Chapter 14: The Unspeakable Word
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
“My goodness, that does all sound very embarrassing. But are you certain I wasn’t just in my cups?”
Draco sat cross-legged at his mother’s bedside. In the antechamber, Dobby laid out her clothes for the morning, whistling a carol under his breath.
“Quite certain. You called me Lucius.”
She covered her mouth. “No.”
“You did.”
“How many did I have?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t think it was—”
“We must be glad you have such caring school friends,” she said, and rang the bell on her nightstand. “Dobby! Some coffee, please? And bacon.”
“Oh, dear. We are having no more bacon from the morning, Mistress. Would she like some Christmas ham?”
“Out of bacon? What time is it?”
“It’s nearly noon,” said Draco.
“Impossible! The clocks are wrong,” she declared, flopping back on her pillow. “It’s seven-thirty. I’ve just decided. Dobby, go put on a fresh pan of bacon and a pot of coffee, I’m starting the morning over.”
“Would mistress like the clocks reset, as well?” said Dobby politely.
“Smashing idea!”
“No,” said Draco. “That’ll be all, thank you.”
The elf bowed and apparated away.
Narcissa touched Draco’s shoulder. “Darling,” she whispered, “I’m really all right. It was a touch of Dionysus. Nothing more.”
“Mother, I know you’re lying.”
“I wish I knew what about,” said Narcissa hopelessly, opening her palms to the ceiling. “I swear. Perhaps I’m wrong, but if I am, I’ve no memory of the truth. If I’m mad, I really don’t know it.”
Her expression contained such a potent tincture of helplessness and anguish that Draco had to look away.
“I think we should talk about a Healer.”
“Oh, no. It’s not possible.”
“We’ll use private practice, it’s discreet—”
“Yes, but I can’t. I simply can’t, darling, I won’t.”
“You’re sick.” It rattled the floorboards. “We had to run out of a party last night. You collapsed.”
“So you say, but I’ve no reason to believe you,” Narcissa snapped. “Honestly, you’ve no faith in me. What if I was merely drunk?”
“You were dead to the world! You were raving about Lucius, and you called Daphne ‘Andy’—”
She was shaking her head. “No. No.”
“You looked me in the eye and you didn’t see me.”
“And I’m sorry for that,” she snapped. “But a Healer won’t help. You’re just like your pighead father, he was always trying to—”
But then she balked at whatever she saw in his expression. Changeable as the wind, she gentled. “Dar-ling,” she cooed, reaching for him. “I’m sorry. I’m tired, and I haven’t had my coffee yet. I didn’t mean that. Let’s not fight.”
He stood up. “I have to pack,” he said stonily.
Alarm flit across her face. “No,” she said, struggling upright. “Come, let’s make up. I can’t part on bad terms with my sweet boy. Sit down and let’s make up, shall we?”
“There’s nothing to make up. It’s fine. You should have breakfast.”
“Draco!” She reached for him again, and he stepped out of the way. “Please? Why won’t you speak to me? Don’t leave.”
Just then, Dobby appeared with a cloche and a silver carafe. “Bacon and coffee,” he squeaked, and then paused at the expression on both Malfoys’ faces. “Should Dobby come back?”
“No,” said Draco. He moved the chair away from the bed and strode to the door. “Serve the mistress. Then come help me with my trunks, once she’s dressed. Don’t dally.”
“Yes, Master Draco.”
“Draco!” Narcissa reached out longingly from the bed. “Don’t be like that,” she called. “Don’t walk away! Make up! Oh, be nice, please!”
She was still calling when he slammed the door behind him.
The sun clawed itself back to life in January, and the mood inside Hogwarts waxed hopeful. For the first few weeks of term, there were no attacks, and Neville reported that the mandrakes were attempting to sneak into each other’s pots, which was a good sign.
“A few more weeks,” he said cheerfully, as they shoveled dirt in Herbology. Draco, sweat-drenched and moody, failed to catch his enthusiasm. “They’re maturing miles ahead of schedule. Sprout says we’ll have Leanne and Colin b-b-back in no time. Oh, watch that, you’ll break the root!”
“I don’t care if I break the stupid root.”
“Let me d-d-do it then, will you? These are ex-p-p-pensive b-b-bulbs, and Sprout can’t get m-more of them.”
With the thaw came a softening of tensions. The curfews remained in place, but prefects would look the other way if students slipped into mealtimes late, and professors no longer walked students to class. Percy chalked up the slippage to Dumbledore’s absence; the headmaster spent several nights away from the faculty table.
“He’s working in the Wizengamot, I’m sure,” said Hermione. “With an election coming up, he must be quite busy.”
“Doing what, it remains unclear,” Draco said, disgruntled. She stole some of his Daily Prophet, and they were reading together over toast and jam.
She said, “He’s a great wizard, I’m sure he can be helpful in all sorts of ways. Perhaps he’s helping Fudge pass the Magical Security Act.”
