Image of a Fallen Statue

Chapter 3-

I was slightly unprepared for the firestorm of anger that greeted me.

"You total ass," shouted Ron. "What the hell are you trying to do? Get caught by Voldemort or the Death Eaters? Where were you?"

Since this was all I could hear over the noise of the rest, I said, "I had to disperse the ashes, unless you wanted Voldemort called straight here. He has bonded tracers into clothes or possessions in the past, used them to locate his people and keep tabs on them. And it’s only a matter of time before I get caught by Voldemort in any case, so calm down," I snapped. At their looks of surprise, I continued, "You’re can’t possibly be that stupid. I meant, he’s-" I pointed to Harry Potter "- number one on Voldemort’s list. The Dark Lord will come for him, make no mistake. Placing me under your protection is the only way for the Ministry to ensure that Voldemort kills me, once he sees that I’m alive and realizes that I was the spy."

"The Ministry wouldn’t do that," Hermione said sharply.

"The Ministry is simply a group of witches and wizards like us. They’re human and they’re scared. Anyone in his right mind is terrified of the situation right now. More than likely half of them think I’m lying, despite the veritaserum. It’s well-known that all of you hate me and would do anything in your power to see me given to the Dementors; that’s the only thing that keeps the Ministry from believing that you tampered with the potion to enable me to be proven innocent," I snapped. "Hermione, why do you think Justin chose you to make that potion? There are other witches and wizards equally capable. But none have the reputation you have for honesty, and for hating me."

There was a small silence as the four of them digested this news, then Hermione said, "Whatever you say, I still don’t believe Justin would set you up."

"I’m not saying Justin did," I said. "I’m saying that many of them who voted that I should be placed under your surveillance – or protection – thought that it would be an easy way to get rid of me; I might conveniently be killed by a stray spell when the confrontation between Potter and Voldemort comes."

"You seem so sure," said Harry quietly, apprehensively. His green eyes were filled with pain, and he turned to the window, staring out blindly.

I laughed softly, no menace or threat, only genuine amusement, in the sound. "Voldemort has been preparing. He was increasingly furious about each and every time you escaped him, and he is planning on catching you unaware, possibly with several people you care about in his power. He’s plotted out his moment well, and was still doing so when I got out. If you’re not preparing to meet him now, you should be," I finished seriously.

I pushed my hair back off my head – when not under the watchful eye of my father, I tended to let it be – thick and wild instead of slicked back and short. I was tired and still hungry, and hadn’t changed my clothes in a week. I sat at a chair I pulled out from the table and took a breath. There was a beat of silence, and I said abruptly, "What now? Is there a plan?"

Another pause, this one accompanied by a glare from Hermione. Harry flushed, and Ron was studiously avoiding her gaze. "Sort of," said Ron. I stared at him in disbelief.

"That’s it," I muttered, rolling my eyes. "A Galleon says I’m dead within the month."

"Well, we have to go to the Ministry, and you’ll come with us – we have to watch you," said Hermione.

"Oh no," I answered. "Death is certain, but I’m not about to go searching for it. There are probably dozens of Ministry witches and wizards under the Imperious Curse. Voldemort isn't an idiot- he never confided all of his actions to any one person. Anything he told to any member of his Death Eaters could be both verified or rejected as true by any other of his minions. Half-truths and lies," I muttered. "That’s how he kept control over us."

"So basically, all your knowledge is worthless," said Hermione contemptuously. Ginny's face was turning red, and she looked furious.

I shrugged. "Some knowledge is better than nothing." I refused to defend myself further to these people; they might truly be the hope of the wizarding world, but I had little faith in anything except the certainty that Voldemort would kill me, sooner or later.

Ron snorted, swore quietly, and shut up when Hermione glared at him. Harry talked quietly with Ginny, who seemed upset. I turned to the table and began eating the remaining food, quickly and neatly. It was decided that Hermione and Ginny would go to the Ministry while Harry and Ron watched me. Both denied ardently that the women were being sent away with the hopes that they would be in less danger, but sighed fervently and grinned at each other once their wives had Disapparated.

