Without Wand or Wire

Voldemort had succeeded in casting his devastating spell, but not with the desired results. As the last of the spell left his lips, something struck his arm, slashing it open. Instead of hitting its intended target, the spell hit a group of his own Death Eaters, striking them dead. Voldemort had no idea that, leagues away, those seven deaths had caused his greatest enemy to have a nasty spill down the stairs. If he did, he might have taken a bit of comfort. As it was, he was to busy fending off the strikes of Fawkes the phoenix to give much thought to anything else. He finally decided it was time to cut his losses, and Disapparated.

Fawkes alighted on his human bondmate's shoulder, letting out a fierce cry of frustration. The few Death Eaters that had remained that were not yet captured seemed to realise that their master was gone, and likewise fled.

A fair number of Order were staying behind a while yet, to fix the damages to the property and cast memory charms on the Muggles. Dumbledore, with Fudge's "permission", began making Portkeys for the rest of the members to get to various destinations. Some were returning to the Ministry, to fill out reports. Some were taking the dead, both among the Order and their enemy, to an impromptu morgue they had set up before the battle, so as not to cause a panic at the hospital. Some were escorting the captured Death Eaters to Azkaban, where they would stay to guard them until larger security details could be arranged, now that the dementors were gone. And others still were escorting the wounded to Grimmauld Place. When he was finished with the Portkeys, Dumbledore planned to head there himself, knowing that anyone he needed to talk to would arrive there sooner or later.

At least, he hoped so.

But before he could go, he had to do one more thing. He had to see the dead. Had to know who among his friends had fallen. Had to know who among his enemies he had believed were friends.

When he saw Lucius Malfoy, with a pang he thought of Draco, of his young voice crying out the Killing Curse. He had only caught sight, fleetingly, of the younger Malfoy standing frozen, with his wand out, as the boy watched his father fall. Dumbledore did not know why it had happened. He didn't know that Dudley Dursley had taken Pansy hostage, either. He didn't even know that Lupin had gotten Draco to safety, or that the man had returned for Tonks. As informed as he usually was, in the thick of battle, Dumbledore'd had to concentrate on what was right in front of him: Voldemort, and the Death Eaters that fought to keep him from the dark wizard.

And now, because he'd failed in his mission yet again, here he was standing over the body of Lucius, knowing the man's own son would have to bear the weight of the guilt of killing him, all because Dumbledore had asked Draco to be there. Here he was, standing over the body of Vernon Dursley, a horrible human being perhaps, but still an innocent bystander, and uncle to The Boy Who Lived. Here he stood over the still, cold forms of the Parkinsons, with no idea where their brave, beloved daughter was.

The worst thing was knowing that, no matter how hard he tried to stop the monster formerly known as Tom Marvolo Riddle, he would never succeed. Only one man was destined to do that. All Dumbledore could do was buy The Boy enough time to become that man.

* * *

Inside a room on the third floor of The Leaky Cauldron, Snape found Granger tending to Faelyn, who was seated on the oriental rug, cradling the back of her head and wincing in pain. Weasley went straight to Granger's side. Tom the innkeeper knelt on Fae's other side, a hand on her shoulder, and Petunia Dursley stood a ways back, wringing her hands. The Muggle looked like she was about to ask Weasley about Harry, and let out a cry instead when she saw Snape rush in, bearing her blood-covered nephew in his arms. Granger and Tom stood, alarmed.

"What did you do to him?!" Tom snapped. Snape's dislike of The Boy was no secret, and Tom had never been entirely willing to believe that the man's status as a Death Eater was all that "former".

Snape ignored the accusation. "Faelyn, are you all right?" he asked over his shoulder as he bore his load over to the bed.

If he didn't know better, Ron could have sworn he'd heard what amounted to affection in his teacher's voice. Snape and his cousin? A moan from Harry reminded him that there were far more important things to concern himself with at that moment. He shoved the unpleasant thought quite willingly aside.

"Help me up 'ey Ron?" Fae asked him from the floor, and he quickly obliged. He lent her his shoulder and helped her along to Harry's bed.

Petunia had found a water basin and was cleaning the blood from her nephew's brow. "Will he be all right?" she asked the newcomer.

Snape was checking Harry's eyes (while Hermione took the opportunity to repair the cracked lense in his glasses), holding them open with his fingers. They were no longer mostly white, which meant The Boy was simply unconscious now, not still having some sort of fit. Snape resisted the strange and fierce urge to ask the woman why she should care. He had done his time watching over the boy the previous summer; and he had seen Harry's memories during his Occlumency lessons -- he knew damn well that the woman hadn't ever shown her nephew any sort of affection before this summer. Her change of heart baffled him, but this wasn't the time to grill her on it. "I don't know," he answered, in as civil a voice as he could manage. "At the very least, his arm may be fractured, and I fear he's suffered a head injury."

