The Readiness Is All

He landed in his bedroom with such force, it nearly knocked him over. Draco had never enjoyed travelling by portkey and tossed the galleon aside with disgust.

Back at the Manor.

He suppressed a shudder at the thought. Between an ashen Potter and condescending Dumbledore and the weight of foreboding that had settled in his chest... well, Draco supposed he may have made been rash.

This was his bedroom, for Christ's sake. He'd spent most of his life within these four walls, but the bed, the bookcases, the family portraits... they looked utterly foreign to him as he peered about. He had the most peculiar sense of hovering just outside his body, detached but unable to escape and float away.

Draco's mouth tasted vaguely of bile and he swallowed thickly. This must be what madness felt like... vision slightly blurred around the edges, knowing and yet not recognizing anything of the world around you. He reflexively reached for the letter that was in the pocket of his cloak, running his thumb absently along one tattered ridge of parchment.

He turned Dumbledore's words over in his mind, Potter's.

Then the night before came flooding back to him.

It didn't make any sense.

Draco staggered at the realization of what Potter had done...

Last night, Potter is hissing in his best friend's face about how terrible it must be for me, how tragic, to have lost my father...

... and then the next morning the dreams are all about the fact that the whole thing is an elaborate hoax?

What the fuck was Potter on, anyway?

For not the first time, Draco was completely at a loss for what made Potter act the way he did.

The stupid git wouldn't lie to his best friend, he was too Gryffindor for that, and he certainly wouldn't lie to Dumbledore...

He drew the letter out of his pocket slowly, suddenly afraid for some inexplicable reason that it might be somehow dangerous.

How dare they do this? What reason had he to question his father? It wasn't something Draco believed he could handle.

He spread the letter out on his desk, carefully flattening out the creases, and took a step back.

Draco,

I have greatly displeased our Lord. I must pay for this transgression with my life. I am writing to you now to ensure that, in my wake, you will do everything in your power to uphold the integrity of the Malfoy name. Though I hardly think you ready for such responsibility--nor any responsibility at all, for that matter--I have no choice but to turn our household over to you upon my death. I trust that you will not add insult to injury by doing anything less than serving the Dark Lord to the fullest extent possible. If you cannot make me proud, Draco, at the very least refrain from besmirching my name. Narcissa will have complete control of your funds until after graduation.

-L

He knew it off by heart, by now, right down to the pattern of blood that mottled the initial. When Draco closed his eyes, he could see it blotted behind his eyelids. He gazed at the defiled, looping line of ink.

This was the last thing his father had ever written.

He had no reason to doubt that. His father had not been a compassionate man, by any means. Draco had no delusions about the kind of man that had raised him. Lucius Malfoy had not loved his son, but he had unflaggingly endeavored to instill within him, above all else, a sense of loyalty to the Malfoy name, to his superiors.

Draco would not doubt his father, he was incapable of it.

Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, brow furrowed, Draco picked up his wand.

He looked at the parchment for another long moment, before closing his eyes and drawing in a halting breath.

"Fuck you, Potter."

And he tapped the stain of blood three times before...

"Aperi caedem."

He barely whispered the spell, but it was enough. The blood promptly turned a sickening, acidic green--the color of Avada Kedavra. Draco clenched his jaw tightly. It had been taken from a victim of the killing curse. It shimmered oddly, an effect that he hadn't known the spell was supposed to have.

...thou hast thy father much offended.

He tried to stop, to convince himself that this was proof enough that Potter was wrong about this, about everything...

He pointed his wand at the tip of his index finger.

"Scindite."

Draco held his hand out over the parchment and allowed a drop of blood to fall from his finger onto the sickening green stain. The letter might give him the scars he'd wanted after all. How pleasant.

"Aperi stirpem."

He waited. Nothing. Draco remained perfectly still.

"Aperi stirpem."

A little louder. Another long moment.

Nothing happened. This was not his father's blood. Draco felt completely hollow for a beat, like an empty shell. Then the anger came, blinding and insistent. He wanted some goddamn answers. Now.

****

Draco stormed into his mother's chambers. When Narcissa--sitting at her vanity, as always--turned her head to the intrusion, looked only mildly shocked to see him. If she noticed his face, twisted into a rather dangerous looking snarl, she didn't show it.

"Dear, you're home early."

He waved the letter in her face angrily.

"What, is going on, Mother?"

"And what is that, Dear?"

He blinked at her incredulously for a moment.

"A letter from father, kindly announcing his imminent demise..."

Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

"... It also happens to be covered in blood that is not his. So, I ask you again, what the fuck is going on?"

Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.

"Don't be ridiculous, Draco. This rash anger is entirely..."

Draco had her at wand-point in an instant.

Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue

She regarded him coolly.

What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murder me?

"What do you think you're doing, exactly, Draco?"

"I want answers, Mother, and, at this point, neither expulsion nor Azkaban are consequence enough to keep me from getting them."

She sighed quietly.

"You look just like your father."

Draco took two quick steps forward, pressing the tip of his wand to his mother's neck.

