Chapter Text
Harry Potter was dead.
That should have been national news, global even, and it should have devastated the entire wizarding world. Everyone should have known, and grief for that fact should have radiated throughout every magical home and neighborhood. Even those who hadn’t been particular fans of the remarkable Boy Who Lived would be troubled, and they should have known that it had happened.
Draco knew it, with cold and absolute certainty. He had seen the evidence, repulsive as it was, and he had listened to the Dark Lord’s gloating tale of how he had vanquished his young foe. Harry Potter was dead, and those who needed to know that--at Hogwarts, in the Ministry, wherever else--had no idea.
Draco could remember every detail of the final Triwizard Tournament task as if it had happened in slow motion, and it had been branded into his mind. When too much time had passed with only the unconscious forms of Fleur and Victor being recovered from the maze, the alarm had been raised. As Madame Pomfrey and the faculty had watched over the anxious assembly of students, Dumbledore had done away with the elaborate hedge maze with a complicated wave of his wand.
There had been no sign of Harry Potter, or of Cedric Diggory. No sign, either, of the Triwizard Cup, its magical silver form conspicuously absent from the ghostly stone tier that had marked the center of the maze. Dumbledore had circled the spot for countless minutes, murmuring spells and studying the area around the stone, but he’d come away with no answer as to where cup, or champions, had gone.
They had been declared missing, and the fear, concern, and suspicion were immediately rampant. Watching all of this unfold, Draco had felt cold dread crawl over his heart. He knew, without being sure of how, that they were dead--both of them. He had felt a momentary, ugly flash of relief that their corpses were not there for the entire school to see.
After all, the The Dark Lord had known better than to take the risk of leaving the bodies intact, given that the entire purpose of using the cup as a portkey and bringing Harry to him had been to keep his return to physical form a secret from the rest of the wizarding world. Only his Death Eaters--those who had gone to the graveyard, that was--and their families were aware that Lord Voldemort was back.
Perhaps Dumbledore had suspected at once; his Chosen One had vanished--and as Draco soon learned, so had Mad-Eye Moody. Or rather, the man who everyone at Hogwarts had believed to be Moody.
Draco had remained silent as the events following the third task unfolded, his fear rising, but common sense preventing him from showing a hint of it. He did not miss the sharp, knowing looks that began appearing in the eyes of select other Slytherins, whose fathers were comrades of his own, all awaiting their Master’s return. Some of them had made no effort to conceal their anticipation as Harry was officially declared to be missing without a lead, guessing that something far bigger than even the famed Triwizard Tournament was brewing.
The end of term had been quiet and subdued, final exams cancelled, and security measures around the school amplified almost as much as they’d been the year before, when Sirius Black’s escape from Azkaban had been the constant headline. Two students missing without a trace, as well as the professor who had been directly responsible for placing the now-absent Cup...Draco had completed the term in a daze, barely able to focus on anything beyond the frenzied murmurs of his classmates--some terrified, some tantalized.
And then he returned home, and Draco’s world came crashing violently back into cold, cruel focus.
Malfoy Manor had never been a warm place, but with the Dark Lord in residence, it had become chilling even in Draco’s eyes. It was almost surprising that ice didn’t coat every surface, or that the air that Draco exhaled as he entered his family’s house wasn’t visible as vapor. He had crossed through the foyer, and found Voldemort himself seated at the head of the enormous dining table, flanked by Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape. The rest of the table was occupied by men and women that Draco had known all his life. Now they were garbed in plain black robes, all with half-sleeves that exposed the vibrant Dark Marks burned into their flesh.
And behind Voldemort had stood a man whose face he knew perfectly well, even without having met him in person, since he’d been in Azkaban since before Draco’s birth. But now, Bartemius Crouch, Jr. was not imprisoned, nor was he disguised any longer as the former-Auror who had, apparently, never actually made it to Hogwarts. He’d stood tall and confident, his Dark Mark bared proudly, eyes glittering as he smirked at Draco’s obvious shock, and he had welcomed the teenager with a coldly smug, “Hello again, little ferret.”