Fae removed her shawl and handed it to Snape, who used it to fashion a sling for Harry. "We were thinkin' abou' takin' 'im to Grimmauld Place," she offered as he worked, "when he suddenly got really upset and knocked us abou' the room!"

Snape snapped his head up to look at her. "Do you think? ..."

She shook her head. "I dinnae think he hurt us on purpose. Dumbledore warned us that Potter had a knack for that kind o' magic. It's one of the reasons he sent fer me in the first place."

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look. "What kind of magic?" Hermione asked.

Snape spoke over her. "Since he's not conscious, I'm leery of taking him to number twelve by Floo; if I lose hold of him, we might never track down where he ends up. And the Knight Bus might very well kill him, with that lunatic driver they have. We need another way to get him there."

Ron kicked at the oriental rug, muttering, "To bad this isn't the flying variety. Damn Percy. ..."

"I-I have my car. ..." Petunia offered.

"Molly dinnae want us bringin' him there anyway," Fae told Snape.

Hermione and Ron wanted very much to know why, but knew better than to question, and kept silent.

Snape wasn't so tactful. "Why the bloody hell not?! We can't take him to sodding St. Mungo's, so that leaves Pomfrey!"

Ron thought Hermione's head might explode, hearing a teacher swear like that.

"I dinnae know why," Fae answered, clearly not the slightest bit upset by Snape's temper. "Harry sprang his li'l surprise on us when I was talkin' to her." She noticed her Glass -- or rather, the remains of it -- on the floor. "Och! Reparo!" she said, in a little sing-song.

Petunia let out a little squeak when she saw the pieces flying back together.

Ron and Hermione gaped, but for an entirely different reason. They had both seen the Reparo spell performed plenty of times before, so to see the mirror's breakage rewind itself couldn't have been a shock to them. Hermione herself seemed to do it daily at school, as Ron was terribly clumsy, so she was always cleaning up after him.

But neither of them had ever seen anyone perform the spell without a wand before.

Instead, Fae had used a strange sort of hand gesture, starting with her hand upright, palm out, then turning her wrist and closing her hand in a grasping motion, like she was beckoning the pieces to her. The pieces didn't come to her hand, though, instead reforming into the Glass, and then staying on the floor, where she picked it up.

"Molly?" Fae said into the Glass.

"Fae!" Molly's relieved face filled the small surface. "You had me worried, there! What happened?"

"Long story. Listen, Harry's getting worse, we really need to get him medical attention. So, do we risk St. Mungo's, or do we bring him to you?"

Molly bit her lip and looked off-frame again, as she had the first time Fae had called. Fae was starting to lose her temper. Thankfully, when Molly looked back, this time she answered, "All right."

Fae let out a breath she hadn't even realised she'd been holding. "We'll have to take him by car; luckily Mrs. Dursley has hers."

"Mrs. Dursley?! Dumbledore didn't tell me--"

"Dagdha out." And she silenced the magical device. "Can yeh do a Disillusionment Charm on Harry, Sevy? I've never quite been able to manage that one."

Sevy? Ron mouthed to Hermione, who looked more than a little repulsed herself at the familiarity Miss Dagdha and Professor Snape seemed to share.

Snape nodded and touched his wand to Harry's head. Petunia looked more than a little rattled when her nephew seemed to disappear, but said nothing.

"An' let me get us into something more suitable for Muggle London," Fae told Snape.

She started humming a strange, bubbly sort of tune, and twirled around. Her clothes lost all colour, her blouse and underskirt turning white, the crystals black. Otherwise her clothes remained the same. Her skin seemed to grow even paler, with dark rings of kohl appearing around her eyes, and her lips and painted nails turned black. It was surprising how much just altering the colours affected her appearance: she now looked like a Goth to Ron and Hermione. She'd certainly fit in well enough with the clubbing crowd that hung out in nearby Muggle London.

She walked up to Snape, wobbling a little; she had a slight concussion from her introduction to the wall. The former Potions Master caught her, as she stumbled into his arms. He blushed; she smirked. She removed another bauble and tapped its contents into her mouth. Feeling better, she straightened in his arms.

"Dinnae worry, this will nae hurt, Sevy," she told him, gripping his shoulders. He closed his eyes anyway, as if she were lying.