"And what do you think Father would do in a situation such as this?"

Her expression didn't change, but Draco caught the flicker of fear behind her eyes. He'd made his point.

"One of your father's friends in the Ministry confirmed that that despicable Weasley man had gathered enough evidence against us to bring a team of Aurors into the Manor."

She looked fleetingly at Draco's face, but then fixed her gaze somewhere just over his right shoulder.

"Go on, Mother," he urged her to continue.

"You know full well what would happen if they were to discover how to get into the dungeons, Draco. It would be grounds to administer the Kiss. Your father and the Dark Lord were unwilling to take the chance, so he opted to go into hiding."

"By faking his own death, yes. How dramatic."

Draco pressed his wand harder into his mother's neck. She flinched.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"They... Your father didn't feel you would be able to effectively deceive Dumbledore."

"You mean, they didn't trust me."

She closed her eyes briefly, then glanced down at the parchment clenched in Draco's fist.

"Do you keep that with you always, Draco?"

His silence affirmed it.

"You shouldn't. There is... Your father hexed it, Draco..." she paused.

It seemed Narcissa Malfoy was capable of some remorse or, at the very least, discomfort at having to be so straightforward. She wasn't used to the practice.

"... The Dark Lord felt it would be most convincing if you were to... have a severe reaction to the news. Your father cast animo linqui on it."

Draco was agape. The lengths at which they had gone to deceive him... to use him in order to deceive Dumbledore. He was the key player in their little show. Potter knew.

"... I do believe there are residual effects to the curse, Draco..."

"I know. 'Animo linqui may be infused into any dark medium and, through initial visual or tactile stimulation, releases a burst of dark energy, thereby rendering the receiver unconscious. Extended exposure to an object upon which it has been cast may result in paranoia, hysteria, and eventual madness, from which there is no hope of recovery.' They teach Defense Against the Dark Arts in school, Mother. Or had you forgotten?"

The anger drained away as fast as it had come. Suddenly leaden, he let his wand arm fall limply at his side. He placed the letter on her vanity. Narcissa looked up at him, slightly paler than usual.

"Draco, I..."

"Don't. Incendio."

Watching the letter burn, watching the parchment curl up and die was watching the madness bleed out of him. It did nothing, however, to mend what felt like a gaping hole in his chest or the odd stinging behind his eyes.

"If I hadn't found out about this, do you realize that I may have lost my mind and never recovered..."

It was not a question.

When sorrows come, they come not in single spies, / But in battalions...

"... I'll be spending the holiday at Hogwarts."

After one last hard look at his mother, Draco left.

****

Back in his room, he gathered his things.

A galleon to portkey to the Manor, a knut to return to school. There had been a time when Draco had appreciated his father's subtle gesture. He set his jaw in anticipation of the nauseating journey, grasped the coin, and watched another room swirl out of sight.

****

An instant Draco was flung back into the empty dormitory, reeling, he was on his way out the door again.

He found Potter, who looked decidedly stricken, in a corridor near the library.

"Potter."

He looked up, startled and, upon recognizing Draco, had the audacity to look relieved. Draco grabbed him by his robes--by fistfuls of the heavy black material--and slammed him up against the wall.

"What the hell did you think you were playing at?"

Potter's eyes flashed in anger.

"... Who are you lying to, Potter?"

"I'm not lying to anyone, Malfoy. Let me go."

Instead of complying, Draco pressed him still harder into the wall. Their faces were inches apart now, and he could feel Potter's heart pounding beneath his right fist.

"You told Weasley he was dead, you told Dumbledore he's alive. You're lying to someone, Potter. Why did you lie to the Weasel?"

"I... I didn't know you were there when I said that, Malfoy. I didn't think you'd hear."

"That doesn't answer my question. He knows about the dreams, but not the truth. Why?"

Potter looked away.

"I... he..."

"Stop stuttering, Potter, and spit it out."

His head snapped up angrily. Draco hadn't known Potter could snarl.

"Because he doesn't need to know every last goddamn detail of my life, Malfoy. I can't very well hide from him the fact that I break my own Silencing Charm almost nightly, these days."

Draco loosened his grip on Potter's robes.

"Why didn't you tell me before, you bastard? Why would you let me believe it this whole time?"

He took a step back and let his hands fall to his sides.

"You're no better than they are."

Potter's expression softened. Draco let himself sag against the wall beside him. He had little pride left to defend, little confidence to display.

"I told you, Malfoy. They were prepared to kill you if they thought anyone was suspicious. Dumbledore didn't think it was safe to tell you. But since you decided to go home (there was that word again...thrown around so carelessly) for the Christmas... I thought you needed to know."

"God, you really just had to tell him, didn't you?"

Draco passed a hand over his tired eyes.

"I'm sorry. I've been reporting all of my visions to him since the beginning of term. I trust him, Draco. You can trust him."

Draco snorted in reply and shook his head sadly.

"I guess I should thank you now, shouldn't I? That's what you'd expect..."

"No, I just..."

Draco pushed himself off the wall...

"How dare you, Potter?"

... and began to walk away.

****