. But there was no one. There was no one to trust, either, and so he was utterly alone.

He would fashion his isolation into a shield. He would not be vulnerable, he would need no one. Draco settled for self-imposed alienation. Lack of vulnerability was not the same thing as strength, Draco knew, but, desperate times...

It was close enough.

****

Dawn came and went, and Draco made his way to the Great Hall for breakfast. He was determined to continue business as usual, despite the minor detail of refusing human interaction. Crabbe and Goyle had left his usual seat unoccupied. He breezed by without so much as a glance, and sat apart at the far end of the Slytherin table. When he stole his routine glare at Potter and Co., the bastard was looking back at him. With no energy to sneer, Draco looked away at once and contented himself with studying his breakfast-eggs, toast, pumpkin juice-as it was suddenly terribly fascinating.

The morning post came and, when he felt his stomach twist with dread, it was coupled with a pang of self-loathing. It was only the fucking post. Moreover, his father couldn't possibly send word of his death twice. Ridiculous. Draco could not let something like this affect him.

He did receive mail, however, in the form of a curt note from his mother.

Draco-

I regret to inform you that your father has, indeed, died. I do not know what has been done with the body, however, a monument will be erected in his honor at the mausoleum. There will be a service and wake some time in the coming week. Your attendance is not required.

I do hope your studies are going well, dear.

-Narcissa Malfoy

His mother's lack of emotion was nothing short of awe-inspiring.

He had only just finished ripping the parchment to shreds when Snape approached, billowing robes and all.

"Mr. Malfoy, the headmaster would like to see you in his office as soon as you have finished eating."

Draco looked up, the ghost of a smirk on his face, "But I have Arithmancy this morning, Professor. Right after breakfast."

"You will not attend."

Snape's sneer didn't reach his eyes, and Draco felt sick at the realization that they knew. What's worse, they knew and they pitied him.

****

Dumbledore's office made Draco uncomfortable precisely because it was so damned cozy. It was the kind of place that invited you to feel safe, to let down your defenses. The wood paneling, odd trinkets, and dozing portraits of Hogwarts has-beens were perfectly suited to the mild-mannered wizard that faced Draco now across a huge, cluttered mahogany desk. It was so easy to forget just how powerful Albus Dumbledore was, how dangerous, with that pitiful looking phoenix gazing over his right shoulder. But Draco forced himself to remember, and his defenses would not be tampered with. He sat stiffly upright in what was, probably, the most comfortable, worn-out armchair in the entire school. Dumbledore steepled his fingers and gazed benignly at Draco over his half-moon spectacles, ostensibly casting for words, but Draco knew-assumed-it was all part of the plot to disarm him.

"Mr. Malfoy," the Headmaster began, and Draco fixed him with his best mien-coolly impassive with just a touch of disdain around the edges. Draco knew he looked exactly like his father this way.

"I understand that you left the infirmary last night without notifying Madame Pomfrey. I'm sure you know that I cannot allow such behavior. It is retrograde to your self-interest, Mr. Malfoy. We had no way of knowing whether you were well or in danger."

His pause was pregnant with anticipation. If he expected Draco to express regret, to assure that it will not happen again, sir, he would be disappointed.

"Madame Pince has also recently brought it to my attention that she found you asleep in the library yesterday morning."

Draco narrowed his eyes slightly, the only indication that he had heard. Dumbledore looked at him discerningly, openly studying him for the first time. Draco couldn't help but squirm a bit under the scrutiny.

The Headmaster sighed.

"That will be all, Mr. Malfoy."

He suddenly looked very old.

Draco rose from his chair and turned to make for the door, but-"Draco..."-the Headmaster stopped him.

"... I understand the loss of your father must be very difficult for you and that you feel there is no one capable of understanding that difficulty. However, I think, you would not be so hard-pressed as you might imagine to find a kindred spirit."

Draco simply stared, emotionless. Perhaps he'd inherited more from his mother than he thought.

"I am simply worried for your well-being, Mr. Malfoy, whether you believe that or not. This solitude may bring you more ill than good."

"I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit," Draco replied quietly, steadily.

He left without another word.