Blue-Eyed Angel
Chapter Six
"Everyone thinks I wrote it, and if I were to fess up to the truth that I didn't, I would lose this opportunity," Reamann said, talking of the summary Draco had written for him, while rubbing his face in frustration. Understandable, given his dilemma.
He and Draco sat in a London restaurant, Muggle no less, lunching amongst business suits and skirts. Briefcases littered the floor at their owners' feet, and the clanking of cutlery on dishware was steady as the low murmur of many low conversations lingered in the air.
The two of them looked more than slightly out of place, Reamann in his business robes, Draco in his jeans with the torn out knee and black sweatshirt. The hood was down at least, as he practically lounged in his seat, but his extremely long white hair was more eye catching than the conspicuous hood would have been.
"So you can't talk to them about getting me out of the Hall of Records in exchange for my help without first having to admit to them that I, of all people, helped you. But, you fear losing your position on the case if you do, so you want me to continue to help you, because you need me to help you, without credit or reward?" he asked, making sure his understanding was accurate.
"Yeah," Reamann sighed, "that's about it."
"How terribly dishonest and manipulative of you. Tell me, what house were you sorted into at Hogwarts?"
"Gryffindor," he said quietly.
"Oh, noble Gryffindor," he said as though "noble" were some sort of insult to be thrown in Reamann's face. "The guilt must be eating you up inside, either that, or you were sorted improperly," he said with a smile, his perfectly straight white teeth exposed in a grin. His fingers were laced together with his chin resting on them, with his elbows on the table. It would have been cute, if his eyes did not look terribly unhappy.
"I feel awful about this, Draco, I really do, but you too would get in trouble for helping me."
"Oh, so you are playing this off like you are doing me a favor by taking advantage of my graciousness, not like you are just covering your own arse?"
"I didn't mean it like that," Reamann answered.
"Then tell me, what exactly did you mean by it? You want me to continue to help you, while you take all the credit and look clever, while I remain in that pit of a Ministry office?" Draco asked. He leaned forward a little, to be up in Reamann's personal space.
"I will make it up to you in the end, I swear. I just can't be exposed at the moment. I don't intend on taking all the credit in the end…"
"I have heard that one before," Draco said, falling backwards to thump his back against his chair while taking a sip of his drink. He propped his feet up on the edge of their table and got some looks from those around him, but he seemed indifferent over everyone's silent objections to his manners.
"Please, Draco, I'm appealing to your sense of right and justice. Help me because you know it's the right thing to do."
"Is it the `right thing to do,' to lie and deceive the Ministry for one's own personal gain?" he asked smoothly. "And here I thought I was being upstanding by not doing such things anymore," he said with a mockingly enlightened tone and an innocent smile.
"Don't complicate a clever scheme with morality, Draco," Reamann said with a glare. "We will all do well in the end. Muggles will be saved, you will get credit for your assistance and thusly, rewarded, and I…"
"And you will be hailed and promoted, and the history books will talk of your cleverness…while conveniently excluding me," Draco finished for him flatly. "I have heard this all before. It bears a disturbing resemblance to a conversation I had with one Harry Potter some fourteen years ago. Frankly, I can say I learned my lesson a long time ago, the hard way, when it comes to helping anyone but myself," he said.
"Draco,"
"No good Deed goes unpunished."
"Draco, please."
Draco took a deep breath and looked away, staring out the front window of the establishment from across the room for a long moment.
"I need more than just your word that I will get credit in the end," he finally said, setting his drink down slowly. He folded his legs down off the table and placed his feet on the floor, while leaning on his elbows again, intently.
"Anything," Reamann assured.
"How are you at potions?"
"I got an E on my OWLS and continued onto Advanced Level after that to get another E on my NEWTS," he said, not quite sure where Draco's questioning would lead.
"I need you -in exchange for my continued assistance in this matter- to brew me potions…on a regular basis," he said.
"What? I can't do that…" Reamann said, looking taken aback.
"Are you able to write another impressive report without my aid?" Draco asked with a smirk, his cold eyes somehow managing to look dark.
"It's illegal," he said, feeling outraged at such a request.
"Oh, now who's cluttering up a clever scheme with morality?" Draco quipped. "Come on. The potions would be neither terrible nor nefarious. I just need some to ease pain."
"Ease pain?" Reamann repeated as a question.
"Is that an echo I hear?" Draco retorted. "Yes," he then said flatly, "the potions are not difficult nor time consuming but I cannot purchase potions ingredients, otherwise I would brew them myself."
"So you will help me, if I help you with this," Reamann said.