“Nah,” said Ron. “Dumbledore hates it, remember? Dad said he wrote a whole column in the Prophet going after it.”
“Aren’t Dumbledore and Fudge in the same party?” said Hermione, confused.
“Yeah, but the Pops are huge, and they don’t always agree. ’Sides, Dumbledore doesn’t like it when the Wizengamot gives the Ministry more power. He tanked a bill three years ago that would double the size of the Auror force, said it was ‘unnecessary excess.’”
“‘Unnecessary excess’ is redundant phrasing,” yawned Draco, stealing a triangle of Hermione’s toast. He tapped off some globules of jam — she’d upended about half a pot on each slice — and nibbled it. “He’s right, of course, but that’s incidental.”
“Of course you think that, you’re in Runcorn’s party.”
“I’m not in anybody’s party, I’m a second year,” Draco said mildly. “I don’t vote. I can’t be held accountable for the state of our democracy until I’ve at least had the chance to ruin it personally.”
Harry said, “Maybe it’s because I don’t read the Prophet, but what’s his law about, anyway?”
“It would expand the purview of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” answered Hermione. Draco was proud of her; this was the sort of thing he wouldn’t have expected her to know, a year ago. “They could put the Trace on anyone charged of a crime. Dumbledore thinks it’s invasive.”
“And the other party thinks…?”
“That it’ll lead to a lot of former Death Eaters getting placed under twenty-four hour surveillance,” said Draco shortly. “Which is a problem, if ‘former Death Eaters’ is the largest voting bloc in your party.”
Harry looked up from his eggs. “Would you go under surveillance, Draco?” he asked earnestly.
“I regret disappointing you, Potter, but I have not, in fact, been charged with a crime.”
“Yeah, but your mum,” he said, and Draco swallowed.
“What about her?”
Harry and Ron traded a glance. Ron said, “Listen, you know we don’t mean anything by this, mate. I’m sure your mum’s… well, to be honest, I’m pretty sure she’s a weirdo, but no more of a weirdo than you are. But you know…”
“She was fully pardoned,” he said brusquely. “Cleared of all charges. My father made sure of it.”
“Did he?” said Hermione curiously. “How did that work?”
“Look at the time! I didn’t realize it was the Draco Malfoy Radio Hour. That’s my business, Granger, mind your own.”
“Fine, don’t tell me. Either way, it won’t pass,” said Hermione confidently. “Dumbledore is opposed to it, and everybody worships him.”
In Defense Against the Dark Arts, Podmore had moved from creatures to defensive spells. Draco welcomed this change, not least because it led to much fewer controversial conversations, and he found most of the spells useful. By mid-February, Podmore had them practicing in pairs.
“Excellent, Harry!” he roared. Harry had a knack for the Disarming Spell, and had used it to great success on Dean Thomas, whose wand now lay somewhere in the rafters. “That was Auror-quality, young man! You’re a natural! Very well done! Ten points to Gryffindor! And you know what? Another five, Granger, for an inspired use of Ventus! My, but you’re an impressive class!”
Hermione beamed at Draco, bouncing on the balls of her feet. He sent her a sarcastic salute, and then shot a jinx at Susan Bones that locked her wrists together. Naturally, the professor didn’t notice, having skipped off to effuse at some Hufflepuffs.
Podmore handed out points to Gryffindors like candy. This rankled some of the Slytherins, including Theo Nott, who would gladly say as much to anyone willing to listen.
“Say what you will about Snape, but he’s not over-generous,” Theo muttered, as they climbed the stairs up from the dungeons. “He gives Slytherin two points for every one to Gryffindor, but he only ever gives us as much as any other professor does.”
“It’s Podmore’s first time teaching,” said Draco, though he found it a bit hypocritical, himself. “He’s overeager.”
“Easy for you to say, but that doesn’t help us. If you lot didn’t rack up demerits like you need them to live, you’d have this year’s Cup locked up already. Pucey always said that House points were a crock of hippogriff dung, but I didn’t believe him until now…”
They approached the Great Hall. Podmore stood at the entrance, chatting sternly to the Slytherin prefect on attendance duty.
“…no excuse for lapse in judgment… I understand the temptation to go easy on younger students, but it’s that sort of laxness that leads to people getting hurt. I’m not blaming you, you understand, I’m just asking you to promise it won’t happen again.”
“What’s going on?” Theo said casually. “Hullo, Julia. Nott, with an ‘N.’”
The prefect, Julia, scratched his name off the list. “Pansy’s late,” she muttered.
Theo frowned. “That’s strange. D’you want me to find her?”
“No need, Mister Nott,” sighed Podmore. “We’ll not have students wandering the halls alone at a time like this. Tell me where the girl is, I’ll go get her.”
Draco glanced at Julia, who was glowering at the professor with vehemence. Her quill was digging into the parchment.