Harry Potter was dead, murdered at fourteen years old when he tumbled into an impossible-to-win duel against his lifelong enemy in a graveyard far, far away from his beloved school, and his friends, and protectors. Killed less than an hour after Cedric, whose presence had certainly not been expected, but whose death was of no interest or importance to the Dark Lord. He had just been another body, transfigured into a bone, and then crushed into dust and scattered over the grave of the Dark Lord’s long-deceased Muggle father and grandparents.
Lord Voldemort hadn’t quite resisted the urge to make a trophy out of Harry, though, to Draco’s immense internal horror. The Dark Lord had transfigured the teenager’s body into a replica of his own bloody glasses, and they now sat folded neatly on the mantle of Draco’s family dining room, resting against the base of the bloody Triwizard Cup.
It had taken everything in Draco’s body, all of his physical and mental will-power, to manage to conceal his revulsion until he could hide away in his own rooms, vomiting until he had nothing left inside of him to expel.
His home turned into a place of nightmares. Any warmth, any sense of safety and belonging that Draco had ever known in the enormous mansion was gone, replaced by the chill of dark and murderous intent. Cloaked figures roamed the halls, eyes hard and blazing with cruelty and malice. He hid away as often as he could, though his father insisted on his prompt attendance to any and all meetings, meals, or gatherings that were held. Lucius’ pride at being back at the left hand of his Master was unparalleled, and Draco did not want to see what sort of wrath he might provoke if he shamed the man by refusing to appear just as proud and eager to stand in the Dark Lord’s presence.
The months between school years had never seemed particularly long before, but that summer dragged on in a manner that Draco knew he would relive in his darkest dreams for the rest of his days.
Lord Voldemort was a cruel being.
By September, Draco could not even bring himself to refer to him as a man . His malice went deeper than that of anyone Draco had ever known, even among the other Death Eaters. They were all still human, still had souls that had to bear the damages of their actions...but not Voldemort. He may have been born with a soul, but whatever remained of it inside him was too weak, too worthless to be counted.
“There is no higher honor than this,” Lucius Malfoy triumphed, during one of the rare evenings when he dined with just his wife and son. Draco didn’t speak, couldn’t bring himself to; he was sure that even the walls had ears now, and since he could not share his father’s twisted pride, he did not dare to voice his thoughts. “The Dark Lord has returned, and he has chosen our family, our home , as the foundation from which he will resume his mission. In my wildest dreams, I never imagined we would be granted such favor.”
Narcissa, for her part, had taken to being as quiet as her son, though she did offer her husband a seemingly genuine smile as he gloated. Draco wondered, as he never used to before, what his mother actually thought about it all. She was not a Death Eater, did not bear the Dark Mark or attend the meetings that Voldemort held in their primary dining hall with his cloaked and masked followers; but she had supported and stood by Lucius no matter what happened throughout the years.
Draco wondered if the despicable things that had been done, and were now happening inside of their house, disturbed her at all--or if she simply shut them out of her thoughts, and focused on being present for her husband and child.
“Our family will achieve the kind of glory that has always defined the Malfoy name,” his father continued, looking at Draco as if expecting him to join him in anticipating their future accolades. “The Dark Lord rewards those who serve him most loyally, and we have been faithful to the last. You will see, Draco, everything you’ve ever dreamt of attaining will be within your reach. You’re of an ideal age, too; you will ascend in the ranks and earn honors and prestige beyond imagining, far beyond your peers.”
In his mind, Draco suddenly recalled vividly the sight of the Muggle family that had been attacked at the Quidditch World Cup the summer before. How they’d floated and spun in midair, helpless and subjected to humiliated by the Death Eaters’ demonstration.
That night, Draco had been so proud to know that Lucius was among them, masked and cloaked and representing the Dark Lord in his absence, keeping the wizarding world on its toes. Shame pulsed through him as he recalled standing in the woods, watching the unfolding events without concern or pity. He’d run into Harry Potter that night, fleeing the campground with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger; Draco swallowed, trying not to let his face reflect the horror that welled up as he remembered taunting them, suggesting that Granger would wind up in the air with those innocent Muggles.
“Draco?”
He blinked, looking back at his father and managing a small nod. “Sorry, Father. I...I was thinking about last year. The World Cup, and...the Muggles.”
