"To be or not to be a Malfoy"
Chapter 3: Confinement
AN: Picking up where I left off so long ago and determined to finish this up by summer's end. Hope you enjoy and sorry for the long hiatus! As always, reviews are appreciated!
~Adrial
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"Expeliarmus!"
"Reducto!"
Ginny flung herself to the ground and shielded her head with bent arms as pounds of rubble rained around her crouching body.
"Damnit, Ron! I've had to repair that ceiling five times today already!" Harry's face was beet red and dripping with sweat as he glowered at his dueling partner. Ron backed up slightly at the sight of Harry's anger and lifted his wand-laden hand to defend himself.
"What? Aren't we supposed to be practicing? What d'you want me to do, eh? Transfigure a couple of tea cozies into water balloons and run `round like an idiot while I've got Death Eaters on my arse or-"
"Tear down the whole bloody building and kill yourself?" Ginny spat and hastily uttered the words that once again sealed shut the gaping hole above their heads. "Tough call, I say." Luckily, the room over the basement that they had been having dueling practice in for the past few days was only a spare office room that no one used.
"Oh sod off, won't you?" Ron retreated to a bench against the wall to mope. "I liked you better when you were moody and pissed off half the time like all the other girls your age," he mumbled, wiping reams of sweat from his brow.
Ginny raised her wand right as Hermione burst into the room. Her hair was wild and she was straining beneath the weight of several thick text books.
"Protego!" Harry's shield was just in time to block the bat bogey hex that Ginny had fired off from pummeling straight into the harassed looking witch.
Hermione barely seemed to have noticed at all that she'd nearly been hexed or that Harry had come to her rescue. Her eyes were darting from side to side as she devoured another page in an especially thick, moldy book. As if swatting away a cobweb, she released Harry's shield with a flick of her wand before passing right on through to the other side of the room and taking a seat next to Ron.
"Alright, that's enough for now you two," Harry panted and went over to lean heavily against the wall, "Before someone loses a limb."
It was by special permission from Dumbledore that they were able to practice defensive magic a couple of hours every day while staying at headquarters. Being that the Weasleys had been actively sought out by Death Eaters it was wise, he said, to be prepared to defend themselves in the future.
"Nearly finished with next year's summer assignments, Hermione?" Ginny teased as she sipped a bottle of water.
Hermione's answer was a noncommittal nod of the head as she delved deeper into her reading. Ron had stomped off to glower somewhere more private and Harry gave up on distracting Hermione from her reading after about five failed minutes and stomped off behind him.
It was all any of them could do just to find things to entertain themselves in the godforsaken house that they had all come to loathe. Ginny felt like the walls were creeping in on her more every minute and would one day finally bury them all alive if they didn't get out soon.
She had finished her summer assignments in one tortured afternoon that had constituted such an aching need for activity in her bones that she had finally put quill to parchment and hammered out the remaining five of Snape's essays and the whole of her Transfiguration and Charms assignments.
For once in her life she was disappointed that her professors had given students a lighter load in light of the chaos that was so rapidly consuming the Wizarding world. Ron had offered to solve that problem by shoving the remaining mountain of his own work in front of her. She'd be delegated the task of de-knolling the drapes in all of the bedrooms for the rest of the week after setting his pitiful start to a charms essay on fire.
None of the Order was hardly ever around and meetings were becoming less and less frequent as everyone was busy handling business outside of Grimmauld Place.
Ginny was itching to free herself of the wooly blanket of tension that seemed to have enshrouded the entire household. No one laughed anymore; even Harry and Ron had been squaring off more than usual. Hermione was forever finding new books hidden in different places around the house and confining herself to the invisible worlds of literature whenever she wasn't breaking up battles between her two hotheaded companions or helping Mrs. Weasley with the cleaning.
On one particular afternoon in the first week of July, Ginny had been carrying out the remainder of her de-knolling sentence when she ran into Tonks in a corridor on the seventh floor of the house.
"Wotcher, Gin!" The young Auror lowered her wand and tucked it back into her robes.
"Sorry, Tonks. I didn't mean to startle you." Ginny set down her bucket of paralyzed knolls and wiped the bangs from her forehead.