“That’s all right, sir, really,” said Theo in silken tones. “She wouldn’t want you to miss your lunch on her account.”
“Not a bother, and I insist. It’s a professor’s duty to protect the safety of his students.”
“Respectfully,” Theo said, with an ever-so-slight twang of sarcasm, “being that she’s likely in the Slytherin girls’ dorm, sir, I still think my suggestion is best.”
This was in the way of a conversation-ending argument. Podmore scowled. “Ten points from Slytherin, for Miss Parkinson’s tardiness,” he said. As Julia and Theo gave cries of protest, he added: “And five more for every minute she’s late. Tell her that I want to see her in my office after lunch.”
“But professor—!”
“No buts.”
“Tosser,” Theo muttered, once Podmore was out of earshot. “No wonder Pansy loathes him. I’ve half a mind to tell her to skip, and just take the demerits. We’re not going to win this year, anyway, what’s the point in trying?”
Draco frowned, rubbing his jaw.
Theo nudged him. “What?” he said drily. “You’re not even going to gloat?”
“Pansy’s a pureblood.”
“Right. In other news, mermaids swim.”
Draco ignored him. “So why is Podmore worried about her?”
Theo shrugged. “Good excuse to dock points,” he suggested. “Classic rule of war. Never miss an opportunity to kick your enemy when he’s down.”
Gryffindor’s fortunes were truly on the up-and-up, because their quidditch team was well on its way to victory in the House tournament. Harry was, to Draco’s misery, a sickeningly talented seeker, even on the miserable Cleansweep Five that Wood had him flying. Rarely had Lee Jordan had so much fun as when he got to commentate the Gryffindor matches, and even though he spent most of it playing a game of keep-away for the microphone with McGonagall.
“AND OH, HE’S MOVING, HE’S HUSTLING, HE’S A BULLET TRAIN, HE’S A PEREGRINE FALCON, HE’S MUSIC IN MOTION, HE’S A SCIENTIFICALLY PERFECT AERODYNAMIC OBJECT! LOOK AT HIM GO! FLY, POTTER! FLY!!”
“Jordan! The game!”
“What? Oh, yeah. Flint scores, rah, rah, ten points. Anyway, LET’S HAVE A HOLLER FOR HARRY POTTER, THE EMERALD-EYED KING OF—”
He broke off: McGonagall had tackled him.
In Gryffindor Tower, Jordan and the Weasley twins had invented a chant to be deployed whenever Harry caught the snitch, and taught it to the first years, who were too thrilled by the prospect of winning to have any fear of being annoying.
Let’s have a holler for Harry Potter!
The emerald-eyed king of the skies!
You’re in for a treat if you want to be beat
For he plays just as well as he flies!
To his credit, Harry gave every sign of loathing this chant, and turned the color of beetroots whenever it was deployed. Ron sang it in the shower for weeks.
In the last week of February, with only one game left in the year, Gryffindor took the lead. Loath to rest on his laurels, Wood doubled the number of practices, and gave Harry a practice snitch to drill with when he wasn’t on the pitch. In Draco’s opinion, this was the worst thing he could have possibly done — because Harry, either from eagerness to please or some mischievous impulse, started using it in the Gryffindor common room.
Ron was thrilled. “Fred says we haven’t played like this in years,” he said. “We’re getting the Cup, Wood’s sure of it. McGonagall’s over the moon. Yesterday she gave me ten points for holding the door! Oh, hi, Harry.”
Harry had come back from the pitch covered in mud and sweat, still wearing his quidditch robes, his hair sticking up electrically in all directions. Increasingly, these days, it was his default state. He flopped on the sofa next to Draco and Hermione, and said, “Wood’s a madman. I can’t feel my pelvis anymore.”
“You’re getting mud on the sofa,” Draco informed him. Harry grinned and wiped his hand on the cushions.
“Eugh!”
“Scourgify,” Hermione said primly, polishing off Harry’s mess. “He’s keeping you boys out there far too late, if you ask me. It’s not safe flying in the dark.”
“Boys and girls, Hermione, don’t be rude,” announced Katie Bell, as she clambered in the portrait hole with Angelina. She gave Hermione a chivalrous grin, to show she was joking, and slapped Harry on the back. “Alright, Harry? Not too sore, are you?”
“Nah,” said Harry quickly, sitting up. Draco snorted, and exchanged a snide look with Hermione.
“Attaboy. What’re we listening to? Something new from Seamus?”
The boombox, which lived on top of the hearth whenever Seamus wasn’t carrying it around, thumped placidly in the background. It was playing “Temptation,” a track from the album Hermione gave him for Christmas.
“Actually, it’s Draco’s.”
“Really?” She cocked her head at Draco, appraising. “You a fan of muggle music, Malfoy?”
He shrugged. “When it isn’t awful.”
“Yeah? You should come with George and me to Hogsmeade sometime, then,” she said casually. “There’s a music shop off Main Street, and they sell used CDs. Can get them for half price, quarter-price, sometimes.”