Lucius arched an eyebrow, looking quizzical. “What about it? A rousing night for us, certainly, but it pales in comparison to the victories that are yet to come. Though I still question Crouch’s sensibility, raising the Dark Mark as he did.” Lucius sniffed haughtily, swirling his wine. “He brought the Ministry down on the whole event far more abruptly than we had intended.”
Draco swallowed again, trying to suppress the nausea beginning to curl through his gut. “If he hadn’t done that, would...do you think you would have killed them?” In his peripheral vision, Draco saw his mother’s hands still as she cut her food, and he knew that he was worrying her with his questions.
His father appeared surprised and confused. “I don’t know. It wasn’t discussed, and obviously it didn’t come to that...but what would it matter?” he added, looking at Draco more pointedly. “They were only Muggles, son. And more importantly, one does whatever one must in the service of the Dark Lord. We must be willing to do anything necessary to prove our absolute loyalty to him, and to his cause. Surely you understand that, don’t you, Draco? You were raised to see things the proper way.”
Staring back at his father, Draco’s mind spun to a slow halt. He was, despite having only just turned fifteen, already a capable Occlumens due to his mother’s tutoring, and Draco intended to continue perfecting the skill. Now, unexpectedly, he found himself confronted with a very real reason to master it.
For the first time in his life, finally, Draco thought that he was really seeing the truth of his father’s character.
The final straw, for Draco, came as July dawned. The summer had been cruel from the start; but the ugliness came to a head when Voldemort finally succeeded in having his Death Eaters track down and collect anyone who had publicly renounced the Dark Lord and defected from his cause.
Many had done so over the course of the previous decade. If their Marks had burned in summoning on the night of his return, the night that Harry Potter died, then they had not come to the graveyard.
Now, they were being hunted down and brought to the Manor in penalty. Draco stood at his bedroom window, watching with a sick feeling as Travers and MacNair dragged one final person kicking and protesting into the house. They vanished from view, but now Draco could hear the doomed man’s voice, weeping and pleading for forgiveness that could not be earned.
Crossing to the landing, Draco looked down past the winding staircase. Horror struck him anew as he recognized the voice of the final defector to be collected; Theodore Nott, Sr., whose son was among Draco’s own friends in Slytherin House at Hogwarts.
He wondered if Theo knew that his father was missing. And how he would react, when he eventually learned that the man’s death occurred at Malfoy Manor. Draco didn’t have to guess whether or not that was the intended outcome; for the past week, as the Death Eaters had collected these poor people, they had been imprisoned in the cellar and tortured. Draco hadn’t slept in days, haunted by the screams and begging that could be heard throughout the Manor.
The first night, he’d gone downstairs, half-possessed by the mad, suicidal urge to burst down the stone steps and intervene, to stop Voldemort from doing this. To plead with him not to keep drawing this insanity out, and just to end their suffering. Surely there was nothing gained by their pain, if they were going to die no matter what they said or offered.
Draco had held onto a fragment of hope, praying that his father was not down there. And to a degree, he was not disappointed; Lucius was not in the cellar, assisting with the sadism taking place. But he stood at the door, his face stoic and cold, and when Draco stopped at the sight of him, the older man’s mouth tightened into a thin line.
“You can’t endorse this,” Draco said hollowly, flinching as another scream echoed up the stone steps from beneath their feet.
Lucius stood stiffly, shaking his head fractionally. “It is the Dark Lord’s will. Know your place, Draco.” And that was the end of any attempt at conversation between father and son, for the remainder of the summer.
Following the capture of Nott, Sr., the torture continued for another few days, until the sound of screams being muffled by stone seemed to be ingrained into Draco’s mind.
And then one August afternoon, Voldemort summoned everyone in the house outside to the gardens behind the Manor. Draco accompanied his mother grudgingly, not returning his father’s gaze as they joined the other Death Eaters standing on the lawn. When he finally did raise his eyes, Draco wished immediately that he was anywhere else in the world but there.
The defectors, now broken and bloodied by days and in some cases weeks of violence and abuse, were bound and forced onto their knees in the grass, heads bowed as Voldemort strolled back and forth before the line of them. Some were so disfigured from the torture that Draco couldn’t be sure of their identities--but that did not include Theodore Nott, or Igor Karkaroff.
