Image of a Fallen Statue

Chapter 5

I stood slowly, the chair scraping loudly across the floor. I glanced at the others and saw Harry looking suspiciously at the letter as he handed the scrap of parchment to Ginny. I said quietly to him, "Excuse me." I left the room quickly, and crossed to the stairs, ascending to the second floor only. Entering a room on the opposite side of the house, I slid a window open and carefully dropped to the grass.

Unable to contain myself in stealth any longer, I broke into a flat out run, propelled by the rage, and, sprinting over the hill, got as far from the house as I could. I finally stopped, panting with the anger and exertion. I sat, trying to calm myself, but made the mistake of glancing at my father’s elegant handwriting.

The letter burst into flames in my fist, and I held the blazing parchment despite the tongues of fire dancing ever closer to my skin, daring the flames to burn me. I opened my hand, willing the fire to consume the paper, at the same time forbidding it to harm me.

Closing my right hand on a fistful of ashes, That bastard, was all I could think. My father was truly the worst man I had ever met. I threw my hand out, opening my fist, and scattered the ashes of the letter to the wind. I was a good half-mile into the backyard, on the side of a hill sloping down, away from the house. I sat, thinking of my predicament. It was worse than I had supposed – the initial element of surprise when Voldemort discovered my existence was lost – and he would now be actively seeking me. I pulled up my sleeve and stared at the mark.

I felt sick, deep in my stomach. Breathing hard, I put my head between my knees, about to vomit. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, and another. My head ached, and my stomach lurched. I don’t know how long I sat like that before the illness subsided, and the anger drained away. Calmer, I lay back on the grass and stared up at the sky.

I don’t know how long I laid there before a slight whoosh caught my attention. I turned my eyes from the sky, blinking to refocus my vision on a figure clambering off a broom ten feet away. The stature and dark hair gave him away.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked harshly, his green eyes spitting angry sparks at me.

"The letter was from my father," I answered simply, going straight to the heart of this latest quarrel. No doubt my disappearance following the heels of a suspicious message had led them all to believe that I was gone for good, back to Voldemort. Harry’s look of confusion was testament to the truth of that conjecture.

"But he’s dead."

"Yes," I sighed bitterly, "He is. He knew he would die, as well. My mother probably timed the letter’s arrival to coincide with the news of Voldemort’s attack on the house. She warned me away," I said, thinking of the last sentence in the missive.

"So how does it feel to have other people die for your mistakes?" asked Harry, suddenly vicious.

Surprised, I glanced at him. His face was bitter, angry. Remembering Cedric. I shrugged. "What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing," he hissed. "I just-"

I stared at him. "I just want to see some emotion – something – on your face. Something to prove that you’re still human," he continued bitterly.

Anger welled up inside me again. Fury from the letter, followed by this presumption from this one, who had no idea what I’d given up to make his life the way it was. I was on my feet before I could think, and I snarled at him, "How dare you."

He braced himself, expecting me to attack him, and I laughed harshly. "If you want to know what was in that letter, all you had to do was ask."

"What was in the letter, then?" he demanded.

"That he knows - knew that I faked my death, and that Voldemort knows and will be searching for me." I clenched my fists, struggling to keep my voice even. "That I’m a disgrace to the family, and I’ve shamed him, and that he disowns me. That bastard," I snarled bitterly, vicious fury welling up out of me, shredding my control. I turned away from him, feeling the anger explode, and I threw out a hand to channel the excess off. A small tree, several hundred yards away, exploded into a shower of splinters and shredded leaves.

Shocked, Harry stared at the tree, then at me.

I took a deep breath and exhaled, lowering my hand and leashing the raw power spilling out of me. "There are reasons for everything I do, Potter," I said coolly. "Don’t presume to know anything about me, or why I do what I do." I turned back to the house and began to move away, leaving him behind.

As I walked, I thought about what had just happened. Magic comes on all frequencies in raw form. Wands regulate that raw power for a specific purpose, as directed by the wielder’s true need, expressed through a spell. Different people have different frequencies of magic. Wands are created, in different combinations of various woods, lengths and cores to try to correctly tune into and utilize the specific power a person gives off.

Wandless magic is more difficult, initially brought on by extreme emotion. The ability to actually perform wandless magic, to manipulate and utilize it rather than have it simply happen, uncontrolled (and usually disastrous), is only found in pure-bloods, which was why many wizarding families hold dear their pure-blood status. This secret was guarded closely, but as wands became more widely used, the ability to perform magic by will alone was gradually lost, whether one had mixed blood or not. Eventually this knowledge was forgotten.

What most people did not know, and what I had only recently discovered, is that wandless magic can do what spells cannot. Spells are be modified to suit a purpose, but wandless magic, magic wielded through effort of will, can do anything. Anything. Even accomplish feats that magic can’t – it is the original method of spell-smithing.

