The Readiness Is All

Draco stormed through the corridors, back to Slytherin, horrified with himself. He could hardly believe he'd blown his own cover like that. It was preposterously stupid. No more spying on Potter and his twat cohorts meant no more sleep. How could he have been so shortsighted?

He reached the statue that concealed Slytherin House and entered the common room--purus sanguini--in seemingly no time at all. Draco was numb with shock, with the possibility of serious consequences for what he'd done. There were no windows in the dungeon common room, and the pleasant orange glow of dying torches was gratuitously incongruous with the cold fear washing over him.

Draco dropped heavily into a black leather armchair in front of the fire. He forced himself to take a few calming breaths as he stared, unseeing, at the glowing embers. This was ridiculous--the library, the last two months, all of it. He was succumbing to a tendency for melodrama, a penchant for barely concealed hysteria. So his father was dead. He could handle it. So Dumbledore seemed to want to make a charity case out of him. He could handle it. So he had possibly put himself in a very bad way with Potter, Weasley, and Granger. He could handle that, as well. What could they really do, after all?

This madness was an indulgence. It was weak. He could have silence and dignity--would have it, from that moment on.

So he was suffering insomnia. He hadn't packed yet, and would be returning to the Manor early the next morning. He'd do it now.

Christmas hols.

Draco shuddered involuntarily at the thought of going back there, but held himself stiffly upright and went to collect his things, resolutely ignoring the dull ache at the base of his skull.

He entered the seventh year boys' dormitory, cast Lumos and began to gather his things. There was an angry grunt as either Crabbe or Goyle--it was hard to tell which--tossed in his bed, but no one dared stop him.

Draco packed meticulously and without magic to kill time. He enjoyed the feel of expensive dress robes in his hands, the unmistakable shift of fine fabric through his fingers, of intricately wrought silver clasps, of wool trousers. It was calming, though Draco couldn't help but notice that the panic--which had seemed to underscore his every thought, his every movement, for the past two months--was not gone.

Packed within a few hours, he found that he was deathly afraid of the empty gulf of time that stretched between now and sunrise. The disgruntled, half-asleep groans of his roommates weren't helping his jumpiness any, so he went down to the common room to sit--or, rather, pace--and dwell.

His mind was fractured, warring with itself, at once panicking and rationalizing that panic as utterly baseless. He fingered the letter in his pocket, brought it out and unfolded it again. It had been handled so much that the parchment was getting a peculiar sort of softness to it. Draco ran his fingers lightly over the words.

I must pay for this transgression with my life... uphold the integrity of the Malfoy name... upon my death... you cannot make me proud, Draco...

Well, now he wouldn't even have the chance to make a decent go of it, would he?

Draco sneered down at the letter, disgusted by his own sentimentality. Hufflepuffs took comfort in carrying around the last words left to them by their dead fathers. Slytherins did not, nor did Malfoys, for that matter. Draco turned the worn parchment over in his hands, toying with the idea of throwing the letter into the common room fire, or maybe casting Incendio and watching it--you cannot make me proud--blacken, whither, and turn to ash within the palm of his hand. He gazed at it and imagined that the pain of the fire would be worth it. Maybe it would scar him, bringing everything inside to the surface and branding him. Maybe the words would etch themselves across his palm in scars that were the same sickening pale as Potter's. An ugly, livid blemish, but a testament to the fact that he'd survived.

****

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, glaring daggers at his own hands, but as a few second years walked by--presumably on their way to the Great Hall for breakfast--Draco realized he'd survived the night.

He got up slowly, and ambled after them. He'd be leaving in little more than an hour, but couldn't quite stomach the thought of loitering in Slytherin for all that time. Maybe the nauseating panic swirling in his stomach was just hunger...

... and maybe Potter was a Eunuch.

One could only hope.

Familiar dungeons, familiar passages, suits of armor and statues, portraits... Draco wondered when Hogwarts had come to be more of a home to him than the Manor. He felt comfortable here--safe. Fucking Dumbledore. God, how he hated the man. Damn him for making Draco feel safe. Didn't he know how dangerous that was?

A cold knot of dread twisted his stomach at the prospect of returning there. Somehow, Malfoy Manor without Lucius Malfoy to exercise dominion over it seemed worse than the dominion itself. Draco had always felt a coldness there, one that went deeper than his father's proclivity for heavy draperies, dark wood, and marble. It was only after Lupin had made a passing comment in third year that he had realized it must be the residual effects of Dark Arts. They permeated the place. It didn't help that the whole household existed in either of two states: in terrible thrall of the Dark Lord's presence or holding its breath in horrible anticipation of his imminent return.

The chatter of students lifted Draco from his reverie, and he approached the Great Hall. Just as he reached the double doors, however, McGonagall unceremoniously stepped into his path. In his shock, Draco could only splutter indignantly.

"Professor! What the..."

"Mr. Malfoy, the Headmaster would like a word with you in his office. I realize you are to return home in a matter of minutes, however, the matter is urgent, and you will see him."

At his look, the Deputy Headmistress drew her mouth into a very thin line and added, "Now."

It was amazing how she managed to be so intimidating, what with all the tartan plaid and that ridiculous bun.

"Yes, Professor. Right away."

