Author's Note: Here it is everyone, chapter four! Now, when I first wrote this story (it was almost two years ago for those of you keeping score), it was supposed to be strictly from Hermione's point of view, but Draco, whom I hadn't even planned on mentioning, wouldn't shut up. So this chapter will be told from his point of view. As always, enjoy the story and please review!
Chapter Four: A Hard Day's Night
Draco Malfoy drew back his arm, harnessing all of his strength for the crushing blow he was about to deliver. With one smooth, liquid motion he let go of the sharp flint rock he'd been holding in his tightly clenched fist. It sailed through the air and right through a third floor window, the cold air shattering with the piercing sound of breaking glass. Draco rubbed his hands together, breathing heavily and watching as clouds formed from his exhaled breath. It really was damn cold out here, and now thanks to that rock and about seven or eight others, it would be cold inside too.
Draco jogged his way around Malfoy Manor to the front entrance, wondering why he felt the need to make himself miserable. Granted, it had been quite a rush to hurl those rocks, to hear the glass shatter...it was a sweet release. But still, now he'd be freezing. He opened the massive oak doors, embossed with the Malfoy family coat of arms (two serpents entwined around a large letter M) and stepped into the entrance hallway. He shrugged out of his cloak, hanging it up on a coat-rack by the door. As he walked through the empty house to the living room, his footsteps echoed into the darkness. Malfoy Manor was a joke, it was just so huge and ostentatious. The marble columns, the burning torches that lined and lit the long, cavernous hallways...every time you turned a corner in this house, you felt as though you were about to walk into a dungeon.
Entering the living room, Draco flopped down onto the old leather sofa, thinking that he really should get a fire going if he didn't want to freeze to death during the night. Heaving a sigh, as though it were some massive effort, he pulled his wand out of his pocket, murmured something under his breath, and watched as cheerily dancing flames sprang up in the massive fireplace in front of him. That done, he put down his wand, folded his hands behind his head, leaned back, and closed his eyes, the light from the fire dancing across his eyelids and casting shadows into his thoughts.
Draco lived alone now, which was part of the reason he found his house so ridiculous. It was an immense mansion sitting atop a lonely hill, about fifteen minutes outside the town of Hogsmeade. Of course, the house had been ridiculous back when there had been three people living in it- eleven bedrooms for a family of three? Whenever Draco had asked his mother about the house when he was younger, she'd laughed and said that the extra rooms were for the servants. Draco had never thought it would be wise to point out that the only servant they had that actually lived in the Manor was Dobby the house elf, and he slept in a drawer full of ripped sheets on the laundry room floor. Draco had always thought of his mother as being lovably clueless.
Narcissa was a beautiful a beautiful woman when she was married. Draco knew; he'd seen pictures. But she was always somewhat...not dumb, but just a little dim. She'd smile and play hostess, offering Lucius' friends tea cakes and cold lemonade whenever they'd come over to "discuss business." She'd dress up and accompany her husband to the theater and to parties for the top members of the Ministry of Magic. She just never seemed to realize what went on behind the scenes, what Lucius and his cronies were really doing when they retired to the study. That was another thing, the study. It was a room shrouded in mystery, always had been, from the time Draco was a little boy. Even now, he didn't go there.
Even now, with both of his parents dead, Draco still found himself living in their house. Even now, when all of the servants were long gone and the whole place seemed about as likely to come crashing down as it was to creep out any visitors. Even now that young Draco was just past his twenty-third birthday, not knowing if he'd ever see his twenty-fourth, he still lived in Malfoy Manor all alone at the top of a hill.
Draco paused for just an instant, wondering about his own safety as he did every night. Every night when the moon had risen and the stars could be seen in the sky, he had just one fleeting moment of fear; the rest of the time he didn't really care enough about his life to be afraid. But for just that one instant every night, the creaking groans of the Manor multiplied tenfold, every shadow cast upon the wall seemed an ominous figure clad all in black. Draco knew that one day his fears would be justified, one day they would come for him.