"You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours," Draco answered, leaning back.
"You can't just do this because helping people brings you some sort of inner gratification?" Reamann sighed, hopeful to the last that he would be able to continue on with his deceit without breaking any laws.
"None in the least." Draco smiled.
"I can't believe I'm doing this."
"You're agreeing then?"
"How do I know you will maintain your end of the bargain?"
"How will I know you will maintain yours?"
"You are the convicted Death Eater and a Slytherin," Reamann said flatly.
"And yet, of the two of us, I'm not the one who is deceiving the Ministry and taking advantage of a sick little werewolf," he said complacently.
"Taking advantage?"
"There's that echo again," Draco said, sounding bored. Draco was being a pain in the ass, and it was more than what would likely be considered "usual" even for him.
"I really don't think you are the type to be taken advantage of, Malfoy."
"Shows how little you really know about me then," Draco said, leaning forward to grab his drink. "We agree to help each other, for the greater good, and puppies and rainbows, and for Christmas and all that is good and fluffy in the world?" Draco drawled, holding up his drink in a sort of toast or proposition. Reamann looked at him for a long moment before sighing and grabbing his drink.
"I could end up in jail for this."
"You and me both…but it's the right thing to do," Draco mocked and Reamann smiled despite himself.
"Yeah, sure. Agreed," he said, holding his drink up also. Draco threw back his drink while Reamann took only a respectable gulp.
"So," Draco sighed, leaning back and tilting his chair so it was balanced on its back two legs, feet once again on the table as they waited for their order to be up.
"So," Reamann said too.
"Where do we go from here?"
"I will need to get you a copy of the case file for you to look over."
"You sure that's wise? You trusting a convicted Death Eater with materials connected to a case where other Death Eaters are being implicated?" Draco drawled.
"I honestly don't think this has anything to do with Death Eaters."
"So you don't trust me, you simply think I'm not a part of this particular circumstance."
Reamann sighed.
"I don't think you are secretly working for whoever it is that's doing this, and leading me on with false claims of innocence," he said, eyeing Draco wearily.
"Read about that did you?" he asked, leaning his chair back and forth a little in a rocking motion.
"Yeah," he said, knowing Draco had fooled both sides during the war, a spy for one, or the other, or both. Could Draco really blame him for having a little trouble trusting him? "In the end, whose side were you on?" he asked.
"I was on my side," Draco said simply, honestly. Reamann sighed and ran his hand down the side of his face.
"Alright, fine. Be aloof," he said, finishing his drink. Draco looked pleased with himself. After a long moment of silence between them Reamann felt a question escape him.
"How did you become a werewolf, Malfoy?"
Draco's eyes widened and he nearly toppled over backwards. His chair, which had been precariously balanced, had swayed with his surprise at the sudden bluntness of the question. Draco grabbed the edge of the table while curling his legs down to the floor again, steadying himself as several Muggles looked on.
"Just spring a question like that on me? Bleeding Christ!" he said, settling in his chair again, and running his left hand through his hair to get it out of his face.
He needed a drink.
"I'm sorry," Reamann said, having almost laughed at Draco's -what he assumed to be- uncharacteristic jump and twitch before seeing how genuinely upset he was over it. He supposed it was a sensitive subject and the question had been rather frank and unexpected. Ginny was always telling him that it was bad form to ask questions that just popped into his head without thinking, and that it came across as ill-mannered. "You don't have to tell me; that was rude…" he said, smoothing his own hair flat.
"Yeah, well," Draco wheezed, nodding and wishing their food would come so he could order another bevvy. Reamann was paying after all.
He did not want to think about that night…
He groaned as he rolled over in his bed. Draco's bedroom was still in shambles and there were downy white feathers drifting across the floor in the warm summer air as it came through his open windows. He had managed to repair his bed, and some of the pillows, but the curtains still hung in tatters and his belongings were everywhere. It would take him hours to get everything back in order. And that was only his bedroom; there were 34 other rooms in the house.
He had lain down to rest for the night, refusing to cry even though his mother had left. He just hugged his bunny tight and prayed that in the morning he would wake to find himself in his Hogwarts bed, the past day having just been a bad dream. He would be preparing for his trip home on the Hogwarts Express, and looking forward to his birthday celebration.
His mother had left just after the Ministry Officials had. She said she needed to see her family, to deal with things, to contact some people…leaving Draco at the house alone, but for a handful of servants still employed, and the House-elves, the later of which not really fantastic for emotional support and the servents prefering (for the most part) to maintain a certain amount of professionality.
