The Readiness Is All

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

He left without another word.

****

He left without another word and barely spoke to anyone for nearly two months. For the first week or so, the other Slytherins--those in his year, particularly--had found it rather hard to accept.

"Talk to us, Draco." Pansy would say. "You have to fucking talk to us."

After eight days of that grating voice constantly plaguing him, he'd had to respond just to shut her up. The whole school thought he was losing his mind, and if he'd let her keep it up, he would have.

"Have I in me something dangerous, / Which let thy wisdom fear. Don't push me, Parkinson."

Draco spat the words at her. She looked genuinely frightened. It had been enough to get them to leave him alone. He didn't entirely understand her concern. They didn't like each other, few Slytherins did. They allied, they socialized, but to like one another--in the true sense--they would have had to know each other in the true sense. And to let anyone get to know you was to let yourself become vulnerable.

Though ambition was not, in fact, synonymous with evil, as the other Houses seemed to believe, many Slytherins felt it in their best interest to maintain a certain measure of distance from their peers, for whatever reason. Draco was certainly no exception.

So, they wouldn't be concerned for his well being. But he supposed it might be rather alarming for the de facto leader of your House to suddenly cut you off and shirk all knowledge of his position, no matter how arbitrarily gained. He could only imagine the chaos it would cause at Gryffindor if Potter decided to shut himself off one day without warning. They'd run screaming to Dumbledore within five minutes, absolutely sure that Voldemort had somehow taken over Potter's body. Possessed him. They'd demand an exorcism now, get Trelawney involved... but, then, Potter had hardly gained his leadership position arbitrarily. Being an invincible infant, after all, was an acquired skill.

In any event, it was the only reason he could come up with for the slightly hysterical edge to Pansy's voice when she implored him. Fucking talk to us, Draco. You have to.

But he didn't have to. He'd made a conscious decision that this was the way he would cope. Dumbledore didn't know what the hell he was talking about, the senile bastard, trying to tell Draco what was best for him as if it was his place, as if he'd know. He built it up, day by day, in walls around him--a false fortress. It was only a semblance of peace, he knew, and one rife with loneliness, but Draco let himself think he was protected.

It took energy to maintain. He had to throw himself into it and concentrate. Years of being an out-spoken brat when he was away from the Manor had made passing insults second nature. He had to struggle to keep them from spilling out unconsciously. Even so, all of that silence became almost comfortable after a while.

They all thought he was losing his mind, and maybe he was. What did it matter?

The insomnia stayed with him. He had gone four more consecutive, sleepless nights before giving in and going back to the library. The triumvirate was there again, to his great relief, speaking in low tones, pouring and re-pouring over text after text after text.

This was the only way he could sleep. He would sneak in after them, moonlight perpetually pouring through the windows, throwing intricate patterns of leaded glass into distorted relief across round tables. Every night without fail, for nearly two months, he would skirt around the section on Divination, the shelf on Scrying, and sit at the same table--half in and half out of shadow--spying on them.

Sometimes--when they thought they were onto something, when Granger would give a strangled little gasp and frantically beckon to Potter and the Weasel--Draco would quietly slip into the restricted section and have a look around. He'd become obsessed with all manner of magical communication and the potions, curses, and spells described in the dark arts books always proved the most interesting. There were potions that would allow you to hear another's thoughts for a time. There were ways to charm your own desires into someone else's mind, superimpose them, and make them the recipient's own. If Potter, Weasley and Granger were having a slow night, however, Draco would have to satisfy himself with the contents of the general library so as not to give himself away. There he found more benign, less invasive, and, thus, less interesting methods. Most of the potions were comically weak. As they only incorporated legal ingredients, human blood--the most potent known magical medium, as well as the most receptive to dark enchantments--was out of the question. He found a way to charm two pieces of parchment to transfer written messages to one another, which had potential despite seeming rather well suited to schoolgirl gossip. He absently tore pages out of the books whenever he came across something he liked, and stowed them in a small mahogany box under his bed.

He had followed them on their nightly sabbaticals for nearly two months, it was the last night of term, and Draco was following them again. Every night he skulked behind a suit of armor until the portrait of the fat lady would open and close, seemingly of its own accord.

... how is't with you, / That you do bend your eye on vacancy, / And with th'incorporal air do hold discourse?

Every night he followed them. Silence in pursuit of invisibility down damp, dark corridors toward the library. Every night followed every morning by blinding light and a stiff neck and Madame Pince looming over him with pursed lips and a curt send-off to the Great Hall for breakfast. He never lost a single house point, got a single detention. Draco thought of that flash of sickening pity he'd caught in Dumbledore's eye just before he'd turned--I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit--and left.

Every night a whispered spell and heavy doors that swung open by themselves and the silence slipping in behind. Every night a faint rustle of cloth and Potter would materialize from thin air, patterned by glass shadows and moonlight.