Who "they," were was irrelevant; Draco had never cared about the true identities of the Death Eaters, even when he had been one. That was one of the Dark Lord's most ingenious ideas; only he knew the true name and face of all of his minions. Since they always wore masks, it was easy to keep identities a secret. Draco had known more than most, because of his father and the position he had commanded. Lucius Malfoy had clawed and scurried his way up to the top of the ladder; before he died he was made Voldemort's second in command. Afterwards, that position had landed squarely in the lap of young Draco himself.
Draco remembered that day, the day after the famous battle on the hillside. Dozens of Death Eaters had been killed, and yet the battle was hailed as a conquering success. Why? The boy who lived, Harry Potter, had finally died; the path had been cleared for Voldemort to seize power over the entire magical world. Draco had been called into the Dark Lord's chambers, had been told that his father was dead, that Lucius had been killed in battle. Then he had been ordered to assume the position of second in command. He was told that he must carry on the Malfoy family legacy. Draco had refused.
No one knew why, though countless had tried to get the reason out of him. Voldemort murdered Draco's mother in cold blood as a punishment for his insubordination. Then, orphaned and alone, Draco had barricaded himself in Malfoy Manor, refusing to comply with the Dark Lord's wishes. Eventually, the Death Eaters had given up on him, reasoning that he would eventually see the light and return, and besides, who needed some stupid stuck-up kid anyway? They had left him alone for the past five years, but Draco knew that his peace was finite; sooner or later they would come for him, and he would die. He would die because he would not join them, not with what he knew....
Shaking his head and heaving another sigh, Draco managed to put all thoughts of Lord Voldemort and the other Death Eaters out of his mind. He slowly rose from the sofa with the vague idea of getting something to eat. He meandered down the dimly-lit hallways of the Manor, passing by dingy paintings of Malfoy family members long dead, all of whom stared malevolently down at him from their silver frames grown dark with rust. Draco didn't care that several pairs of eyes followed his movements down the hall, didn't care that every time he walked by them, his forefathers whispered amongst themselves that he had ruined the family. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but what the hell do I care what a bunch of ugly old portraits of ugly old people think of me? thought Draco to himself, a small smirk playing on his lips as he continued on his way down the long hall.
As his footsteps echoed off into the silence, he was overwhelmed by a sense of loneliness, despite the fact that he could still hear the tut-tuting of his Great Aunt Helen a few yards behind him. Draco had to admit that he really did need to get away from this house- away from the black marble columns and away from the sterling silver door handles in the shape of snakes. This was the kind of house that groaned at night, the kind you just knew was haunted. This was the kind of house where every closet had its skeletons. There was just too much history here; even living completely alone, Draco always found himself obeying his parents' old rules. He always made his bed before doing anything else when he got up in the morning. He didn't ever go into his father's study, from which he had been forbidden as a young boy. He never went into the dungeons either, not because of a rule, but because they had always frightened him. Draco thought that a nice loft apartment, in London maybe, would be perfect for him. And Lord knows he could afford it; the Malfoy family may not have been as pristine as they seemed, but there was nothing pretend about the size of their account at Gringotts. But he just couldn't seem to leave his old home.
Draco rounded the corner and entered the kitchen, flipping the light switch on his way in and illuminating the only room in the entire Manor that didn't seem to emit pure evil from the walls. He padded across the pale green tile floor to the cupboard, thinking of perhaps boiling some water and having a late dinner of pasta before heading to bed- by now it was nearly midnight, and he couldn't remember whether he'd eaten today or not. Upon opening the cabinet, however, Draco discovered that there would be no pasta in his future- nor anything else edible. The entire kitchen was found to be, upon further inspection, depressingly devoid of anything even resembling food.