Draco’s stomach twisted viciously when his eyes landed on the former Headmaster of Durmstrang Institute. He had not been the final traitor to be dragged, fighting and pleading, to face his reborn Master’s rage, but he had not yet been tortured into being unrecognizable. And as if sensing Draco’s wide-eyed, horrified stare, the man raised his head just enough, his gaze meeting the teenager’s with an undeniable glimmer of recognition.
Karkaroff opened his mouth, though Draco could not imagine what he might try and say--and then Voldemort spoke, silencing any attempt at speech from the prisoners.
“All of you gathered here...you were all, once, my trusted and beloved servants,” the Dark Lord said, his voice little more than a low, vibrant hiss. A minute shiver rippled through those standing, despite the fact that they were safe where they were--at least for the time being. Those kneeling shuddered more visibly, and Draco felt a lump rise in his throat.
“Some of you have remained loyal to the vows you once took,” Voldemort continued, turning to let his cold, scarlet eyes roam over the standing men. His gaze brushed over Draco, who did not lower his own quickly enough, but there was no interest or concern in the older wizard’s expression before he moved on from the teenager’s face. Draco meant nothing to him, and the blonde could not have been more grateful for that. “You answered my summons...with stunning promptness, I must say. You came when your Master called, prepared to pledge yourselves once more to our...noble cause.”
He looked back over his kneeling victims, and his voice turned colder. “They were unafraid. Your Master was reborn, triumphant at last, and they came at once to my side to witness my victory.” Voldemort raised his wand, running his fingers along its length absently, prompting flinches from several of the kneeling men. “At last, I completed the task that had led to my downfall, over a decade ago.”
Voldemort stopped pacing, standing at the end of the row. “I can only imagine that some of you, kneeling here, either truly believed that a one-year-old child somehow defeated me--the most powerful sorcerer in the world--and therefore did not answer my call out of sheer foolishness...or, perhaps, you believed that even if I had returned, I would not rise back to my former glory. That I would not destroy my improbable young enemy, and resume my quest to cleanse our world of the stain of Muggles, and their filth.”
His mouth curved into the shape of a smile, but it was so heartless and empty that it only appeared more frightening. “Your doubt in your Master is telling. The night of my disappearance was...an unfortunate setback. But I was never going to remain gone...and those who came when called had the indescribable privilege of witnessing me finally vanquish him. The so-called boy who lived .”
There was a stirring among those standing around Draco, and in his peripheral vision he saw his father actually smile. Even knowing that Lucius had been there that night--or perhaps he’d just assumed, feared it to be true, Draco had never brought himself to ask aloud--the sight of the pleasure on Lucius’ face made a cold pit settle in his gut.
Draco’s eyes leapt back to the doomed men kneeling mee yards away from him. Blood dripped from some of their faces, staining the enchanted vibrant green grass under their knees with patches of crimson. None of them, not even Theodore Nott--who had only been in the cellar for perhaps 48 hours, at the longest--were unmarked by the Dark Lord’s wrath, bruised and torn to the point that those who had been brought to the Manor first barely seemed conscious anymore. They slumped forward where they knelt, kept upright by magic alone.
A grim thought struck Draco, unexpected and horrifically unwelcome, making bile rise in his throat before Draco managed to forcibly swallow it back, not daring to make a sound.
Was this how Harry Potter had died? Had it been as slow as the fate being faced by these former Death Eaters, drawn-out and painful, intended to break down and humiliate him? Or had Voldemort shown a rare act of mercy, and granted the teenager a swift death? Draco’s eyes darted sideways to his father again, and he felt a sudden, fierce desire to slam his fist into the older man’s face, or to draw his wand--he didn’t even know what for, what spell or curse he would use, but he felt genuine hatred as he saw Lucius’ smug expression.
His father had stood by, unfazed, and witnessed a boy his son’s own age be murdered--very likely in as cruel and brutal a manner as what was happening here and now--and he still supported the monster who had resumed his pacing, strolling to the other end of the row. It seemed as if Voldemort was simply enjoying the mounting terror of the damned souls before him.
“You are cowards, and traitors,” Voldemort declared, his black robes swirling smoke-like around him as he issued the words as if he were a judge delivering a sentence, in a proper court of law. “From the moment that you felt the Marks burn, and you chose to defy your Master...you were bound for death. You ought to have known this...though of course, knowing it would have made no difference regarding your fate.”