He looked her up and down. She vaguely resembled Harry, with mud on her face and black choppy hair standing all on its end, and there was something jaunty and boyish in the way she stood with her hip cocked, black nails drumming on her waist. She wasn’t remotely respectable, but she carried herself with such brassy confidence that she could have stood in file with a marquess. She was well-liked in Gryffindor.
“Alright, Bell,” he said slowly.
“Aces. I’ll let him know. Night, lads.”
She and Angelina tromped up the stairs to the girls’ dorm. Eyeing their muddy tracks, Hermione cast a muttered “Scourgify” after them.
“Oi, Draco,” said Ron, scratching his head with his quill. “I can’t get this one. What d’you get if you combine minotaur bone meal with liquified azolla?”
He made a face. “Piss-all. And a dirty cauldron. Why?”
“Aw, no, I thought for sure I’d got it.” Ron sighed, grabbing a new scroll of parchment. “What about bunyip nails?”
Draco shut his book and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “…Substituted for which?”
“I dunno. Either?”
“Well, it matters which, Weasley.”
Hermione stopped writing. “Why are you asking him?” she said, in tones so delicate he knew she was suspicious.
“Because he’s… the Potions bloke?” said Ron, helplessly. His eyes darted between Hermione and Draco, growing aware of the danger afoot. “Because he… likes it?”
“You asked me for help on that assignment just last night.”
“Right, yeah,” said Ron quickly, “which is why I asked Draco today. To give you a break. From answering.”
“Yes,” said Hermione, narrowing her eyes. “Which is why you had me do half of your Transfiguration at lunch.”
Draco sat back, enjoying himself. Harry was busy turning into a curdled ball of mortification, the same way he did whenever his friends fought.
“Do you think he’s better than me at Potions?”
“No! I mean, not no, but not not no—”
“Because our grades are just the same, and if Snape hadn’t docked me a point on the last exam for handwriting , we’d be dead tied.”
Draco hid a snicker behind his hand. It was typical Hermione to care about something like this: not just who was better at potions, but who Ron thought was better. Hermione didn’t even particularly like Potions. She had complained ceaselessly about the same assignment Ron was doing. Nevertheless, Draco liked that she had a competitive streak; apart from being delicious fun to provoke, it made him wonder what she would have been like in Slytherin.
A high CRACK split the air. Ron jumped, spilling ink everywhere, and Harry was on his feet at once, wand in hand.
A house-elf stood atop the coffee table. His ears were pressed low to his skull in fear.
“Dobby?” blurted Draco.
“Master Draco! Come at once, sir!” Dobby seized Draco’s hands and tugged him to his feet. Distressed tears welled in his eyes. “You must come! Intruders at the Manor! Thieves! Burglars! The mistress has removed!”
A cold wave rolled down Draco’s spine. He shot up. “The Manor? Who — when did it happen? Where’s my mother?”
“The mistress has removed with Mister Snape, sir! It is happening just recently, sir! Dobby hears the house wards are being broken, and the alarms are ringing! And Dobby sees strange wizards in masks, and they are inside the Manor when they are not supposed to be, and when the wards do not want them there! And he remembers Master Draco’s order, and goes to Mister Snape! And Mister Snape calls Mister Dumbledore, and says to alert Master Draco, and tells Dobby to bring him at once!”
Draco gripped the front of Dobby’s pillowcase and hauled him up like a doll. The elf gave a shrill cry.
“Where is my mother?”
Dobby squeaked, hands scrabbling for purchase on Draco’s arm. “Safe!” he cried. “Safe with Mister Snape! Dobby makes sure of it, sir! Dobby would not leave her, otherwise!”
Repenting, Draco slackened his grip, and lowered Dobby to the floor. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths.
He became aware that the other three were staring at him. He could feel Hermione’s eyes on his back, and he dreaded turning around.
Ron was the first to speak.
“What the hell is that?” he said.
Dobby gasped, and quaffed a bow. “The young master’s friends!” he said. “A thousand pardons from Dobby, who has not introduced himself. This is Dobby, and he is the loyal elf of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Malfoy.”
Hermione inhaled sharply. Draco winced.
“And Dobby knows who you are!” exclaimed Dobby.
“You do?” said Harry, curiously.
“Master Draco has told Dobby about you! You are his Pooter and Wheezey!”
Harry choked. Ron gave a strangled belch of laughter.
Dobby turned to Hermione. “And Miss Grain Jar!” he said generously. “It is an honor to Dobby! Master Draco is told Dobby how clever his Grain Jar is.” He bowed so deep his ears swept the floor.
“Hello, Dobby,” Hermione said through gritted teeth. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
Draco risked a look at Hermione. She was rigid all over, and her hands fisted her skirts, white-knuckled. She did not look back at him.