That's what happens when you turn into a hermit, thought Draco bitterly to himself as he aimed a kick at the nearby trashcan. He left the kitchen, not bothering to shut off the lights as he stomped into the hallway.
Malfoy Manor was designed almost like a Las Vegas casino: it was meant to be something of a labyrinth, where it was hard for someone unaccustomed to the layout to find his or her way out. There were countless hallways that wound their way through the house, some of which didn't really lead to anywhere in particular. It also resembled Hogwarts in that there were literally dozens of secret rooms and passages, one of which was Draco's private playroom when he was very young. The small room appeared between the living room and his father's study when you tapped out "shave and a haircut- two bits," on the right spot on the wall with a wand. Passing by that spot, Draco thought of all the information he'd gotten as a boy by listening through a small hole in between two of the large granite slabs that made up the wall between his father's study and his playroom. He'd been a silent witness to many of the sordid bargains made between his father and certain depraved Ministry officials.
Draco continued up the hallway till he reached the main entranceway, which, surprisingly enough, lay before the back door to the mansion rather than the front. This was yet another clue as to just how many shady characters had visited the house to speak with Lucius. There was a rear driveway that led up the other side of the hill to the Manor, and a path lined with lanterns leading up to the backdoor. The main entrance had black marble floors and black marble columns supporting the high, vaulted ceilings. There was a generous closet for guests to hang their cloaks in to one side of the back door. The windows facing the backyard were tall, adorned by long red velvet hangings that draped to the floor. There was also a massive spiral staircase in the very center of the room, leading to the upper levels of the Manor. Draco headed up the black marble steps now, his hand sliding up the ornately carved banister (made to look like a long, vicious python, with its tail at the bottom of the staircase and its head at the very top) as he made his way to the third floor, where his bedroom was located.
The third level of the mansion was only slightly less intimidating than the first, with the hallways carpeted in a rich burgundy. The walls were still made of large slabs of granite, but on either side of the halls were wide oak doors that looked almost homey. Draco stopped at the fifth door on the left of the hall, having taken a left at the top of the stairs, and entered his bedroom to find a nasty surprise.
"Bloody hell!" he cursed under his breath, seeing the shards of broken glass and the gaping hole in the window directly above his bed. He hadn't meant to pitch that rock into this room out of the thirty-seven rooms in the whole house, but he couldn't deny that that was what he'd done when he saw the flint rock lying innocently on his bed amidst a pile of glass shards. To make the situation worse, it had started to storm outside; fat raindrops blew in through the broken window, spattering his black satin sheets, and the sound of thunder in the distance reached Draco's ears, seeming to mock him for his own stupidity. "Bloody hell!" he swore again, thinking that there was no way he could fix the window at night, in the middle of a thunderstorm. He thought to just use a simple spell to repair the glass, reaching into his back pocket for his wand, only to find that he'd left it in the living room.
Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Draco turned on his heel and left his bedroom, bounding down the hallway to the staircase. He took the steps two at a time down to the first floor, then quickly made his way back in the direction of the living room. He was just passing by the sleeping portrait of his Great Aunt Helen, the one who would have shook her head at him and went "tut tut," had she been awake, when he heard a strange noise coming from behind him. Now, odd noises were a normal part of life in Malfoy Manor; there was the creak that the fifth stair leading up to the attic always made, the whistling noise that came whenever you first turned on the water in any bathroom sink, and the groans that almost every door emitted when it was opened due to rusty hinges. But this, this had sounded more like...footsteps.
Draco stopped to listen, pausing in mid-stride just outside his father's study. There it was again- definitely footsteps, coming from the back of the house. He wheeled around, silently making his way back down the hall. The sounds of footsteps grew louder as he approached the main entranceway. It sounded like only one person, and he must have just entered. Otherwise, Draco would have passed right by him when he came down the stairs. He rationalized that it was probably some lost Muggle who went out for a hike, got caught in the rain, and needed to use a telephone- not that Malfoy Manor had one.