"Damn it all to hell," he grumbled.
His bedside table was not only toppled over, but the glass and water pitcher that had always sat atop it were shattered on the floor. That meant he would have to get up and out of bed if he wanted something to drink.
Draco threw off his covers in a huff and reached for his robe out of habit, only to find the robe misplaced as well as the rack it was supposed to be hanging from.
"Damn it," Draco muttered, looking around in the semi-darkness for his robe. It was no where in sight. Neither were his slippers.
Sighing angrily, Draco threw his arms up in the air and walked out of his room barefoot and robe-less. His mother would have been appalled, but she wasn't there to fret over his lack of propriety. He had nothing on but his silken green pajama trousers, and it was warm enough that it did not matter, although rather uncultured, in such a state of undress.
Walking down the hall, Draco had to make his way to the kitchens where he would find a glass. He kept an eye out for a House-elf to order about, but he hadn't seen one since the Ministry Wizards had left after the raid.
Draco was sure the little creatures were gathered somewhere in a collective and commune panic attack over the state of their beloved house. The mess in every room was extensive and the state of some things was irreversible. He was sure it was something close to an apocalypse for the tidy little creatures whose only sense of purpose was driven by their pride in strict up-keeping.
It was a long walk down to the kitchen. Lanterns burst to life as he walked past, and upon reaching the stone room, the lights there too flared to life to show yet more devastation.
"Bugger," he grumbled, looking around. He stepped carefully over broken glass and upturned chairs. The Ministry had certainly gotten their point across.
The raid had been bullshit.
The real reason behind the incursion had been quite clear: intimidation. The Malfoy Patriarch was in Azkaban, and they should think twice before doing anything even remotely reprehensible at that point.
Draco was able to find an un-shattered glass and held it up to the broken faucet. It looked like someone had swung something at it and ruptured the seal on the pipe. A gentle stream shot out like a fountain and Draco slowly let his glass fill from that.
It was going to take effort -and money- to get the house right again, and he knew his mother expected it done by the time she got back.
Draco couldn't say he was excited at the prospect of taking charge and seeing it done.
He really hated the Ministry at that moment.
Draco took a long gulp from his glass and then a breath.
Yeah, he was pretty sure he hated the Ministry more than Harry Potter at that moment…but then, thinking on that, it was Harry Potter's fault that his father was in jail and thusly, the reason behind the raid in the first place.
Draco withdrew that first thought, he still hated Harry Potter more than anything else in the world. He hated Potter with every fiber of his being.
Taking a step, Draco hissed and cursed, lifting his foot and balancing carefully. Despite his carefulness, he still wound up with a piece of glass in his heel.
"Fan-bloody-tastic," he said, plucking the bloodied shard of glass out of his foot and hopping a little to remain balanced. He tossed the shard away angrily, hopped over the mess on the floor, and limped back towards his bedroom.
Lanterns flared to life again as he passed; the warmness of the firelight complemented the warmness of the night perfectly. It sometimes got hot in the house because of all the fire (often cold in the winter because of the drafts) but right then it was perfect. It was a wonderful night.
There was a sudden crash and it interrupted Draco's disgruntled thoughts of how much he wanted to stomp on Potter's face.
He spun around to look in the direction of the sound, the crash coming from down stairs -where he had just come from- and he took a careful step back the way he had come.
"Hello?" he called, not sure who or what had made the sound. The House-elves were silent in all that they did by nature, the few remaining human servants were surely in bed at that late hour, and he doubted something downstairs would choose that exact moment in time to topple over on its own…though that was a very real possibility given the mess of things.
Draco walked back to the top of the stairs and leaned over the railing of the balcony that overlooked the grand entrance hall. The chandelier was directly in front of him now, rather than above.
He looked around with narrowed eyes, but heard nothing more, saw nothing move, and he was left feeling tired and drained from that moment of heart-pounding apprehension.
He sighed, too tired to investigate further.
Draco turned around to head to bed, only to come face to face with a very large, snarling beast. He didn't have a chance to do more than gasp in surprise, and drop his glass of water to the floor where it shattered at his feet, before being attacked.
Draco was shoved backwards, large clawed fingers digging into his upper left arm. He screamed as he hit the railing and kept falling backwards.
The thing did not have a good hold on him, its hands clearly not intended for grasping, and Draco found himself falling, falling from the balcony, the marble grand hall floor below him.
Luckily for Draco, a partially tipped over grandfather clock broke his fall…and nearly his back.
He landed on it, causing it to fall the rest of the way over and smash loudy on the floor, facedown, Draco atop of it. He was left dazed, stunned from the fall, without air in his lungs, and his vision blackened out.