"We need a new excuse," I heard Ron mutter to Harry. "They won't fall for that one for much longer." I rolled my eyes, having seen Ginny and Hermione exchange a small smile before leaving, but said nothing.

"What's the matter, Malfoy?" Ron demanded. "I suppose no one in your family gave enough of a damn about anyone else to try to protect them." I felt the blood drain from my head. Ron must have seen that he'd hit a nerve, because he continued. "Your Death Eater father probably trussed your dam up and handed her over to Voldemort before he died."

"Probably," I replied, my voice icy and stiff. The word stuck in my throat twice before I could get it out, and it was barely over a whisper. Ron, however, didn't hear me - and he had seven years of insults to make up for. I closed up, but I couldn't close out the words. I felt myself slipping back into the skin of the Death Eater son of Lucius Malfoy, and fought it. That wasn't who I was anymore. I was myself, dammit, and I didn’t need my alter-ego to protect me.

There was almost nothing I could do to protect myself without his defenses, though. I felt raw, and as vulnerable as a babe. The words cut like knives, and I felt my shoulders tense, hunch. I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to keep back the broiling emotion that bubbled within me. I didn't know if I was more hurt or angry. I turned away, and a hand grabbed my arm, pulling me back around. I resisted, and the blow caught me unprepared.

I was on my back on the ground, and there was blood trickling from my chin. I wiped the back of my hand over my split lip. Harry was holding Ron by the arm, speaking to him fiercely. "We have a job to do, Ron," he said. "I mean, damn, I know how you feel, but - this isn't like us."

"I wondered how long it would take before it came to this," I said simply, my voice dead.

Harry's head jerked toward me, his hand on his wand. "What now?" I asked tiredly.

Ron stalked off toward the kitchen. I followed his progress, then turned back to Harry. "I'm sorry," he said simply. I raised a brow, propping myself up on my elbows.

"Why don't I make it easier for you," I said, too tired to play games. "I'll lie here nice and quiet, let you tie me up. Then the two of you can beat me up. Then I'll tell you everything I know, and you won't believe me, so you can beat me up some more. Then, if you decide you're too principled to kill me in cold blood, you'll let me go, and I'll never see you again."

Harry looked shocked. Ron walked back in, and tossed a small towel at me. "You're bleeding on the carpet, Malfoy," he drawled. He was more in control of himself now, and looked slightly ashamed. I didn't move.

"What makes you think I'll do that?" Harry had finally recovered his voice.

"What makes you any different from anyone else on the side of 'good'?" I asked bitterly. "There was one good thing about being a Slytherin, being a Death Eater. I may have been surrounded by cruel, malicious and sly bastards, but at least they never tried to hide what they were behind masks of righteousness."

Harry looked angry, and Ron was outright confused, but it was Ron who finally said impatiently, "Get up, Malfoy."

"So you can just knock me down again? Why bother?" I snapped. "I'm not stupid. Two of you, one of me. You're armed - I'd never get my wand out. Whatever you've been planning, go ahead. I don't care."

"What are you talking about?" Ron asked, irritated. "I'll admit I lost my temper, but you've had it coming to you -" he paused, as if expecting me to deny it. I said nothing. "And I think I've said everything I've ever wanted to say to you. I think I can manage not to kill you before Voldemort falls." He cracked a smile, but I didn't. It wasn't funny in the slightest.

Harry heaved a sigh. "Look, we're sorry. It won't happen again, you have my word. Ron?"

The redhead nodded solemnly, and I nodded in return. It was a truce, then. I wondered how long it would last.

This arrangement continued for several days as the four developed a master plan. For six days there was a peace between us that gradually became more and more comfortable. Harry and Ron sometimes obviously held themselves back from saying anything insulting, and although initially they would stay in another room, gradually we all became used to one another's presence. For my part I did nothing, saying nothing unless spoken to, and the two aurors soon grew uneasy with staying inside. After a week of reading up on curses and countercurses and playing chess, I followed the two outside when they decided, after days of remaining indoors, to practice several of the more risky spells.