She hummed again. The cut of his robes changed -- or at least it appeared to, as it was all an illusion -- making it seem as though he now wore a stylish coat. And as his robes did not reach the floor, it now looked as though he were wearing buckle-covered combat boots on his feet. Like Fae's, his skin looked even paler than usual, but somehow not pasty, nor did the dark rings that had formed around his eyes make him look tired. Even his greasy hair seemed stylish now.

Ron thought the look was something rather like Bill might wear, and he was a little weirded out by it (as well as by his cousin's continued use of wandless magic.) He decided Harry was lucky to be unconscious. Well, at least no one would recognize Snape in that get-up, even though his facial features hadn't really changed.

"'Mmm, 's a bit Sandman ..." Fae said, appraisingly. She then put her hands on her hips and stepped back. "Och, I think that'll do quite nicely! Yeh can open yer eyes now, 'Morpheus!'"

[Snape and Fae ...]

Snape didn't even bother asking her what she was talking about. He stared dubiously at his nails, which were now covered in chipped black polish. "I can't see how you can be so good at Glamours when you're so terrible at Charms in general," he commented, clearly impressed by the magic, if not necessarily by her fashion sense. The kids were glad he couldn't see his blackened lips.

"Tom, yeh comin'?" Fae asked, raising a hand, ready to give the innkeeper a new look as well.

Tom took a nervous step back. "Ah, no, I think you kids have things under control."

Fae nodded. She turned to Petunia. "If yeh would be so kind as to show us to yer car?"

* * *

Madam Pomfrey had called out asking for assistance, and both Molly and Ginny had rushed up the stairs, leaving Draco alone in the dimly-lit kitchen. He didn't even realise that he had stood up and started wandering, until he found himself outside the attic door.

He had been here before.

He had no idea where he was, but he remembered this door. He had been, what, five, six, when he'd seen it? He couldn't remember what was on the other side of the door, either, but it was something important, he was sure of it. Not caring if it would get him into any sort of trouble, he turned the knob. It was dark inside the room, save for faint moonlight coming through a dirty window, and the light from the hall. It also smelled a little like an Owlery in the there. But while he was a bit repulsed by the smell, he liked the dark and the quiet. He was about to settle himself somewhere near the door when he heard movement from the opposite side of the room. Slowly, a large, dark shape moved before the window, blocking it. In the faint light, he could only just make out what it was.

Okay, he might not have known what he was going to find in this room, but if someone had asked him, he was pretty sure he wouldn't have guessed a ruddy hippogriff!

Draco stepped back, the floor creaking, and the eagle-horse looked up, dully. Draco's heart was thudding hard in his chest; he was sure the beast could hear it, could smell his terror. His adrenaline hadn't been at full throttle like this even when he was facing Voldemort, just twenty minutes or so ago! He didn't even dare run back out and slam the door shut, afraid the creature would just burst right through it to come after him. He was so terrified that he didn't even think of drawing his wand.

Was this the same one that had attacked him in his third year? It looked similar, but he didn't really remember the thing all that well, just the pain when it had slashed his arm and the fear that it was going to trample him to death. But it would make sense; that hippogriff had escaped. If this place was some sort of refuge of Dumbledore's, why not stow the beast here?

Draco continued to stare at the hippogriff, even after it lowered its head to the ground. As his heart started to return to normal, he began to realise that it had no interest in him whatsoever. So I'm beneath contempt now, am I? Draco thought with self-derision. Perhaps it would notice him more if he had a dead fish his pocket. Well, except that it seemed to have a full bucket of food in front of it, and it was ignoring that, too. It seemed ... depressed? Did animals feel depression?

"We should start a ruddy club," Draco muttered, as the memory of recent events made its way back to the fore of his mind.

Buckbeak looked up at the sound of his voice, and he stiffened with another surge of fear. What was it that great oaf of a teacher, Hagrid, had said? Something about bowing? He did so, slowly. A random thought popped into his head, saying how it was demeaning for a Malfoy to bow before an animal. The voice sounded far too much like his father. Another voice, a more sensible one, pointed out that, as the hippogriff had already knocked him nearly senseless once before, it was due a bit of respect. If he'd thought about it, he might have recognized that inner voice as sounding like his own speaking voice.

But then, Draco's inner voice usually sounded like his father; perhaps he hadn't had much experience with his actual conscience or common sense, having rather blindly followed his parents' dogma for so long. It was as if he were now waking up from a life-long trance, finally questioning all he'd been raised to believe.