"Urr," he groaned in pain as it shot through his body, no longer numb from the impact, and hurting sharply. Whimpering, he rolled off the broken clock to expose red discoloration on his pale and naked back, the start of a very nasty bruise and undoubtedly some broken ribs underneath. He couldn't breathe, as if there were a belt strapped tight around his chest.
Draco crawled on his hands and knees for a moment, trying to get his head to stop spinning and his vision from fading in and out. He felt like he was going to be sick and he couldn't seem to catch a proper breath. He could hear a tremendous thump, a distant sound in his ringing ears, and he looked up to see the dark beast round on him again from only feet away. It had leapt from the balcony and landed with grace, grace Draco had landed without.
Scrambling to his feet in a sudden burst of adrenaline that seemed to numb his pain for a moment, Draco flung himself around an archway, leading into the sitting room. He climbed over upturned furniture as the beast was in fast pursuit. His body screamed in protest, and tripping slightly he bashed his knee painfully into the wooden frame of his ornate settee, but his brain could not properly register that right then. The pain was there, but all his mind was telling him was to "run…run away!"
"Get away!" Draco yelled, running around the couch to have something between him and the beast. The room was dark and he could barely see. Apparently the lanterns were broken in that room because the commotion hadn't awoken them.
The beast, a massive black shadow, tried rounding on Draco from the right and Draco moved to the left to keep the red velvet settee between them. He dared a glance over his shoulder towards the way he had come -where it was light- and in that moment, the beast attacked. Draco screamed and ducked as the thing overshot him slightly, missing him thanks to his fast Quidditch reflexes. Draco scurried on his hands and feet for a moment towards the other side of the room, away from the light but also the beast. There was a door there; he just had to reach it.
Draco slammed into the door and groped for the handle. He was panting for air; his heart hammering in his chest like it was going to explode.
His hand found and twisted the doorknob just as the beast slammed into his back. Draco went crashing through the door as it swung open, the side of his head hitting the marbled floor hard, the beast rolling over him and onto the floor in front of him. Draco, despite seeing white spots in his otherwise blacked out vision, turned to try and escape back into the sitting room, but the thing reached up and planted its claws deep into his back overtop his shoulder blades as he scurried on his hands and knees close to the ground. Draco screamed loud and long as he was dragged on his belly into the equally dark room by his hooked back, his own hands clawing at the smooth floor and doorjamb, trying to get away, trying not to get pulled into the room with that thing.
Draco felt himself get flipped over and he struck out with his left arm, hitting something very hard and solid, a snout maybe. Moments later he felt teeth clamp down onto his extended forearm and he screamed again as he was shaken by the thing, like it was trying to tear him apart. Its claws scraped at Draco's left side, cutting down over his collarbone in long raking gashes, ripping at his shoulder and ribs with what seemed like every intention to take his left arm.
"Draco?" a man shouted urgently over Draco's screams and the beast's roars and growls.
"Help me!" Draco screamed, still struggling, the thing releasing his left arm. Draco sagged to the floor, legs and body pinned beneath the beast, still in a puddle of his own blood, and thought maybe it was over, until he felt his left shoulder, nearly his neck, get bitten next.
Draco screamed louder than before, voice cracking as the beast lifted him up off the floor, blood oozing from its mouth as it bit down like a vise. It had attempted to go for a death-bite but had missed in the darkness.
"Draco? Where are you? Draco?" the man called in panic as Draco was released again with a gasp of pain, his eyes wide and unfocused. The beast reared back to look over at the man that entered the room, the tip of his wand alight causing the thing to shade its eyes with its forearm in a very human-like gesture, though the growl was as inhuman as possible.
"Oh dear God, DRACO!" the man shouted, throwing a spell without hesitation at the creature. The spell caused a loud booming noise that chased the beast away from Draco's body. It gave a roar and bared its bloody teeth before it turned and crashed through the dark windows, allowing moonlight to cast its shadow into the room then, the beast escaping onto the grounds with a long howl.
Draco was left laying there, a smeared puddle of his own blood coating the pale marble floor where he lay, twitching and gasping for air.
"Draco? Draco? Oh God..." he said, falling to his knees beside him, afraid to even reach out and touch him for fear of hurting him. He looked out the window and saw very plainly in the night sky the very full moon.
"Holy shit…" he said, and then, "Dear God, no." Looking over Draco, his whole body shaking with dread and the helplessness he felt while at a loss of what to do to help his young master. "I have you," he said, finally deciding to move him.