Again, Draco caught Karkaroff’s eyes flicking up, and again their gazes met. The dark-eyed man looked somehow simultaneously resigned, and furious, and Draco could almost have sworn that there was a flash of pleading in their depths before Voldemort moved again. He stopped in front of Karkaroff, who shrank back at once.
“Let this lesson be noted by those who were wise enough to return,” Voldemort murmured, continuing to turn his wand over in his hands. “Your Master can be forgiving...but only once. And if you fail me in the future...you will join these fools in their doom.”
Draco could not tear his eyes from Karkaroff’s broken frame. Just weeks ago, this man had been at Hogwarts, occupying the same castle where Draco slept, and learned, and had spent four years feeling safe and confident in his place in the wizarding world, and his future therein.
Karkaroff had walked the same halls as Harry Potter, mere months before. It was clear now that it had not been him who had submitted the boy’s name to the Goblet of Fire; Draco was suddenly sure, with absolutely nothing to support the conviction other than blind intuition, that Karkaroff had never seen Harry Potter as anything more dangerous than a competitor for Victor Krum, in a Tournament that should not have cost anyone their lives.
For the first time in a very long time, Draco abruptly felt hyper-aware of his own youth. He was just newly fifteen years old, a child still--he had always resented it when his mother said it, but now Draco felt the truth of it down to his bones--and his entire world was collapsing in on itself. It was not the same as the horrible wake-up call that he’d experienced when he’d come home for the summer, and had first found Voldemort occupying the Manor. Draco had still been himself, albeit now constantly consumed by a feeling of deep, unending cold fear; he had held onto hope that his parents were still the noble and admirable people that he had always believed them to be, and that this nightmare might somehow disappear.
Perhaps his mother was not lost to him--but as long as she chose to stand by Lucius, and as long as Lucius maintained his sick belief in the Dark Lord’s ideologies, then Draco knew he would have to close his heart even to his love for her. There was no safety left here. The Manor had ceased to be his home, forever corrupted by the evil of the wizard preparing to shed more blood on its ground.
He looked at Voldemort now, who was evaluating his victims in a calculating manner, choosing. Draco drew a breath, though he had no idea what he could say or do; any action on his part would result in him joining the lineup. “Igor,” Voldemort whispered, and Karkaroff raised his head, the sunlight exposing the swollen state of his eyes. Blood slipped down his cheek like a nightmarish teardrop, and he stared back at the Dark Lord with no more fear, only indifferent, passive acceptance.
As Voldemort raised his wand, however, the dark eyes slid past Voldemort’s face and returned to Draco’s one final time. Draco did not look away.
“Avada kedavra.”
Draco thought that he had known what death looked like. It was a foolish, childish thought, believing that he couldn’t possibly be fazed if he was ever confronted by death, because he was a Malfoy and a pureblood and he had been raised to be strong and unafraid.
He saw the light leave Karkaroff’s eyes.
Never before had Draco understood the notion that the eyes were the “window to the soul,” but there was no way to deny it when watching a man’s eyes visibly go dark as the unseen spectre of Death reaped his life force. Karkaroff fell forward, no longer bound by the spells holding Voldemort’s prisoners, and the Dark Lord turned his gaze uncaringly to the next man, repeating the Killing Curse in quick succession until they all lay face-down on the grass, unmoving.
Draco stared blankly at the top of Theodore Nott Sr.’s head, wondering how he would ever find the strength to meet Theo’s eyes again after watching his father’s murder.
* * *
Fall
Draco almost feared that he would be kept from returning to Hogwarts that fall, in the weeks following the mass-execution. To his infinite relief, the only time it came up involved his father taking him to one side and reminding him, intently, that he would need to maintain absolute silence when he was back at school. There would no doubt still be unease and speculation, since Potter and Diggory remained missing, but Draco would need to implement his Occlumency lessons to the greatest degree that he could.
He promised to do so, fiercely enough that his father seemed more than sufficiently reassured. It was not a lie; Draco didn’t know what he was going to do, but he was hardly intending to return to Hogwarts and run screaming through the halls, proclaiming Voldemort’s return. Lucius, he assumed, forwarded his oath of silence to Voldemort, and when the day came, nothing was said or done to prevent Draco from going to Diagon Alley and then on to King’s Cross station, accompanied only by his mother.