"What are you doing all alone up here?" She eyed Tonks curiously. Today her hair was platinum blonde and curly. Ginny found the look extremely dizzying but chalked it up to inhaling too many fumes from her knoll spray and shook her head.
Tonks smiled and furrowed her brow for a moment. In the next instant, her eyes had shifted from hazel to electric blue and her hair straightened into a dark brown locks.
"Guess that look was a bit too exciting for this old dump, eh?"
Ginny nodded complacently, eyeing her quizzically. She had just noticed that Tonks was trying most unsuccessfully to hide a small brown box behind her back. With raised eyebrows, she asked, "So you've been up here practicing different disguises?"
Tonks looked taken aback. She shuffled the box a bit and in the next moment it had disappeared.
"Erm, not exactly," she offered lamely.
"Hey, what was that behind your-" Ginny's question was cut off, however, as Tonks cleared her throat loudly and brushed past her.
"Well, Gin, I'm off! Shacklebot and I have got guard duty in the ministry today. You'd better get downstairs and see if your mum needs help with supper. See you later!"
Ginny furrowed her brow disappointedly as Tonks turned on her heel and scurried around the corner to the stairwell. She was sure that Tonks, being part of the Order and all, had kept many a secret from her in the time that they had known each other; but she had always been so good at hiding them that Ginny never felt as if Tonks knew any more than she did.
Now she was left standing with curiosity beginning to gnaw at the edges of her conscious, and she wanted to know what it was Tonks was hiding.
She turned about in the murky corridor. It was no different than any of the others-moldy old portraits of snoozing, sneering wizards and witches, faded wallpaper the color of dust, and not a living soul to be seen.
A cool draft slipped past her bare calves, and she shivered. An open window at the end of the hall was the lone reminder that the world continued to exist beyond the walls that had imprisoned them for the past few weeks.
She abandoned the bucket of knolls and made her way to the end of the corridor. Through the window, she could see the backyard of Grimmauld Place. It was no bigger than her kitchen was at the Burrow (she ignored the stab of pain the thought of her destroyed home brought), but its lush blanket of green grass seemed to call to her. She could smell summertime in the air, and she licked her lips, longing to be outside again. If only she could hop on her broom and fly away from there, even if only for a moment, just to feel the wind in her hair, to feel free again.
A loud thump shook her from her reverie. Her heart began to beat rapidly, and she instantly reached for her wand. She'd been too caught up in her daydreams to notice from which direction the sound had come and after standing stalk still for a few minutes, she deduced that it must have been one of her brothers practicing spells in a room nearby. She collected her bucket once again and made her way back down the stairs.
Behind her, the small window remained ajar, letting a small stream of sunlight spill across the floor. The beam ended at the bottom of a concealed door at the other end of the lengthy corridor. The creak of floorboards disturbed the silence and the shadow of shuffling feet obscured the light from within momentarily.
The dusty doorknob began to turn, and the door moaned as it pushed forward slightly. Blinking in the semi-darkness, a pale blue eye peaked out from behind the musty wooden board. It was met only by the lonely window in the near distance and made one more sweeping glance around the corridor before vanishing once more.
Downstairs, Ginny joined her family for a late supper. Fred and George stopped by with a large jug of firewhisky and they enjoyed one of the more pleasant evenings they'd had in a long time joking with them and laughing over their bubbling goblets.
After dinner, everyone retired to the parlor for a game of exploding snap, Ginny joining enthusiastically.
"Good evening, everyone!" Remus Lupin appeared in the doorway, looking haggard and worn, but cheerful nonetheless. He had a stack of papers under one arm and a book in the other.
"Hello, Professor Lupin," Hermione eagerly bounded from her seat and went to great him. "Did you get-oh, thank you so much!"
She beamed when Lupin reached out and presented her with the tome of a book. It was nearly as big as she was and her knees buckled as she struggled to carry it over to the table where she'd been pouring over another selection.
From his side of the room, Ron shook his head. "Sometimes I question her sanity, I really do." Harry shrugged and took the opportunity to call the game in his favor.
"That was luck, Potter," Ron said.
"Any news, Lupin?" Mrs. Weasley emerged from the kitchen, still drying off a dinner plate with her apron skirt. Lupin bent to kiss her on each cheek and unfurled the package of papers from his arms.