Ron said weakly, “Draco, mate, I knew you were rich, but this is…”
“Is that a pillowcase?” interrupted Harry.
Dobby looked down at his shift, plucking at the hem. As the others goggled, Draco saw Dobby as if through fresh eyes: he saw the patchwork of miscellaneous stains on his grubby pillowcase, the trailing threads, the places where rips and tears had been stitched together by tiny hands. He saw, too, for the first time, the bandages Dobby wrapped around his feet in lieu of socks or shoes, and the long scar running up the back of his skull, where Draco had once, as a toddler, accidentally pushed him down the stairs. He recalled Dobby’s fretful declaration: Mistress says he must knock his head very hard against the wall and be sorry…
“Yes, sir,” the elf admitted, fidgeting. “Dobby is sorry. Dobby would have worn a nicer pillowcase, if he knew he would be representing the family…”
“A nicer pillowcase,” said Hermione, in a trembling voice.
Draco interrupted. “We have to go,” he said roughly. “I’ll — explain later. Dobby, take me to my mother.”
“Yes, Master Draco,” Dobby said pleasantly, and held out his hand. “Dobby will apparate us.”
He turned to Hermione. “I’ll explain later,” he said. “When I get back. Just don’t… jump to any conclusions, Granger. All right?” He tried to keep his tone light and practical. It really wasn’t a big deal, and he’d make her see that. She was a reasonable witch; if he explained things properly, she’d understand.
Hermione looked at him. Her eyes were narrow and breathtakingly cold.
“What conclusions?” she said, tonelessly. “I don’t think there’s anything to infer.”
“Don’t — just wait up, will you?”
A vein throbbed in her neck.
He gave her a beseeching look. Reluctantly, she nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “Dobby, let’s go.”
He took Dobby’s hand, and with another CRACK, and a terrible twist in his gut, the world flickered.
When it solidified again, he was standing in Snape’s office.
In an armchair by the fire sat his mother, dressed in a nightgown and slippers, a shaggy quilt draped around her shoulders. Her hair was loose and tumbled down her shoulders in a striking gradient from white at the crown to black at the tips. In one hand, she cradled a drawstring pouch, while in the other, she clutched her wand.
“Draco,” she cried, and surged up to embrace him. He flung his arms around her and buried his head in her shoulder. As one, they took a deep, jagged breath.
A cauldron bubbled on the Potion Master’s desk. Snape stepped away from the brew to greet them, brushing off his hands. “Draco,” he said shortly.
“Hello, Professor. Mother, are you all right—?”
“Fine,” she said, waving it away. “Fine, fine, all fine. I was quite asleep, when Dobby woke me; they were already in the library before I heard a thing.”
Draco quelled a spasm of panic at the thought. “You didn’t hear the wards go off?”
“No.” A shade of guilt flickered across her face. “I had — well, I had taken a dose of Dreamless Sleep, you see, and — you know, it is rather strong.”
“Have you been sleeping ill?” he murmured, frowning, but Snape interrupted them.
“It matters little. They did not come for your mother.”
“How do you know?” Draco demanded. “She’s a well-known witch. They could have been there to kidnap her, to ransom, or, or hurt her, or Merlin knows—”
“If they wanted your mother, they would have her,” Snape said crisply, picking up his knife. He began chopping greenery in a flurry of strokes. “They were inside your house well before the elf heard the alarm. If your mother was the object of their mission, why tarry with petty larceny?”
“How did they get through the wards?”
“I do not know. They were gone by the time I arrived.” He swept the greenery into the brew and replaced the cutting board. “I have notified Dumbledore, who has departed to assess the damages. If you wish to notify law enforcement, that is your prerogative, but I would advise you that Lucius always vehemently refused to let Ministry agents see the interior of the Manor, and to my understanding had good reasons for doing so.”
Narcissa shook her head. “No Aurors,” she ordered. “In fact, I would really prefer you hadn’t even told Dumbledore, Severus. I don’t trust that man.”
“It was not my choice.” Snape’s voice was flat. “You came to Hogwarts. You asked for my help. It comes at a cost.”
Draco swallowed. Not for the first time, he wondered what the nature of Snape and Dumbledore’s relationship was, that Snape spoke of him with such begrudging reverence; it went far beyond the usual respect of professor and headmaster.
The flames in the fireplace leapt up and turned green. Snape flicked his wand at the hearth, and the grate folded itself neatly to one side just in time for Albus Dumbledore to stride through the fireplace.
“Narcissa,” he said solemnly. “Welcome to Hogwarts. I cannot express my regret that you could not visit under more auspicious circumstances.”
“Professor Dumbledore,” she said coolly, and allowed him to clasp her hand between his own.
“I hope it is some comfort to you that the Manor is, for the most part, quite untouched. Only the library has been disturbed — although, I admit, it is a conspicuous disturbance…”
“What do you mean?” said Draco sharply. “What happened to it?”