Ever since I had gone into exile, I had known Voldemort would find me. Since an early age I had lived with the knowledge that for some reason, my ability to perform wandless magic was greater even than that of my parents, and I had exercised the talent in secret. Practicing, focusing, was the one thing that had kept me from going mad, from loosing myself and truly becoming the Draco Malfoy I had portrayed for half my life.

When I entered the house, a tall man with dark hair turned around, smiling. The expression faded on seeing that I was alone. He raised his wand, but noises from the kitchen caught him unawares and he turned, grinning, calling "Ron? Hermione?"

The two came barreling into the room and suddenly there was talking filling the former silence. Harry and Ginny’s arrival threw the room into chaos.

Blinking in confusion, I pushed my sleeves up past my elbows to accommodate the heat and turned toward the stair. Suddenly all noise stopped abruptly and I spun, automatically crouching slightly, as a shout rang through the air. I moved before I could think, throwing out my left hand and accessing the magic. The spell hit an invisible barrier inches from my face and sparked, disappearing.

"Sirius, it’s okay!" yelled Harry. The man stared at me, nonplussed, and said, "What did you do?"

"Malfoy, did it hit you?" said Ginny briskly, turning toward me.

"No," I said slowly. She made a noise of dismay, and I rolled my eyes. The man was still staring at me. Something tickled my memory. Sirius Black. The escapee from Azkaban who’d ended up in the Ministry’s hands several times, but never been recaptured. Potter’s godfather, and a scapegoat for the acts of Death Eaters ever since his escape.

"That’s Draco Malfoy," said Harry. Sirius looked at me and raised a brow skeptically.

"Somehow I thought he’d be – well . . . ."

"Give me a break," I muttered. I’d changed in the few months in which I’d been hiding in the muggle world. My skin was darker, moderately tanned, and my hair was longer, thicker, and more golden than white-blond.

"Thanks for coming," said Harry quietly.

"No problem," said Sirius. He turned to Harry. "Did you get my reply?"

"Today," said Harry. "Hedwig is getting old, but don’t ever tell her that." He smiled, and Sirius grinned. I could see that with him, suddenly, the four aurors became a complete family – brothers, sisters, husbands and wives. I wondered briefly if there might be room for another person, then shunted that thought aside. Thoughts like that led to hope, which would be pointless – my death was as close as my next breath, living and residing near me.

Turning around again, I jogged up the stairs. I was halfway up when my shoe slipped off the wood, and my foot skidded down several steps. I fell, but was able to grab the railing before tumbling down. "Watch it!" said a deep voice behind me. I started, not realizing that someone had followed me.

I felt a strong hand grab me, and hoist me upright. "Thanks," I muttered, embarrassed.

"Save it," he said, dark eyes serious. "I followed you for a reason. We have to talk."

I nodded, understanding his concern. I led the way to the upstairs hall, then stopped. "What?" I asked. He frowned.

"You’re a Death Eater. What are you doing here?"

The rejection was expected, and no longer hurt. I slipped into the skin of the Draco Malfoy that I had portrayed, and used him to help me be strong. "I was . . . put on trial by the Ministry. Instead of an Azkaban sentence, I’m to give all the information I have to the Potters and Weasleys. They watch me, make sure I won’t run."

"And how do they do that?" asked Sirius.

"Look," I said, "I’m a criminal. Voldemort is after me, and no one in the wizarding world will hesitate to kill me. Maybe you know what I’m talking about." I looked at him carefully, but there was no response, and I continued. "I don’t want to become more of a target than I already am."

"Question answered. Now, what the hell did you do back there to deflect my spell?" His voice was puzzled, harsh, but not angry.

I shrugged. "Basic counterspell." It was a lie, but I didn’t know this man from Adam. He could be drinking a Polyjuice potion for all I knew, or be under the Imperius. The only people I barely trusted were the four aurors in the house.

"Bullshit," he snapped. I blinked. His wand was pointing at my heart.

"Do you really think that if it didn’t work then it’ll work now?" I asked him, looking carefully into his eyes. I saw wary realization creep over his face and relaxed slightly.

"I need to know what you did," he answered.

"You’ll never find out," I replied evenly. "Suffice to know that it works every time, and you can’t get past it, except maybe with an Unforgivable Curse. The Potters and Weasleys verify everything I tell them with veritaserum, and I’m content to stay out of the way here."

"Hmph." Sirius made an exasperated noise, then walked past me, into the bathroom. I continued back up the stairs, reaching a point where I could access the roof by clambering out of a window.

I pulled myself up the side of the house, onto the domed roof, and picked my way to the top as I had several times before, in the dark. I needed to think – it seemed that was all I did lately.