"Nothing too exciting today, Molly, just a few copies of the Prophet."
"Excellent, we've just run out of toilet tissue," Ron said, scowling, "That should do the trick."
"Ron, it'd do you well to read what they're saying," Lupin said. "It seems the Ministry is considering closing Hogwarts for the year."
The statement was met with shouts of disapproval from the room's occupants.
"But they can't shut down, Hogwarts!" Ginny said. "We're safer there than anywhere else. We've got Dumbledore and-"
"I'll show that idiot Fudge where he can stick that idea," Ron said, standing up, "Right up his fat bloody arse."
"Ronald Bilius Weasley, you watch your tongue!" Mrs. Weasley snapped, her face purpling slightly.
"All you lot, calm down. There's still two months left and this is only speculation, right Remus?"
Lupin shrugged and took the glass of mead she offered him. "I don't know, Molly. The Ministry is in shambles
as it is, anything is possible now."
The room lapsed into a comfortable silence as Lupin went off to prepare for the Order meeting later that evening. Ginny grew bored after she beat Harry and Ron for the fifth time at snap and she threw herself onto the couch where Fred and George were bent over rolls of parchment.
"What are you two up to?" She leaned in closer, peering over their shoulders.
"As if we're telling you," Fred said, pulling the parchment closer to himself and scooting a bit further down on the sofa. "Top secret stuff here, Gin."
"Well if it's so secret then why are you working in the middle of the parlor where anyone can read it?"
Ginny glared at them and got up from the couch. If there was one thing she was sick of at that point more than the house and her brothers, it was secrets. Everywhere she turned someone was covering papers up from her eyes or slamming doors in her face. She'd never felt more powerless in her life and she suddenly missed being at school where at least she'd had the DA to help her feel useful in the grand scheme of things.
"Oy, Gin, pass me one of those Prophets would you?" Ron was sprawled out on the carpet, rubbing his bulging stomach that was filled with dinner from earlier.
"Planning on wiping your arse, are you?" Ginny grumbled, walking over to grab one from the pile Lupin had left.
"They're good for one thing at least," Ron quipped, "The Darla Demented comics."
"And your immaturity strikes again," she said. He took the paper eagerly and ripped it open to the center page. Once he'd plucked out the comic, he threw the rest to the ground. Ginny knelt to pick it up because she knew he wouldn't and her poor mum was exhausted from cleaning already.
"Oh my God."
Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and stared at her. Ginny's hands were shaking violently and she squeezed the sides of the paper so that it shook as well.
"Gin," Hermione dropped her book and came over. "What is it?"
Ginny's throat constricted and like acid, tears stung the corners of her eyes. The black and white print blurred but she didn't look away. No, no, no, please.
Somebody tried to pry the paper out of her vice-like grip, and eventually, they had to rip it from her hands so she was left clutching two shreds in her fists.
"Oh no," Hermione said, scanning the paper. "It's terrible. They got Seamus' parents."
Everyone in the room got up and gathered around her to read the article. Ginny silently backed up, her body rigid and wracked with fear. It hadn't been news of the Finnegan's deaths that had shaken her so, but she was relieved to have a cover.
For below the headline paired with photos of the dark haired witch and wizard was a smaller story, jammed in the bottom corner like an afterthought.
"Ministry Raid Reveals Murder at Malfoy Manor."
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Draco slid the door closed, feeling the devious shade of hope that dangled briefly before him slip away.
He would have sworn he'd heard her voice-soft and full of an energy he craved now more than ever. The dank walls of his cell-like abode were slowly sucking the life out him, he was all but convinced of it.
It tortured him not to know how his mother was, if she was still safe, if his father had somehow tracked her down and was torturing her for information whilst his son chewed his nails to the quick and roamed the darkened corridors of number twelve Grimmauld place like a ghost.
He'd been allowed a wand but there wasn't much to do with it other than keep his candle lit and his face clean shaven. That day one of the younger Aurors he'd met so far, a witch with hair the color of a coral reef, had dropped by with a game of wizard's chess to amuse him for an hour or so. Inside he knew she must have felt sorry for him, but he cared not to admit how refreshing he'd found her company, despite the countless times he'd bent over to pick up pieces she'd knocked flying from the game board.