Sometimes they researched with an enthusiasm borne out of hope. From bits of their hushed conversations, he had pieced together that this Snuffles--and if there had ever been a more daft nickname, Draco had no knowledge of it--was Potter's godfather, that he hadn't been heard from in over three months, and that Potter feared the worst. Sometimes they seemed to think they were on the verge of locating him, but mostly, they seemed to come only because anything was better than waiting for news doing nothing.

Behind the Divination section, past the shelf on Scrying, and Draco settled at his usual table.

The last night of term, and they hadn't made any substantial headway to speak of. Granger had her mouth set in a very straight line. Potter looked on the verge of tears and Draco averted his eyes. Weasley looked pissed off.

He slammed his books on the table.

"Ron, you're going to get us caught," Granger hissed.

"Oh, I will not, Hermione. Dumbledore has probably known for a long time, now, and he hasn't ever stopped us before. Why tonight just because I drop a goddamned book?"

Granger looked crossly at him, but said nothing. Potter had his fingers laced together so tightly that his knuckles looked blue in the moonlight.

"I can't fucking believe this..."

"Ron. Language."

He ignored her.

"... How long has it been... two months of coming here? And nothing to show for them. Sirius could be anywhere..."

"Snuffles, Ron."

"... could be dead..."

"Ron, don't."

"Well he could be. I think it's time we faced that."

Granger turned to Potter imploringly.

"Harry, he's not dead. We'll find him, yet."

She sounded as though she hadn't quite managed to convince herself of that, yet.

Potter sat, head bowed, and said nothing. It hurt Draco to see him like that, defeated. He wasn't sure why.

"Look, Harry, I'm sorry. Hermione's right, he's not dead. It's just... I can't believe it's the end of term. I can't believe mum wouldn't let me stay. I can't believe you're going to be alone for all of Christmas break, and I've been saying it since day one. We've got to bully Malfoy into telling us where he is."

Potter's head snapped up sharply. So did Draco's.

What the hell?

"What good would that do, Ron? He doesn't know."

"Harry. Of course he does. He's Malfoy. Think of what a rich, spoiled bastard he is..."

So full of artless jealousy is guilt / It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

"...think of who his father is..."

Think of who my father was, you mean.

"Think of who his father was, you mean?"

For a moment, Draco panicked, thinking he had spoken aloud. But then Potter continued, voice deafeningly quiet.

"You actually want to go to Malfoy and bully him into admitting that his dead father had Sirius locked up somewhere in that fucking mansion and he's inherited the key?"

"Well... yeah, if you want to put it that way, I guess..."

"Are you serious? Nobody, not even Malfoy, deserves something like that."

"It's not as if he'd care. Who would miss Lucius Malfoy?"

... was your father dear to you? / Or are you like the painting of a sorrow / A face without a heart?

"That's so ridiculous, Ron. First of all, Lucius Malfoy or not, he was Draco's father. Secondly, he hasn't so much as spoken to anyone since he died. I don't think I'm alone in assuming that that means that he was a little rattled by his death. Not that I would expect you to understand what it's like to lose a parent. Two, even."

"So, you have a few weird dreams and the little bastard passes out in the Great Hall and you're suddenly defending him?"

And it was true; Potter was defending him. More specifically, was out of his chair and leaning aggressively over the table as he glared at Weasley, his voice still dangerously low.

"How can you still find the energy to hate him, Ron? If half the things I dreamed were true..."

"Look, Harry... I'm sorry, it's just..."

Well, Malfoys defended themselves, for fuck's sake. So Draco stood and strolled out of the shadows and into the moonlight.

"The head is not more native to the heart / The hand more instrumental to the mouth than is the hatred of a Weasley for a Malfoy. He doesn't know any better, Potter, you can't fault him for his ignorance."

Granger had her wand pointed at his heart in a split second, the Weasel looked simply petrified, and Potter as though he might faint. They were all agape for a long moment while Draco basked in the sheer shock value of his entrance.

"Christ, Malfoy, what are you doing here?"

Potter, it seemed, had recovered first.

Draco looked him squarely in the face.

"... in my heart there was a kind of fighting that would not let me sleep."

He bristled at the sincerity he heard in his own voice, hoping the others wouldn't be able to detect it. Granger lowered her wand arm and looked at him curiously. Apparently, she had. Potter, too, looked completely bemused, though not hostile. Weasley, on the other hand, turned an angry shade of red.

"Malfoy... what the hell does that even mean? And what are you... spying on us?"

Draco looked at Weasley sharply, putting up the wall of silence he'd crafted and strengthened so diligently over the past two months.

"Malfoy, you're bloody mad. Seriously insane. Have you considered a short stay in St. Mungo's? It would probably be for the best."

"Ron, don't..."

Potter again.

Draco sneered.

"... if words be made of breath, / And breath of life, I have no life to breathe / What thou hast said to me. "

"Really, Weasley, you wound me."

But he looked at Potter when he said it.

He left without another word.