Dumbledore looked down at him. “Hello, Draco,” he said kindly. Bits of ash clung to his hair from the Floo, giving it the color of cinders. “Thank you for joining us. I apologize for the upset. I know you must have been very worried for your mother.”
“Yes, yes, but what about the library?”
“It was ransacked,” Snape said shortly. “At least one shelf was pried off the wall. Evidence indicates it was a hasty search.”
“Of course it was,” said Narcissa, sitting down. She braced her forehead delicately on two fingers. Draco stepped to her side, and placed his hand protectively on her shoulder. “Once the wards broke, they would have been racing the clock.”
“To find what?” asked Draco incredulously. He looked from Narcissa to Snape to Dumbledore. “Why the library? It’s magnificent, certainly, but even the most expensive book in that collection… I could name fifty more expensive artifacts in the house.”
“I concur in full,” said Dumbledore gravely. “Whatever they took, I very much doubt they intended to sell. Narcissa, I warn you, I am about to ask a somewhat impolitical question.”
She arched her neck and leveled him with a stare that could freeze oceans.
“When Lucius was assembling his collection of… I will call them antiques,” said Dumbledore politely, “did he come into possession of a particular book, or perhaps a scroll, or volume, that would arouse malign interest?”
“Albus,” snapped Snape, setting down a bottle of hippogriff bile. “Of all times. Narcissa, don’t answer that.”
“I assure you, I mean nothing by it. I ask only to abet the course of our inquiry. You may answer in as much or as little detail as you like.”
Narcissa rubbed her forehead, deep in thought.
“Father collected lots of things,” Draco volunteered. Dumbledore turned to Draco, his eyes alight with interest and a glimmer of something hungrier. “He had an excellent library. He loved to read. He had a first edition of Most Potente Potions, and a box set of the Stoddard lectures, and a handwritten draft of Godelot…”
“And did others know of this collection? Was there any tome of which he was especially proud, or which he made a point of showing to others?”
“No. He wouldn’t have… not my father. No.”
“Nevertheless, someone might have known he possessed them?”
“I know what it was,” murmured Narcissa.
The men stared at her.
“…I imagine it would be very difficult,” said Dumbledore, “to say with confidence, at this juncture, considering the vast inventory…”
“Narcissa?” said Snape. She looked up at him, and her eyes were shiny.
“It was a diary,” she said quietly.
A beaker slipped through Snape’s fingers and shattered on the stone.
Cold fingers ran up Draco’s spine at the sight of the Potion Master’s face: he had never seen his godfather struck with terror.
Having lingered in the background for the wizards’ conversation, Dobby now hurried forward, producing a dustpan from the aether, and tried to sweep up the shards. Dumbledore noticed, and said kindly, “My dear little friend, I should never dream of allowing a guest to stoop to such work while at Hogwarts. Reparo.”
Dobby squeaked as the shards flew out of his grasp and reassembled themselves on the desk.
“You have done much for us all, tonight,” Dumbledore added, kneeling. He held out his hand to Dobby. “May I offer you something to soothe your tested nerves? A warm drink, perhaps?”
Dobby goggled at the hand like he’d grown a tentacle.
“I see you do not belabor yourself with chatter. Too wise, too wise! So many wizards who speak much say little.” He patted Dobby on the head. Dobby trembled. “Be well, and happy. You have earned, if not the gratitude of your lieges, then at the very least, the gratitude of my not-so-humble self.”
Snape cut the burner under his cauldron. “It’s finished,” he said. “For ideal performance, it should rest for several days, but on such short notice, you will simply have to accept an inferior product.”
“What’s that?” Draco asked, pointing at the cauldron. Everyone ignored him.
Dumbledore rose to his feet. “I’m sure it will do quite well, Severus. Narcissa, if we still have an understanding…?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. May I suggest, then, that we all retire to my office, where I have called for some hot chocolates and crumpets? I find it much easier to face the trials of the world when armed with a sweet snack.”
Nobody laughed. Snape and Narcissa remained stone-faced.
“Hang on,” said Draco aggressively. “I still don’t understand. What happened? What’s this diary Mum thinks they took? How do you know they took it?”
Severus and Dumbledore both looked at Narcissa.
She sighed, turning to Draco. “Darling, it’s a very long story,” she said. “I would tell you, but it’s late, and Professor Dumbledore and your godfather and I still have ever so much to talk about. I know how absolutely horrid it feels to be kept in the dark, but you must try to bear it, out of love for me. Will you? Can you?”
“But I don’t—”
“It is very important. And I wouldn’t ask it unless I thought it was necessary, but it’s simply too complicated to explain all at once.”
“I’m not a baby,” Draco snapped. “I can understand complicated things. What, is it some sort of Dark Arts book?” He looked at Dumbledore and Snape, who were staring gravely on, watching the altercation between mother and son. “It is, isn’t it? That’s why you’re so skittish, and why you won’t tell me. You think I don’t know we own Dark artifacts? I lived in that house for eleven years! I walk past three of them on the way to breakfast!”