Still, just to be safe...Draco thought, trailing off as he pressed himself against the wall, turning his head ever so slightly around the corner to look into the main entranceway. The room was almost entirely dark, the flickering light from the torches in the hallway not reaching far enough to illuminate the entranceway. The only light came from sporadic flashes of lightning that flooded the room with stark white light every few minutes. During one such flash, Draco saw a rather short, hunched over man wearing a ratty old cloak and galoshes. The man was muttering to himself, though Draco couldn't make out the words. A few minutes ticked slowly by, in which Draco heard more shuffled footsteps and managed to catch a few words from the old man.
"Bloody house...gives me the creepers," the intruder muttered, shuffling towards the staircase in the middle of the room. "Just find the boy."
Draco tensed immediately upon hearing this, wishing hard that he had his wand with him. After a few panicked minutes of trying to figure out what to do, his decision was made for him when yet another flash of lightning illuminated the room and gave Draco a good look at the intruder's face. Pettigrew? he thought to himself, shocked to see the bumbling old man again. Unfortunately, that flash of lightning had revealed more than just the wrinkled face of Peter Pettigrew; Draco had been spotted.
"Young Mr. Malfoy, just the boy I wanted to see," said Wormtail, his voice positively dripping with self-satisfaction. As he stepped closer, Draco could see a look of pride on his face. How wonderful for you. You managed to find me in my own house. Bloody brilliant, he thought, stepping away from the wall into the hallway.
"What do you want, Wormtail?" he asked, spitting out the old Marauder's name as one would an insult.
"To invite you back to our side," replied the old man, who had only cringed slightly at being reminded of his old alias. Draco caught a glimpse of his gleaming silver hand, softly reflecting the light cast upon it by the torches lining the hallway.
"I politely refuse your invitation. You may exit the way you entered," he said, hoping his sarcastic tone would be lost on the man standing before him. So far the conversation had remained almost comically civil; Draco held out little hope that this little visit would stay quite so polite.
"I'm afraid that is not an option. Your choices are to rejoin the circle of Death Eaters...or to die," said Pettigrew. He then drew his wand from a pocket in his robes, aiming it directly at Draco's chest while smiling malevolently.
"That's it? Those are my only choices?" Draco asked, sounding scandalized as he tried desperately to think of a plan. "I think I'll sleep on it, give you my decision in the morning. Goodnight, then!" he said, striding past Pettigrew in a vain attempt to reach the backdoor. It wasn't the best of all plans, but what else could he do without a wand?
"I dont think so," came the voice of Pettigrew, now from behind Draco, as he stood motionless in the hallway. "Crucio!"
Draco fell to the floor, caught up in a torrent of pain that he hadn't experienced since his father died. He writhed on the marble floor, waves of pain seemingly visible as his vision flooded with red agony. This was torture beyond torture...his breathing came in short, shallow gasps as his body twisted and contorted, moving of its own accord. Just when he had moved into a state of semi-consciousness, when the rim of his vision was going black and his thoughts were receding into the background, just that suddenly...the pain stopped.
Draco looked up at his tormentor from his position on the floor. Pettigrew's face had gone ash white, his eyes wide with what one could only call terror. He slowly lifted his hand to point at one of the windows to the left of the back door, growing paler by the second.
"It-it can't be," he stammered, taking a few hurried steps backward in a gesture of pure fear. Draco whipped his head around to see what it was that had Pettigrew in such a state of shock, only to see nothing. By the time his eyes had registered that there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen outside the window and he had turned to face his attacker once more, Pettigrew had vanished. He'd Apparated.
Draco slowly rose to his feet, grimacing. The Cruciatus curse was brutal, and it left the victim with echoes of the pain for hours afterwards. Normally Draco would have found the echoes unbearable, but after the actual pain itself they seemed like welcome caresses. Limping slightly, he made his way over to the window, pulling back the heavy velvet curtains to peer into the backyard. Nothing. He saw the neatly trimmed grass, the lanterns lining the path to the door...nothing unusual. He even went so far as to open the backdoor and call out.