When he looked up from his bow, he was surprised to see Buckbeak bowing back at him. You catch more flies with honey came another seemingly erratic thought. He understood the wise sentiment behind the words, the idea that being a kind person was more likely to earn you friends than being cruel, but there was another shade of meaning that he did not care for. The idea of being an acromantula in a web, luring in victims with sweet promises, was not an appealing image. It bothered him greatly that he had once believed it was, but there was no escaping the truth: Draco Malfoy, for most of his life, had believed that, so long as you were obeyed by your inferiors and admired for your power, it did not matter whether people really loved you or not.

I am not Lucius!

Another pang of guilt shot through him. How could he hate a man so much, and yet feel so bad about having killed him? How could he still feel love now, and grieve that man? And what kind of man was he, now that he'd murdered his own father? He let out a sob, clasping his head in his hands, the conflicting thoughts and emotions threatening to drive him mad.

Sensing another being in pain, Buckbeak approached Draco. Again, the Slytherin was too frightened to even breathe, thinking any false move might upset the beast into attacking. Before it reached him, though, it turned and rifled about behind some boxes. He was about to make a hasty retreat when the hippogriff turned back to him, something hanging from its raptor maw. It looked like a stuffed bunny, its coat dusty and its colour long faded.

Hands shaking, Draco took the offering, staring at it in disbelief.

"Pooky?" he whispered.

"Come along, Draco, we got what we came for" Lucius had ordered, when they had stood in this very place over a decade before. Draco couldn't even remember why they had been there. "And what have I told you about carrying around that ridiculous doll! Get rid of it!" his father had snapped.

Little Draco had shook his head no, and begun to cry. Lucius aimed his wand-cane at his little boy, snarling "Crucio!" And when little Draco was doubled over in agony, crying piteously, Lucius ripped the toy from his grasp and flung it behind some boxes.

Lucius had knelt by the boy and gripped his shoulders tightly, shaking him. "Love is a weakness, Draco! If you care about something too much, it can be used by your enemies as a weapon against you, a bargaining chip to bend you to their will! Never become dependent on another being's presence, or you will be lost when it's gone! If you love nothing, then you can lose nothing, and you've nothing to fear! Now stop your crying! Men don't cry!"

He had then grabbed Draco's hand in a crushing grip and dragged him out of the attic. The little boy had silenced his tears, but could not help but spare one last, longing look at the boxes that hid his treasured friend from the world.

A nearly-grown Draco now held Pooky tight to his breast, his eyes screwed tight against the tears that burned in his eyes and throat. Buckbeak nudged him gently, and he stroked the hippogriff's massive head with one hand, the toy still clutched tight in the other.

"How can you forgive me?" Draco asked the eagle-horse, in a soft whisper, unable to speak any louder; his throat was so choked he felt as though he were drowning in his anguish. "You nearly died because of me. You should be slashing me to pieces with your talons, not giving me presents, you feathery git!" How had it known the toy was his, anyway? Did it still carry his scent, after all these years?

[Buckbeak comforts Draco ...]

Perhaps it did, or perhaps Buckbeak was simply being friendly and had learned somewhere that young humans liked such things, but didn't know Draco was a bit old for it. The Slytherin had once thought animals incapable of such thoughts. Of course, the young Malfoy was quickly learning that, of all the things he thought he knew, the amount that was actually true wouldn't fill a thimble. Looking Buckbeak square in the eye, there was no denying the intelligence, the understanding that was looking back at him. Ashamed, he looked away, instead examining his old toy, one hand still absentmindedly stroking the great creature's feathers, his fear forgotten in favor of memories he wished he couldn't remember.

The time he'd had Pooky ripped from his arms had only been the first of Lucius Malfoy's lessons to him, lessons that, gifted with new perspective, he knew had robbed him of truth his whole life, rather than granting it. He'd always been taught that a merciless iron fist was the only way to power, and that power was the only road to satisfaction. But since the day the Dark Lord had branded him, he was coming to understand that respect tasted better when it was earned, though genuine sentiment, rather than forced by fear or false promises. Fear and dishonesty had been his father's road, and look where it had gotten him. I don't want my own child to wish me dead someday, he thought bitterly. He wanted more of feeling the warmth that came from being worthy of love and real respect. The doting affection from Peaky, the praise from Dumbledore, the concern from Snape that his own parents had denied him, the love and devotion from Pansy --

The air suddenly seemed to vanish from the room. He fell to his knees, gasping for air. Pansy! Where was she?! Merlin, how could he have forgotten?! The last thought Draco had as he was strangled by his own panic was of Pansy being dragged out of his reach, with a knife drawing blood from her pale, delicate neck.