But she wasn't allowed to discuss anything about where he was or what was going on in the Order, not that he expected any different. They were all so bloody secretive, trying to convince him it was for his own good he was left in the dark to glower and wonder while they plotted and pretended to be protecting him. All they cared about was getting to the Dark Lord and if he died in the process, what great loss would it be?
With a sinking feeling in his stomach, realization dawned on him. He was the son of one the most wanted death eaters in the country and had been privy to information about Voldemort's circle of supporters that the Order would kill to have. Was he merely a pawn in the grander scheme of things-just a way to smoke his father out from hiding and lure him into a death trap?
In his mind, Draco mulled over memories of waking up at night, drenched in a cold sweat and shaking, listening to the sound of tortured screams filtering up through the cracks in his bedroom floor. While his mother tried to distract him with toys and extravagant trips to small paradises, he remembered watching the backs of many a black cloak sweep past him and into his father's study or worse, when Lucius returned from the ministry in a particularly nasty mood, down the spiral steps to the dungeon Draco never dared explore.
He had seen so many things in his lifetime living with Lucius Malfoy and in the months leading up to his own induction as a fellow henchman for the Dark Lord, that he was surprised the Order hadn't been barging through his door and interrogating him for hours each day already.
He jumped up from the springy mattress and stalked over to the window, sticking his head out to feel the cool breeze on his skin. He sat down on a wooden chair by the small table where he and the strange-haired witch had played chess before and buried his face in his hands.
If and when the Order finally decided to ignore the orders he was sure Dumbledore had given them to leave him in peace, he knew they would try to wring him of everything he knew. A vision of a black train and holding Ginny in his arms the night he'd turned his back on it all burned behind his eyelids. He'd rejected the dark mark, rejected joining a cult full of blood-thirsty killers. But was he ready to go even further, to join his father's greatest enemies?
A knock on his door startled him from his thoughts. He trudged over, dragging his feet heavily, and twisted the old golden doorknob.
"Your dinner, Mr. Malfoy," the wretched looking house elf said. Draco picked up the tray and sniffed. The meals varied from day to day, some days he would have food so rich and homemade that it momentarily made him forget his misery. On days like today, he stared bleakly at the runny soup and stale bread and sighed.
"Take it away, I'm not very hungry."
The wrinkled elf looked reproachfully up at Draco and withdrew the proffered tray.
"Very well, Mr. Malfoy, Kreacher apologizes the food is not pleasing to sir."
He turned to make his leave, and Draco was about to close the door behind him before a thought dawned on him.
"Hey," he said, leaning out the door. Talking to an old house elf was completely foreign to him. He had the urge to turn around to make sure no one could see him.
"Erm, Kreacher, can I ask you something?"
As if he'd been doused in cold water, the elf turned around to face Draco. He clutched the tray with the pathetic meal close to his chest, shaking slightly.
"Kreacher will be glad to prepare something else for Mr. Malf-"
"No, no, forget about the damn food," Draco said, a bit harsher than he meant. After years subjecting his many house elves to abuse each day, trying to have a conversation with one was a totally foreign concept. But he was desperate.
"I was wondering if you could tell me, Kreacher," he said, swallowing over his dry throat. "I'm not the only one living here am I? Are there others?"
Kreacher's huge, saucer-sized eyes widened slightly.
"Sometimes, I think hear voices downstairs," Draco continued. "Younger people, people other than the Order."
"K-Kreacher must not speak of the Order business to no one," the elf said, backing away from Draco.
"This isn't about the Order," he said, stepping further outside of his room. "I just want to know if I'm the only one living here, the only-erm-student."
Kreacher looked as if he were battling internally with some invisible force. Draco used his last defense.
"You know my mother, Kreacher," he said. "You know Narcissa would want you to help her son, don't you?"
The quaking elf's eyes grew as big as dinner plates and he dropped the tray to the floor.
"Kreacher is honored to serve the Black family, Kreacher is honored to serve Mistress Malfoy's son, it is a higher honor than any Kreacher could ever-"
"All right, all right," Draco said impatiently, "Then, since I am asking you as your former mistress' son for this small piece of information, can't you answer?"