The ride from London to Hogsmeade was tense and quiet. Blaise and Crabbe played Exploding Snap, and Pansy tried to entice him into a round of Gobstones before settling for talking about the new courses they’d have with Theo and Goyle, and musing on who might be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, since Moody was obviously not returning.
As usual, the returning students parted ways from incoming first years, who were led towards the lake for their ceremonial boat crossing. Making their way to the carriage line, Draco was watching his footing in the fading daylight when he heard a peculiar sound just ahead of him, like something snorting and whinnying.
Raising his head, Draco paused, bewildered and trying to interpret what he was seeing.
There were creatures now drawing the carriages, the likes of which Draco had never seen before. They looked almost horse-like--but at the same time, so vastly different that it was nearly an impossible comparison to make. They were tall, almost skeletal in appearance, with gleaming black coats, enormous dark eyes, and--strangest of all--long, bat-like wings tucked neatly against each beast’s back.
Draco was so disoriented by the unexpected sight of them, and by the seeming lack of surprise or curiosity shown by any of his peers continuing to walk forward around him, that he had fallen behind without his housemates realizing. Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, Theo, and Blaise were gone, already in a carriage, and the creatures pulling it hadn’t known to wait for him.
As Draco stood waiting for another carriage to stop for him, movement drew his eyes ahead of him. His stomach clenched as he spotted Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, waiting at the front of the line of students along with Ginny Weasley and Neville Longbottom.
The two Gryffindors looked pale and unwell, faces with grief and posture tensed from trauma, and Draco felt an impossible surge of pity well up for them.
All past contempt was gone. He felt no dislike for Ron and his large, tight-knit family, and nothing but sorrow filled Draco’s heart as he took in Hermione’s expressionless face and thin frame; she’d lost weight over the summer, though she’d already been thin enough to begin with. The absence of Harry Potter at his best friends’ side was almost a tangible wound in the fabric of reality. He watched them as they moved to board the next carriage, joining a bright-blonde-haired girl in Ravenclaw colors already sitting in it with a magazine in front of her eyes.
Before their carriage departed, Draco overheard just a snippet of the conversation; he did not catch whatever it was that Neville said, but Ginny introduced the Ravenclaw girl as Luna Lovegood, and out of whatever she said in reply to Neville, one word caught Draco’s attention distinctly. Thestral .
Fresh revulsion struck him, and Draco looked away from them as a memory struck him from reading about unique magical creatures. In turning his face, though, Draco found himself suddenly face-to-face with the thestral that was stopping in front of him, drawing an empty carriage. Draco stared back at it in silence, wondering if thestrals had any idea that humans feared them because of their strange, grim nature.
More than he had at any moment thus far of the past days, Draco wished that he had not been forced to join the assembly on the Manor lawn. He had witnessed death firsthand, and now, he could see thestrals, haunting and tragic beasts that were often used to symbolize death because they were only visible to those who had seen it in person.
He climbed into the carriage, barely noticing that none of the other remaining students joined him. Draco stared ahead through the darkness at the carriage containing Harry Potter’s hurting and heartbroken friends. They were not just reeling from the loss of their best friend; somehow it seemed a thousand times worse, to Draco, that they were also buckling under the weight of not even knowing for certain that Harry was dead.
The shame and fear pinching in Draco’s stomach and chest ached harder.
* * *
Pansy was all apologies over the others not realizing in time that Draco had missed their carriage, but he assured her repeatedly that it had been perfectly fine. He knew that they would hardly leave him behind out of spite. The group made their way into the Great Hall once they were all in their school robes, finding seats at the Slytherin table and eyeing the faculty table curiously.
Everyone present knew there would be a new face up there.
The instant that Draco spotted the short woman in an unpleasantly pink dress, he frowned, wondering what on earth someone from the Ministry was doing at Hogwarts. He couldn’t recall her name, but he knew that she was one of the higher-ups, directly under Fudge. She was looking over the gathering students, wearing a stretched smile that did not reach her eyes.
Professor Dumbledore stood, coming forward to the podium at the edge of the platform where the teachers all sat, and a silence fell over the students. The Headmaster smiled out at them, his lined face looking a little more tired than it used to.