It was unexpected; most attacks are. I was standing by the house, within sight of my auror "guards" twenty yards away, who were concentrating on deflecting each other’s spells. A dirty, disheveled man Apparated almost on top of me, his wand pointed straight at my heart.

I made no move to reach for my own wand, seeing the hatred in his eyes. Whoever he was, he had clearly been wronged and was out for, and deserved, retribution. "Spawn of hell," he snarled, spittle flying from his lips.

I took several steps back, and held up my hands in a gesture of peace, rather than going for my wand. The sleeves of my robes slid down, and his eyes flicked to the mark on my arm. "You bastard," he hissed. "You murdered my son! Crucio! Crucio! Crucio!" he shrieked.

The pain hit me, brutal and familiar, racking my entire body and slamming into my system. Ferocious agony ripped through every fiber of my being, burning, making the world a chaotic rush of sound and color and pain. I felt my body convulse. Somewhere in the back of my mind, in the clinical part that was by now immune to this gut-wrenching torture, I noted that I must have hit the ground.

I felt myself shuddering horribly, my body seizing up with the physical torment inflaming my flesh. It began to abate slightly when I heard the furious voice screech twice more – "Crucio! Crucio!"

The pain escalated so quickly that I almost passed out, but it was the pain that kept me conscious, so agonizing, it was like nothing I had ever experienced. I felt I might die then, might give up to the anguish wracking my body.

It went on forever, and slowly began to fade away. I expected the voice, the pain, didn’t try to brace myself for the next wave – what would be the point? It didn’t come, and I curled up in the grass and coughed, blood dripping from my mouth. My internal organs were damaged, then.

Two sets of hands carefully lifted me to a sitting position. Breathing heavily, I tried to stand and managed to get to my feet. I coughed again, spitting blood onto the grass. I looked around – the man was lying in a full-body bind on the ground. Amos Diggory.

"Leave him," said Ron, disdain in his voice. "The git’s nutters."

I pulled my wand from inside my robes, shaking off the hands holding me up, and whispered the counter-curse. Diggory stood up, shook off his robes, glared at Ron, said, "Sorry for the trouble, Harry," and spat at me. "This one’s no better than those that whelped him," he snarled. I wiped the saliva off my cheek and turned to go into the house.

Minutes later, the other two walked into the kitchen, where I was sitting limply, watching a bubbling cauldron on the stove. My wand was lying on the table beside me, as was a white handkerchief liberally stained with blood.

"Did you even go for your wand, you moron?" asked Ron scathingly.

"No," I said, my throat raw from suppressed screams, my voice hoarse. I cleared my throat and winced. I had not uttered a sound – I had nothing but my dignity left to me, after the disgrace of my family and life. I was determined not to lose my personal honor as well.

Harry made an exasperated noise. "Why not?"

"Ever since his son died, Diggory has been the target of – the maliciousness, of the Death Eaters. Lost his job, home, and his wife. Someone owes him something. I might as well pay." I kept my tone expressionless.

"Voldemort killed Cedric," said Harry harshly. "There’s no reason for anyone else to pay for his crimes."

"I pay for my own crimes," I snapped. "Not for anyone else’s."

"Besides, Mrs. Diggory isn’t dead. We would have heard something."

I sighed. "No, she’s not. She’s been committed to St. Mungo’s. For life."

"God, you actually sound sorry," said Ron incredulously. "What is the matter with you? What happened to the asshole we went to school with?" he asked, sounding irritated and perplexed.

He never existed

, I wanted to say. And if he did, he’s dead now. The potion caught my attention and I quickly doused the flame, pouring the boiling purple mixture into a glass. I gulped it, smoking hot, and braced my hands on the countertop, slumping forward.

I felt the liquid race through me, healing and repairing, sinking into badly bruised, even ruptured organs. "I need to rest," I murmured, and stripping off my robes and muggle shirt underneath, clad only in jeans, I collapsed in the living room on a couch, my eyes closing.

I was burning up – sweat beaded all over my body, soaking my skin. I opened my eyes and moved gingerly, large bruises all over me. Shaking, I sat up carefully, a blanket sliding from me onto the floor. It was fully dark outside, the clock claiming the time as two in the morning. Night noises were faded and muted slightly by the walls.