Kreacher bent over to pick up the fallen tray, sweeping his hand over the spilled soup until it disappeared. Draco resisted the urge to yell at him again. He needed to know, had to know.
"Kreacher must return to the kitchen, Mr. Malfoy, he has more cooking to do," the elf said, turning. "There are many people living in the noble house of Black, Mr. Malfoy. Kreacher is up all day cleaning and cooking and tending to the chores, but Kreacher waits for them to return to school soon."
Draco's heart skipped a beat. So, there were students living here, Potter being one no doubt. What other underage wizards would be allowed in on the Order's headquarters? If not Potter, then the children of certain members perhaps…He started to speak again but stopped himself. Kreacher was getting at something.
The elf sulked down the hall a little ways before stopping and turning slightly on the pretext of wiping dust off a molding old painting on the wall with the corner of his ragged pillow case.
"Much to do with so many blood traitors living in his poor Mistress' home," he uttered quietly. "Kreacher almost wishes their house was never burned down."
The elf bowed his head, muttering fiercely at himself, and scurried off, no doubt to submit himself to punishment for his disobedience.
Draco stood frozen in the dark corridor. Outside, the clouds shifted, smothering the sun and bringing the promise of rain.
"Burned…" He leaned against the door frame, gripping it with his hand until it was white and no blood ran there.
That night, he lay in bed for hours, his eyes roving the dark ceiling above him-waiting. Downstairs, muffled voices and the sounds of moving furniture gave him hope.
She has to be all right.
But he couldn't be sure until he saw for himself. The ancient clock in the hall outside strained as it tolled twelve times. Everything in the house was still, save for the pounding organ running rampant in his chest. He stood up and grabbed his wand from his bedside table. Gingerly, he opened the door and padded down the hall.
Damn Dumbledore and damn the Order. His thoughts rested with one person, and if she had been harmed while he was locked away, he didn't know how he could deal with the guilt, the rage, the need to seek her out for himself. He shook his head to keep the image of her in her bedroom, crying as flames swallowed her whole, from bringing him to his knees.
He had to know.
The staircase was a dark labyrinth of groaning slabs of wood that protested against his added weight as he descended them. As he passed doorways, he pressed his ear against them, listening for a voice or the sound of heavy breathing. It wasn't until he reached the third landing that he stopped still in his tracks. The sound of muffled chatter was coming from a room three doors to his left. It was slightly ajar and the dim light of a lantern poured out onto the floor and fell short of his foot.
Thinking quickly, he pointed his wand at his white blonde head and felt a watery sensation dribble down his body. He knew the disillusionment had worked for his foot had disappeared and melted into the dank floor beneath it.
Steadily, he approached the open door, drawing his wand tight to his side.
"…but we can't just leave, can we? Won't every one come looking for us?"
"I've no choice. Dumbledore wanted me to find them so I've got to. We can talk to the others, tell them we're on specific orders and hope they understand and leave us to it."
"But you said so yourself, you've got no clue where to-"
"Did you hear something?"
Feet shuffled from within and Draco panicked momentarily, shoving himself against the opposite wall and going rigid.
A few seconds later, the familiar, bespectacled face of Harry Potter appeared in the crack. He scanned the corridor with one green eye, and Draco tried to stop breathing. At least his suspicions were correct so far. Potter was here, and the other voice must have been his ever-present and obnoxious sidekick, Weasley.
"It's nothing, Ron." Harry retreated behind the door and shut it firmly closed behind him.
Draco finally exhaled and used one hand to wipe a few beads of sweat off his face. The house was stifling and his nerves were getting the better of him. If her brother was alive then she must be all right, he said to himself, repeating it in his mind like a battle cry.
The rest of the rooms appeared vacant and he backtracked, making his way to the staircase again to rove the last two floors. Ten minutes later, he returned, feeling quite dejected.
He'd found the room housing Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and managed to hear the voice of the insufferable Granger from a door down from them. She was talking to some kind of animal, he gathered, and sounded quite maniacal. He didn't fancy spending too long listening to a mudblood and her insane chatter, but he lingered long enough to note the trace of fear as she cooed over the pet (a cat, he eventually gathered from the loud purring).
