According to Plan

According to Plan

It loomed before him, a lopsided silhouette in the darkness, more pathetic than he had even imagined the Weasel's home would be. It creaked and groaned in the autumn wind and defied all expectations by not toppling over in a shower of splintered wood and shattered brick.

Draco yanked another straw off the beat-up Cleansweep Seven that leant against the wall and snapped it to pieces. The floor of the dilapidated stone shed he'd been occupying all night was covered, now in broom debris and dead spiders. He hadn't moved in a long time, and the makeshift bench he had fashioned from an old bucket and a warped plank of wood dug into his aching arse. Since Apparating into a field behind the house -- and straight into a gnomehole -- Draco had watched his right ankle swell to the size of one of Trelawney's crystal orbs. Slowly, he stood up, testing how much weight his foot could take. When he winced, it was more out of habit than from pain; still, he wished that he had cast a basic healing charm when it might have done some good. He had been too concerned, however, about the magic attracting unwanted attention.

Through a crack in the door, Draco surveyed the house. He had a fairly clear view of the kitchen window, and the past two hours had seen a flutter of activity with people coming and feasting on platefuls of food that seemed to magically refill themselves although he had seen neither hide nor hair of a single house-elf. And no sign of the Chosen One. He had not very seriously entertained the thought that Potter would appear -- that would make things too easy, and nothing happened easily for Draco these days. No, Potter, it seemed, had become as elusive as the Dark Lord fancied himself to be.

It didn't really matter, though. Draco had a plan, and so far everything was going accordingly. He had spent hours watching, waiting to get her alone. It was almost time.

Inside the kitchen, the choreography of good-byes was under way. Everyone was milling about, hugging, kissing, pulling on cloaks, oblivious to what the Dark Lord had in store for them.

When the back door opened and everyone spilled onto the grass, Draco tightened the grip on his wand and held his breath. He could never remember how many Weasleys there were Ð just that there were too many Ð and all of them filthy blood traitors who wouldn't hesitate, on sight, to hex him. These people had been bullying him on the Hogwarts Express and the Quidditch pitch and at virtually every turn since he had started school. As far as Draco was concerned, the Weasleys deserved what they were going to get É but then Potter, bloody valiant reckless Potter, would take the bait and walk right into the Dark Lord's hands. And that would be the end of all the dirty Muggle lovers and Mudbloods and traitors.... It would seal Draco's own fate. It would be the end.

The twins were the first to Disapparate. Their farewell was punctuated with an unseemly display of noise and fireworks that drew laughter from the others, laughter that hung like precious notes in the air long after the sparkling colours had faded from Draco's view. Everyone else followed suit, murmuring their good-byes in hushed, sombre-again tones. Arthur Weasley, the man Draco had seen attack his father in Flourish and Blotts years ago, was the last to leave. A jolt of resentment stabbed through Draco as he watched him hug his wife and whisper something into her hair.

'I'll be fine, Arthur,' Draco heard her say, and with a reluctant nod, Arthur Weasley vanished.

Molly Weasley, alone in the garden, took a moment to study the empty space where her family had stood. Then, with a shiver, she hurried back inside as if she would rather not stare down the blank darkness and the things that hid within it.

Draco could see her moving about the kitchen, straightening chairs, putting the washing-up away. Doing house-elves' work. He shuddered. Was he mad to pin everything on this woman?

If there was one thing he had learnt over the past two years, it was the price of hesitation. Without another thought, Draco pushed the shed door open. He limped across the lawn, mounted the back steps and knocked on the door.

'Who's there?'

Draco heard the apprehension in her voice, and a flicker of satisfaction welled up inside him. He could frighten this woman. Maybe he could even do the things that Snape and Bellatrix and Greyback had been mercilessly training him to do. The Dark Lord might be pleased and then--

No. This was the only way. She'd have to do what Draco wanted. She'd have to take him to Potter, and Potter would have to give in because the alternative would be the destruction of Ottery St Catchpole and everyone who lived there -- and it would begin right here, at this miserable excuse for a house.

'Arthur, is that you?'

Draco knew that she was poised to call for help and that every second put him closer to a face-off with someone from the Order of the Phoenix, someone unlikely to be as easily persuaded as this woman. He tried to speak but found that the deafening jumble of words inside his head wouldn't cooperate. He knew the humiliation of kneeling before the Dark Lord, but this was something new Ð yet almost as terrifying. Draco felt woefully unprepared. No one had ever told him how to surrender.

Behind the door, a shadow moved, and Draco instinctively braced himself for a curse. He saw one edge of the curtain peel back and felt a wary eye pass over him. Then the door opened. She looked first at the loosely held wand at his side and then her eyes travelled over his dirty robes to his face. Her shocked expression changed then to something harder, something he wouldn't have guessed she had in her. Something familiar.

This is ludicrous, Draco. What in the name of all that is pure and magical were you thinking?

But, Mother, the Dark Lord needs me. He's chosen me.

Needs you. Are you really so na•ve, Draco? Can you not see what this means? For your father? For yourself?

Draco closed his eyes, wishing the angry, disappointed ghost of his mother would look away. But she had never deserted him before. She wouldn't leave him now.

Draco finally found his voice again, though he had no idea at first what he was saying. 'I- I-' He felt a hand touch his shoulder. 'I'm sorry.'

It was like a wave had broken over him, severing him from all the crimes he had committed and all the horrors he had witnessed. 'I'm sorry,' he heard himself say again. And he fell to his knees.

~End~