I once again began to concoct a healing potion, sitting at the table, drained and in pain. I heard steps on the stairs behind me, and jerked around, fighting a wince. Dressed in an ill-fitting pair of muggle pants and a baggy muggle shirt, was Harry Potter. I turned back to my potion.

"What are you doing?" he asked suspiciously, coming down the final set of stairs and entering the kitchen. There was the noise of a chair being pulled out, and of a person making himself comfortable – but not so comfortable as to be unprepared for an attack.

"I have internal injuries from the cruciatus," I said, my voice devoid of expression. "I’m brewing a potion to help repair some of the damage." I kept my back to him. "What are you doing?"

"What happened today-" he paused. "It brought back bad memories. I couldn’t sleep."

"Ah." I understood nightmares intimately – my own demons haunted me while I slept. I lit a second fire and began to brew a potion for dreamless sleep. Even if Harry denied it, I would need it to deal with the aftereffects of the cruciatus. "What’s that?"

I told him, and he was silent. After setting the brew to simmer, I sat once again, turned so that both potions and Harry were in my view.

The silence was deep, and I was so lost in my own thoughts that I almost didn’t hear Harry when he began to speak.

"At the trial," he began softly, "I didn’t believe you. Not until the last, when the veritaserum was used. The things you said made sense, but the way you acted – as if you didn’t care that someone could order you killed, sent to Azkaban."

"I don’t," I replied bluntly.

"Is that why you didn’t try to defend yourself at all today?" Harry shot back.

I sighed. "Do you think there is anything that anyone could do to me that is worse than what I already live with? The Malfoys alienated everyone beneath them, made enemies of their equals, and had no betters – until my father bowed to Voldemort. To save myself I followed all these precepts – and now I have nothing. I never had a family as Ron did, friends as you have. I had prestige, but everyone knew that my father was a servant of Voldemort. Despite the fact that I am not him, I am painted with the same brush. I don’t even have family pride, or honor. I have nothing." I shrugged, feeling the emptiness inside. "I have no honor or dignity but my own, and that stands for nothing to the outside world. The cruciatus, even Avadra Kedavra are meaningless to me." I glanced at the floor, leaving one thought unspoken – that, unlike Harry, no one would mourn for me when I died.

Harry looked at me strangely. "I’m sorry," he said. "But I just can’t believe I’m hearing you say this."

I sighed again. That’s because you never knew me, I wanted to say. All you knew was a farce put in place to allow a child to survive, a tool that my mother used to fulfill her destiny. But I said nothing. I turned back to the cauldron, away from Harry, and carefully measured the amount of time it had been bubbling, then added two more ingredients.

I sat down again. Harry asked, almost casually, "What happened to your back?" But his voice was tense, giving him away.

I started, having forgotten. "I tried to run away, a long time ago." I laughed softly. "Ten years ago, actually. My father beat me himself. It was an honor that he did it instead of having a servant complete the task."

"Shouldn’t the scars have gone away, over time?" asked Harry.

"They have," I said abruptly, unwilling to remember any more.

"What did he hit you with, then?" There was astonishment and horror in his voice; he’d been an orphan, and had never gotten the best of anything, but his aunt and uncle had never hit him. I, on the other hand, had been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, yet my family had abused me.

"A flail," I said shortly. There had been metal and glass in the leather strands – but those memories were locked deep inside. The past was long gone. I turned my scarred back to him, facing the potions. After quenching the flames and pouring the potion into glasses, I kept two and gave him one.

"I don’t need this," Harry said, not looking at me and shoving the potion back across the table.

"Whatever," I replied dismissively. "I didn’t make it for you, but I thought you might need some. There’s little enough there that you’ll wake up in five hours or so, depending on how tired you are."

I could feel his gaze on me as I slowly drank the smoking purple potion, rinsed the glass, and then consumed the brew that would give me dreamless sleep. My movements became slower, my eyelids drooping, but I washed the glass and returned to the couch. Before my eyes closed I saw him pick up his glass, bringing it slowly to his lips, but then sleep overwhelmed me and there was only darkness.