"Anyone out there?" he shouted into the darkness. No answer came. Closing the door, he muttered to himself, "Screw this. I'm checking into a hotel."
He locked the backdoor, something he'd never done before; the house's remote location and forbidding appearance were usually enough to keep away any burglars or the like. Then he went to the living room to grab his wand and put out the last few flames of the fire he'd made earlier, which had remained burning in the grate. The last thing he did before locking the front door was to grab his shabbiest cloak and put the hood up. Then he journeyed outside into the torrential rain, his wand in his back pocket along with his stuffed wallet.
He walked the mile and a half down to Hogsmeade, where he checked into the Three Broomsticks, a pub which occasionally let out a small room above the main area on slow nights. Madame Rosemerta had tried to engage him in a friendly chat, even offering him a glass of mead on the house, but Draco just wanted to sleep...just sleep and forget the weird happenings of the past few hours.
Meanwhile....
Peter Pettigrew meekly made his way to the Dark Lord's chamber, shuffling down the stone hallway lined with lanterns that barely gave off enough light to see your hand in front of your face. He passed guards on either side of the passage, all of whom eyed him with a certain loathing particular to people looking at a ruined man on his way to certain death. As he approached the massive stone doors, his steps slowed. The truth was, he was terrified to tell his master what he had seen.
Two especially burly guards stood before the door, armed with only their wands and yet still looking like an impassable barrier. "The password?" they asked Pettigrew.
"Divinitas," he answered, looking down at his feet. The guards parted, allowing the timid little man, who really did resemble a rat, to push through the doors and step into the chamber.
It was a circular room, with stone floors and a high, domed ceiling. Torches gave off flickering light that never really lifted the darkness, darkness that had seemingly settled like a blanket over the chamber. This was a room designed to bring your entire attention to the tall figure sitting in the high-backed stone throne, set in the very center of everything. It was also a room where the floor was littered with the bones of various animals, and probably more than a few humans as well. Nagini the giant snake dwelled here, now laying somewhat peacefully on the floor beside the throne in the middle of the room. Her head lifted when Pettigrew entered, swaying slightly higher when the door slammed shut behind him.
"You have news for me, Wormtail," came the high-pitched, cold voice of Lord Voldemort.
"Y-yes, my lord," Pettigrew stammered, not daring to come any closer to the throne and the giant snake.
"You went to the Malfoy house."
"Y-yes, my lord," he said again, starting to shake.
"And?" the Dark Lord asked, now sounding slightly impatient. He waved his hand, motioning for Pettigrew to come closer. Peter shuffled forward, eyes still on the ground, until he was only a few precious feet away from the figure sitting in the throne.
"The boy will not join us," he said, cringing slightly as he awaited his master's response. "And-" he started to say.
"So you have failed me," the Dark Lord interrupted, his eyes glistening a malevolent red in the semi-darkness of the chamber. "Crucio!"
Pettigrew fell to the floor, twisting and writhing in pain. His screams echoed off the walls, bouncing back to his own ears as he clenched his eyes shut. The pain ceased after a few minutes, and Pettigrew was not heartened to find Nagini looking at him with a sudden new interest. The great snake hissed slightly as he rose to his feet.
"You may leave now. Consider yourself blessed that I have decided to spare your life," said the Dark Lord, knowing that death was far too good a fate for a man so pathetic as this.
"Sir, I-" Pettigrew began, backing away from the throne as he spoke, and never taking his eyes off of the giant snake.
"What? What is it?" snapped Lord Voldemort, his voice becoming colder as his anger flared.
Pettigrew swallowed once, working up the nerve to say what he had to say. He took one more step away from the throne toward the door, still treading softly backwards. Finally, his mouth dry and his hands shaking, he spoke.
"He-he lives, Sir."