“Welcome back to another year at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore began, and his voice sounded graver and more thoughtful than Draco thought he’d ever heard it before. The older wizard had always appeared his age, regal and stately no matter the bright colors or patterns of his robes...but now, there was a weariness to his body language that seemed to have added a century to him. “I have only a few notes to share, before we may turn to our usual excellent welcoming feast. First years, welcome especially to you--and please know that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students. Some of you older students ought to remember that, too.”
Draco actually almost smiled at that, despite the pressure of worry and confusion weighing on his mind. His eyes reflectively leapt over to the Gryffindor table, spotting Ron and Hermione trade a look that actually looked amused, easing some of the pain that continued to haunt their expressions.
Inexplicably, Draco remembered the dragon-debacle-prompted detention that he had shared with the pair of them--along with Harry Potter--during their first year. The forest might be forbidden, but it was familiar territory for some of the students.
“Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has asked for what he informs me if the four hundred and sixty-second time to remind you all that magic is not permitted in the corridors between classes. This is listed, among many other things, on the extensive list of banned behaviors and items that you may find on his office door.” Dumbledore was smiling beneath his silver beard, and there was a smattering of chuckles from students who were well-familiar with Filch’s eccentricities. Fred and George Weasley looked downright fond, hearing the annual warning.
Dumbledore paused, as if debating his approach to the next note before he continued speaking. “We have also had two staffing changes this year. We are pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be resuming her post as Care of Magical Creatures professor.”
Draco blinked, his eyes roaming swiftly over the faculty table; only then did he register that, indeed, there was no sign of Rubeus Hagrid’s enormous frame. His usual seat was occupied by the witch who had retired the year before, and was now smiling politely back at the faint ripple of applause her announcement had received.
“We are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, who will be our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” the Headmaster continued. “Now, tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the--”
He broke off abruptly, turning his head to look inquiringly back at Professor Umbridge. For a moment there was only silence, no one sure what had stopped Dumbledore from speaking. But then Umbridge made a sound, a faint “ Hem, hem ,” and Draco realized only then that she had stood up to speak, though it made her appear no taller than she’d been while sitting. Dumbledore looked mildly taken aback; but then he simply stepped back, geturing in invitation for her to approach the podium. His expression, which Draco found amusing just based on his knowledge of the older wizard, was alert and rapt as if Dumbledore wanted nothing more in the world than to listen to Professor Umbridge speak.
The other members of the staff were not quite as skilled in hiding their reactions to this development. Professor Sprout’s eyebrows were up underneath her hat, and Professor McGonagall’s lips tightened into a thin, hard line as she eyed the pink-clad woman stepping forward. Looking around, Draco saw that plenty of students were smirking; no one ever interrupted the Headmaster when he was speaking, and it set Umbridge apart as being out-of-place immediately.
“Thank you, Headmaster, for the kind words of welcome.” Professor Umbridge’s voice matched her appearance; it was high, breathy, and rather disturbingly childlike. Draco felt a surge of fresh of dislike that went beyond just knowing that she was a Ministry employee who had been selected, for no discernible reason that he could determine, to teach at Hogwarts.
He knew that Voldemort had been maneuvering people at the Ministry, making tactful changes and arrangements in order to ensure that he had control of it from within without openly showing his hand as having returned. Draco had no idea why, but he was abruptly quite certain that Umbridge was either a very intentional, dangerous placement among the faculty; or she was a pawn, and didn’t even know, herself, the risk that she posed to the school.
She cleared her throat again, the sound grating despite its soft volume, and continued. “Well, it is so lovely to be back at Hogwarts,” Umbridge chirped, smiling with far too much teeth. “And to see so many happy, smiling little faces looking back at me!”
Draco’s eyes slid around to his peers; not a single person in the Great Hall looked even remotely happy, and some were outright frowning at being addressed like children.
“I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all, and I’m sure we’ll be very good friends!” Professor Umbridge went on, apparently not noticing the looks that were being exchanged between students, or the grins and giggles breaking out here and there.
Unbidden, Draco’s eyes went to the Gryffindor table, and he saw that for the first time, Hermione Granger appeared alert and fully engaged. Unlike Ron, who had already glazed over and was looking asleep with his eyes open, the brunette was staring up at Umbridge with a hard, intent expression. Draco watched her for a moment, then refocused as Umbridge resumed talking.