Feeling more dejected than ever, he silently dragged himself back up the stairs. Ginny wasn't here. He tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that something wasn't right. Perhaps Kreacher hadn't been talking about the Weasley's home. It could have been Potter's family…but he'd said blood traitors specifically and Draco knew there was no greater traitorous family in the eyes of the Dark Lord's supporters than the Weasley clan.
Then where could she be? He paused briefly to catch his breath and gather his wits. Weeks of inactivity had weakened him slightly and he thought sorrowfully that he'd be in poor form for Quidditch come September. But what point would any of that make if he returned and she wasn't there with him…
"Who's there?"
Draco froze for the second time that evening. The voice, small and tinged with fear and courage at the same time, sounded from somewhere down the corridor. He must have been on the fifth or sixth floor, he wasn't sure. The hall was washed in darkness and he couldn't make out a thing.
"I know you're there, I heard you on the stairs."
Draco felt a strange sensation wash over him, much like the time he'd stupidly stunned Ginny during a Quidditch match and dove to her rescue she plummeted to her death. It was a mix between relief and heartbreak.
Ginny was here, mere feet away at most.
He didn't realize he'd said her name aloud until the light of a wand blinded him and he fell back against the railing clumsily. It creaked loudly and he swore under his breath.
"I'll ask you again," Ginny said, now encased by the glow of her wand and inching toward the spot where Draco stood. "Show yourself."
Heart beating wildly, Draco lifted his wand and tapped the same spot on his head again, whispering the spell that revealed him to her.
She was more beautiful than he remembered. God, he thought, had it really been that long since he'd seen her last, lying with him by the black lake, convincing him to follow Dumbledore's plan?
The desire to hold her filled him, but he held back. Her hazel eyes were wide and disbelief swam within; her wand hand shook violently, casting the white light in all directions.
"Ginny," he said again, drawing a step closer. The wand in her hand was shaking so fiercely now it created a strobe light effect on their surroundings. Tears welled in her eyes.
"Are you a ghost?" She whispered.
Draco couldn't help himself; he chuckled softly.
"I could ask you the same question," he said. They were no more than arms length apart now. He needed to touch her so badly it hurt him to keep from sweeping her up in his arms.
"Draco," she swallowed deeply and the moisture in her eyes slipped down her lashes and splashed onto her cheeks. "I thought you were dead."
In an instant, she had thrown herself into his open arms, clinging to him like a shipwreck survivor to a floating plank.
He held her as closely as possible, stroking her hair and face with his hands.
"Sshh, don't cry," he said, but she let out a choked sob and wrapped her arms tighter around his waist. He felt extraordinary standing there with her again, and for the first time in weeks he truly remembered why he was putting himself through hell.
When she stopped shaking, he placed his hand on her cheek and nudged her slightly so he could see her face.
"You are a sight for sore eyes, let me tell you," he said, though his tone was as serious as his beating heart. Ginny closed her eyes wondered if this was real. As if to prove it to her, Draco leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, softly at first until he couldn't hold back and they hungrily devoured one another. The rickety railing groaned as he leaned her back on it, aching to taste every bit of her.
"I can't believe you're here," she whispered when they parted for breath. Her lips were swollen and tingled. She traced his jaw line with her thumbs. "I was so sure I'd never see you again."
"I could say the same," he said, his mouth splitting in a smile, but it'd been so long, it ached with the effort. "Kreacher told me about your house."
Ginny winced. She could almost still feel the purple bruise on her back from the blow Lucius had given her that day.
"We're all fine though," she said, cupping his hand on her cheek. "I read about your mum today and I was so sure they'd gotten you, too."
Draco's heart stopped and his hand froze on her face.
"What about my mother?"
Ginny's face blanched. He didn't know.
"Oh, Draco," she said, feeling fresh tears spring in her eyes. "Haven't they told you?"
"Tell me what?" He looked at her so intensely she slightly recoiled in his arms. "Damnit, Gin, talk to me!"
Tears were running freely down her cheeks, unchecked and splashing noiselessly on the carpet. God, how could she tell him?
"I'm so sorry, Draco," she said, forcing herself to look into his eyes. "Th-they found her body this week. She's gone."
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