And Draco made his way to the Headmaster's office in a terrified stupor.

****

Potter was there.

Fuck.

Draco should have snarled reflexively, but imagined he looked quite like Longbottom at wand-point.

"Draco, do sit down."

Oh, thank you, Professor, but if it's all the same to you, I'd rather hex that benevolent smile right off of your ancient fucking face.

Draco sat without a word, studiously not looking at Potter.

The silence lengthened. They expected him to break down and ask what this was all about. He would do no such thing. It wouldn't do to give them that satisfaction. He imagined his own anger was palpable, coming off of him in waves. Damn Potter for being such a goddamned tattletale.

"Draco, I'm sorry to have called you here at the last minute. I don't wish to delay the start of your holiday any more than necessary."

He glanced at Potter here, and Draco watched that stupid, insolent smile become rather fixed.

"However, Harry, here, has brought some... matters.... to my attention. Matters of which I feel you have a right to hear, but, more than that, that it is my duty to tell you."

Draco stared at the Headmaster stoically. This was not the preface to a punishment for eavesdropping on the Boy Wonder; a Boy Wonder who, now that Draco thought about it, was looking extremely grim. He glanced from one to the other, bewildered, but staunchly determined not to let them see it.

"Mr. Malfoy, I think it goes without saying that what I am about to tell you is privileged information. I ask that you not speak of it to anyone."

He barely paused, taking for granted that Draco consented to secrecy. Assuming. He would, wouldn't he?

"You see, Harry has, for several years now, been plagued by dreams of Voldemort which are accompanied by intense pain in his scar. As Voldemort grows stronger, as the war progresses, they have become more frequent, more vivid," a quick glance at Potter, "and more painful."

"The killing curse, the scar. It seems to have connected Harry to the Dark Lord. At first, he was only able to see Voldemort, to feel the pain, when the Dark Lord was feeling particularly wrathful or violent. Now, however, it seems the visions come entirely at random."

Now we come to the part where we find out why this would having anything more than fuck all to do with me.

"Mr. Malfoy, for the past few months, Harry has seen several exchanges between Voldemort and your father."

Draco's jaw clenched imperceptibly. As if it wasn't common knowledge that his father had been a Death Eater. What point was there in throwing it back in his face now? He was dead.

"Being that your father has supposedly (been murdered in a horrible, horrible way) passed on, this raises a curious issue."

Draco had no idea what the fuck he was getting at.

"As much as I appreciate your mastery of the art of circumlocution, Professor," Draco said through clenched teeth, "what are you meaning to imply?"

Draco's voice was full of quiet venom, laced with every bit of resentment he could muster for the presumptuousness, the idiocy of the fool in front of him.

"Harry?"

Dumbledore looked to Potter. The boy looked appropriately scandalized at having to handle the accusations all on his own. Good.

"I... uh... I don't think... your father's not dead, Malfoy. I saw him... I saw him planning it with Voldemort... to go into hiding. I don't know where, or anything, but..."

Malfoy rounded on him, irate. Potter flinched and trailed off.

How dare they. Just because Potter has a few fucked up dreams and a twinge in his scar. If his father had faked his own demise, he surely would never have let his only son and heir think it to be real.

"Mr. Malfoy..."

Draco nearly hissed at kindness in the Headmaster's voice--pity disguised as bloody understanding. He looked very serious. Potter looked very pale.

"... As much of a shock as this must be, however unbelievable, I think it best that you let me have a look at the letter your father sent you. It might hold some key to unraveling this mystery."

Oh, you'd like to have a look, would you? Well, No. Fucking. Way.

He narrowed his eyes at the Headmaster in unabashed contempt.

"Thank you for your time, Professor Dumbledore. However, if I'm late in returning to the Manor, my mother will start to worry."

Draco's voice crackled in quiet rage.

He stood, abruptly, and turned to leave.

Dumbledore only sighed. Smart of him. Potter, however, wasn't so apt.

He had made it to the revolving staircase when, "Malfoy, they're prepared to kill you."

Draco froze at the door.

"... They'll kill you if they think it will avert suspicion. You might be in danger if you go home, Draco. Don't go home."

Draco snarled, but didn't turn around, didn't correct him. The Manor was not his home. Home is where the heart is, or so the Muggles say. If that was the case, Draco had none.

"Professor Dumbledore, Potter," he nodded at the door in mock courtesy, "I trust you will both enjoy your holiday."

He stormed out of the office, and made for Slytherin. Anything to be away from Potter and his baseless fucking accusations. He was still twenty minutes early, but no matter. The portkey would have been activated already, and Draco was going to be away from Hogwarts as soon as possible. He might as well have been running down the corridors, he was stalking so fast. Draco couldn't quite bring himself to be concerned about how that must look. Instead, he ignored Pansy's indignant squawk as he charged past her on the way through the common room and into his dormitory. From under his bed, Draco fished out a mahogany box. It was simple, stained a rich brown. It was the only thing he owned that was entirely without airs. He kept everything that held any importance to him inside. One hand on his trunk, Draco rooted around for a few minutes until his hand clutched around a galleon at the bottom.

He felt a familiar, sickening tug behind his naval as the dormitory swirled out of sight.