“Draco,” Snape said uneasily.
Draco pointed at him. “You’re nervous,” he accused. “Nervous enough to tell Dumbledore, so it’s important. But not just important to us, either, because he thought it was worth seeing himself. And whatever it is, it scares you all to death, because I can’t think of another reason my mother would willingly let Albus Dumbledore into our house.”
“Darling, please be courteous,” murmured Narcissa.
“It’s Death Eater stuff, isn’t it?” He laughed humorlessly. “Don’t answer that, it obviously is. It’s his diary, isn’t it? My dad’s? And you’re worried because it has a bunch of information about the Dark Lord, and — and all the Dark magic they did.”
Dumbledore gazed at him. “Draco,” he said gently, “would you be so kind as to make a deal with me?”
Draco folded his arms. “What deal?” he said suspiciously.
“I would like you to return to your dormitory, right now, and remain there for the rest of the night.”
“No w—”
“Please allow me to finish. In return for this considerable favor,” said Dumbledore, “I will personally repair the wards around Malfoy Manor from this evening’s breach, and I will give you my word — on my house, if you prefer it — that I will never again cross the Manor’s threshold unless invited by a member of your family.”
Draco breathed out. He looked at his mother.
“Do you want me to go?” he demanded of her.
She looked up at him sadly. “Darling,” she began.
“No. Stop it. Never mind. I’ll go.” He extended his hand. “Dobby, come.”
“Dobby should return to the Manor, I think,” Dumbledore interrupted, gentle as ever. “He has had an eventful night, and he has earned a rest.”
“Can’t he take me back to the dorm first?” Draco heard the whinge in his voice, and loathed it.
Dumbledore folded his hands behind his back and spoke calmly. “In fact, I would prefer that Dobby make as few appearances as possible to the other students,” he said. “I respect the right of each family to conduct its affairs as it may please, but the keeping of house-elves in bondage is not a tradition I would like modeled to your young peers, especially those in Gryffindor Tower who look up to you, of whom there are several. There is a reason we do not permit students to bring their servants to Hogwarts.”
“He’s my elf!”
“But it is not your school,” said Dumbledore, ever soft, and ever unyielding.
Draco rounded on his mother, but she had turned her head away, her brow knotted in guilt and worry.
“Fine,” he spat, balling his fists. “Goodnight, then. To all of you.”
“Draco—”
He stalked out of Snape’s office, letting the door bang against the wall.
The stairs to Gryffindor Tower had never felt longer than they did that night. By the time he reached the top, his thighs burned in the familiar way they did at the end of the week, and he had worked himself into a proper fury. He couldn’t stand the insult of the dismissal, the lack of one word spoken in his defense. How his mother and godfather failed to lift a finger while Dumbledore sent him off to bed.
What rights did they have to dismiss him? He was the head of household; he was the Malfoy heir. If anyone should have been in the room, it was him. To dismiss him like a child — not to mention stripping him of his house-elf — was condescending, patronizing, paternalistic in the extreme…
His fortunes didn’t improve when he reached the Tower. Curfew had come and gone, and so had the Pink Lady; the portrait had become a pastoral landscape.
He tried the password anyway — his plaintive exhortation of “Pustule nuggets” achieved nothing — and then, in a swell of rage, pulled out his wand to try and blast open the door. But the moment passed, and he lowered his wand, sighing.
He hammered on the wall instead.
“It’s me! Let me in, I’m locked out!”
The portrait hole swung open. Hermione stood in the door, her expression cold. His heart sank.
“Well, come in,” she said. “You don’t want Filch seeing you.”
He clambered through. The common room was empty: at this hour, and everyone had gone up to bed. The fire guttered low. Neville’s toad was croaking peaceably from somewhere in the rafters.
Hermione shut the door. “I waited for you.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “Merlin,” he said. “Can’t this wait?”
“You were the one who asked me to wait. I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Yes, you were.” He fought the urge to snap. “You took one look at Dobby and you were ready to give me a sermon, Granger. Don’t deny it.”
“I didn’t say anything!”
“Yeah, well, you wanted to.”
“I wanted to?”
“Of course you wanted to,” he said, spiteful. He was aware of a defensive edge in his voice, and he resented it, which only made him more irritated. “You’re Hermione Granger. You always want to.”
“I can’t believe you!” Her jaw dropped in outrage. “You have a slave—”
“Right. Here we go.”
“An actual, living, breathing slave, in the year 1993, and you brought him into Hogwarts, where we could all see him, and I’m the bad guy? Because I thought about saying something about it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not a slave.”
“Really!” she shrilled. “Is that so! So he can refuse an order, can he?”
His shoulders crept up. He scowled.
“He can leave at any time?” she continued, advancing on him. He spun around and walked away, but she followed him, her voice rising. “He can choose not to work? And you pay him, of course, don’t you?”