The breathiness vanished from her voice now; she was suddenly businesslike, her speech sounding prepared and memorized, in stark contrast with her garishly pink, frilly appearance. “The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the Wizarding community must be passed down through the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.”
Umbridge paused there, turning and making a little bow to her fellow staff members. None of them bowed back. Professor McGonagall, in fact, looked openly more and more openly hostile as she stared at the back of Umbridge’s prissily-done hair; Draco distinctly saw her exchange a significant glance with Professor Sprout as Umbridge gave another little “ Hem, hem, ” and went on with her speech.
“Every Headmaster and Headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. There again, progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation...”
Draco had to admit, it gradually became a lot more difficult to stay focused and actually comprehend her words as Umbridge droned on. It was like flipping between radio channels, only registering the meaning of snatches of sentences before losing it again. The quiet that always filled the Great Hall when Dumbledore was speaking was crumbling as students tuned Umbridge out, whispering amongst themselves.
Professor Umbridge did not seem to be aware or care about her audience’s restlessness. Draco idly wondered if even a full-scale riot would have prevented the insipid woman from plunging on through her speech.
The teachers, he did notice, were still listening very attentively, and Hermione Granger seemed to be drinking in every word Umbridge spoke, though judging by her hardened expression, she did not like what she was hearing. “...because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognized as errors of judgment. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and account-ability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”
She paused then for a good long moment, and the cessation of her droning on drew enough attention that gradually the Great Hall fell silent again. Umbridge smiled, more sickly and coldly then before. “After all,” she concluded, her tone turning into something feathery-soft, and Draco could almost hear the underlying edge of threat in her words. “Conditions at Hogwarts are proving themselves to be rather in need of evaluation. The school is not free of its share of tragedy; but the disappearance of two students and a professor, during what should have an ordinary, well-managed, and celebratory event, sets itself apart even from that history. So we will all move on together, improving as we do so. Rest assured; the Ministry will be keeping a closer eye on things at Hogwarts, in order to ensure that the school continues to be a beacon of hope and advancement.”
At long last, she sat down, and Dumbledore began clapping promptly. The staff followed his lead, though Draco could see clearly that several of them brought their hands together only once or twice before stopping. A few of the students joined in, but most were clearly confused as to what they were even applauding for.
Dumbledore stood up again, moving back to the podium. “Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating,” he said, bowing to her. “Now--as I was saying, Quidditch tryouts will be held...”
“Illuminating, or pointless as shite,” Pansy remarked, drumming her perfectly-manicured nails on the tabletop. She glanced at Draco, tipping her head as she took in his expression, and the way he was eyeing Umbridge. “Did you get anything out of that load of rubbish at all?”
Draco swallowed, looking back at his best friend and feeling, suddenly, as if a crossroads had just materialized in front of him. He had a choice to make.
And right then and there, he knew that he could not take either path alone, no matter the risk involved. “I did,” he said quietly, beginning to load his plate just for something to occupy his hands with, as Dumbledore wrapped up the announcements and initiated the feast. “And none of it’s going to be good.”
Pansy’s eyebrows rose. Draco had always admired her sharp intelligence and wit, and he could see the wheels turning in her mind as she studied his face, seemingly recognizing that something had changed profoundly over the summer. She stayed silent, nodding for him to continue.
“The bit about ‘progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged,’ and ‘pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited,’” Draco said, keeping his voice low. He trusted his friends, or believed that he could, anyway--but every word coming out of his mouth felt dangerously closer and closer to admitting something that, had he dared even think it while still at home, Draco suspected would have gotten him killed.
“Well, what does it mean?” Pansy prompted, nudging him. “Come on, love, you look pale as death.”
“I’ll tell you what it means,” said Draco quietly. “It means the Ministry’s interfering at Hogwarts. And that we’re all in danger.”
His mind was made up.
* * *
The following morning after barely touching his breakfast, Draco feigned a headache and urged Pansy and Theo to go on to their first Transfiguration class without him.
As soon as he was quite certain that the entrance hall was deserted, Draco started up the staircases, walking quickly until he reached Professor Dumbledore’s office.