“You know, I have had one hell of a night, and I’m really not in the mood—”
“Well, that’s tough, because you decided to bring it up!” He turned to go up the stairs, and she pulled him back. “I’m in shock,” she cried, “in shock, Draco, that you ever could be so cruel! After everything Podmore said about Dark Magic—”
“Podmore doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Podmore fought in the Order of the Phoenix!”
“Fantastic!” he roared, whirling on her. “Good for him! What a saint! Why don’t you go nag him about what monsters my family are, then? I’m sure he’ll agree with you!”
“Nag? Nag?”
“Yeah, and while you’re at it, ask him what my dad did during the war! If house-elves are where you draw the line, then I’m sure he’ll really open your eyes for you—”
“I don’t care what your father did,” she shouted. “He didn’t make you keep that house-elf! You could have freed him whenever you wanted!”
“It’s not that simple!”
“It’s exactly that simple! You own another sentient being! Good people don’t do that, Draco!”
“I’m getting really sick,” he snarled, “of you calling me a bad person just because my family has certain traditions that you can’t understand.”
She gave a high, inarticulate cry of outrage. “Can’t understand,” she shrieked. “Can’t understand? Can’t? I understand everything about it!”
“Yes, can’t. And frankly, it’s quite rich of you to try and judge us, since it’s not your culture.”
She stepped into his face. He could count the pieces of hair that floated free of her braid, and individual crosshairs of her braces when she bared her teeth. “Not my culture?” she repeated dangerously. “And what does that mean?”
“It means— oh, come off it, you know perfectly well what it means.”
“No, I don’t. Why don’t you tell me, Draco? Why don’t you tell me exactly what you mean by ‘your culture’? What is that culture, exactly?”
“You’d feel differently if you were…” He gestured, vaguely and angrily.
“If what? If I was what? ”
“A pureblood!” He threw up his hands. “It’s different! I can’t explain how, it just is!”
“Right,” she seethed. “Right. It ‘just is’ different. And purebloods ‘just are’ better than muggle-borns. That’s what you’re thinking, aren’t you?”
“Oh, piss off,” he said coldly. “That wasn’t what I was thinking, and you know it.”
“I don’t know anything about you,” she snapped. “I don’t know why you expect me to trust your intentions. I thought I could, but apparently I was very wrong—”
“Merlin’s beard, don’t be such a — a bloody—”
“What? Don’t be a what? A nag? A harpy? A shrew?” Her voice rose on every word. Her eyes were shiny. “Why are you so angry at me? What did I do? How is it that in your mind, Draco Malfoy is once again the victim?”
“I AM the victim!” His voice went so high it cracked, and upstairs, one of the doors creaked. “Someone broke into my house tonight, if you didn’t recall!”
“Poor you!” she shouted. “That’s really awful! That doesn’t mean you get to stomp in here and yell at me about it!”
“I didn’t start yelling at you!”
“You picked a fight, and you know it!” Hermione was on the verge of tears. “You were sour at me from the minute you walked in! Before I said a word!”
“Because I didn’t fancy getting lectured by a mudblood!”
The word was there before he knew what it was. He listened in horror as it surged up from somewhere deep and bitter and secret, a place he hadn’t known existed, and slipped between his teeth like spittle, tasteless and invisible.
It hadn’t even fully left his mouth before he wanted to take it back. But it was too late: it was there, hanging in the air between them, hard and sharp and clear as a piece of broken glass. He got to watch as it struck Hermione like a punch to the throat.
She stumbled backward, her mouth slightly parted, and the expression on her face did something to his insides that made him feel like he was dying.
Then she slapped him.
His head whipped around on his neck. Slowly, he lifted his hand to the fiery plane of his cheek. His signet ring burned cold against the skin.
“Muggle-born,” he said, quietly. Then, in a firmer voice, he repeated, “Muggle-born, I meant.”
But it might as well have come twenty years too late. Hermione’s mouth trembled, and she buried her face in her hands.
“Granger,” he said, numbly. He reached out. “Granger, I didn’t—”
She shoved past him, knocking him aside, and sprinted up the girls’ staircase.
He followed her, growing conscious that he had made the sort of mistake from which something precious, being lost, would not return.
“Granger! Come back here!” At his touch, the girls’ staircase flattened into a slide, and he went stumbling back to the bottom. “Granger!” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. Panic tinged the cry.
“Malfoy.”
It wasn’t Hermione’s voice.
He turned, and saw Harry and Ron standing at the top of the boys’ staircase. Harry wore oversized flannel pajamas with the sleeves rolled up, and his glasses were askew on his nose; Ron wore a giant Cannons t-shirt and drawstring pants. Both were holding their wands, and looked disheveled, as if they had received a rude awakening.
Their expressions left no possibility that they had not heard him.
NEXT CHAPTER: 10/14/2022
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