It was a long and slow trek back up to Draco's bedroom, carrying Draco's nearly limp and thankfully, relatively petite body up the stairs, but once there, Draco was coming down off his shock enough to talk.
"It hurts, it hurts…it hurts," he whimpered over and over again, swallowing convulsively, shaking uncontrollably as though on the edge of a fit.
The man that had rescued him was Paul Nanette -affectionately referred to as "Butler Paul" by Draco- Draco's personal manservant. A sort of tutor, aide, father figure, and servant all in one, he was a man that had been a very large part of Draco's life since he had been small. Butler Paul was the acception to the rule that the servents of the house wanted little to do with him, and he had been awoken by the same crash Draco had heard, and was roused from bed at the commotion that quickly followed.
"No, no," Draco moaned repeatedly, pushing Butler Paul's hands away with his right arm -the only arm that would work- as he tried to have a look at Draco's bleeding wounds.
"Draco, let me look. Please. There is blood everywhere, I need to see where you are hurt," he said, his voice a forced calm, panic so near to the surface.
"What was it? What…what was it?" Draco asked breathlessly, face ghostly white, lips bloodless, eyes wide. Blood splattered his face, on his forehead a knot was developing where he had hit the floor, and his skin was starting to shine with sweat and deep bruises.
The lights were on, but askew as most of the lamps had been knocked over or on the floor.
Butler Paul looked out Draco's open window and again saw the full moon. He knew the answer but he could not bear to say it. He could not break it to Draco, not right then, not while Draco was struggling so hard just to live.
"I don't know…probably a dog, or, or something," he said.
"A dog," Draco gasped, "that was no dog…that was no fucking dog…there's no way a dog could even get in here," Draco said, forcing his words out through his pain.
"Lay still, lay still!" Butler Paul said, holding Draco down as the boy sobbed and shook.
"What did I do? What…what did I do?" he started repeating, blood soaking through his bedding. Butler Paul's heart sank at Draco's barely coherent ramblings.
Draco had done nothing, he was sure of that.
The boy was barely sixteen and Butler Paul was no fool. He knew a werewolf would not just break into a home as guarded as the Malfoy Manor by accident or chance. That werewolf had to have been on the grounds before transforming to even have been capable of getting past the home's defensive spells and wards. It had come there with a purpose, sent there by someone. He had a good idea who, too.
He did not know why though, Draco had yet to meet him in person, but the Dark Lord had sent a werewolf to his home. He was willing to bet his life on it.
"Shit, I need the Healer up here," he said, looking around. "Where are those damned House-elves?" he shouted, wanting to rub his forehead but finding his hands covered in blood. "Mickey! Mickey!" he shouted, hoping for the House-elf to come to his urgent calls. It took a moment but a House-elf appeared, looking tentative and anxious.
"Mickey is here, sir," it said, wringing its bandaged hands together.
"Go, wake the Healer. Have him come here immediately!" he shouted.
"Yes sir, anything for young Master Draco, sir," it said, disappearing from that spot with a pop.
"Draco, Draco? Look at me, stay awake," he said.
"It hurts, it burns…" he sobbed, shaking, his left arm twitching at his side.
"I know. The Healer is on his way, just stay with me. Just stay with me," he said, repeating that last phrase a dozen times while waiting for the Healer. He took that moment to also draw the curtains closed, lest Draco should glance out the window and see the moon.
The boy had had enough trauma for one night…best save possible grave news for another.
Draco snapped back to the present upon the arrival of his meal at the table. He had fallen silent and his eyes had drifted to be distant and hallow, and Réamann had not the heart (after the abrupt question he had posed) to try and engage him in some sort of conversation. Draco wished he had chosen that time to talk insesently, and saved him the tramatizing trip down memory lane.
e had fallen silent, eyes distant and Réamann had not the heart (after the question he had so abrubtly posed) to attempt and steal his attention back He and Reamann were silent while their food was served, Draco only mentioning his desperate need for another bevvy to the waitress quietly. Once they were alone again, Draco took a deep breath.
"The Dark Lord sent the werewolf Greyback to my home one night, the night I had gotten home from Hogwarts no less, right after finishing my fifth year. I had just turned sixteen," he said softly, looking down at his fish and chips and finding he had no appetite. Reamann looked at Draco, having expected him not to say anything as he had been quiet for so long after he had asked the question in so blunt a manner.
"Why?" Reamann asked, trying to be sympathetic and encouraging while trying to quench his ferocious curiosity.
"The Dark Lord had to promise Greyback a lot to get him to serve him, in hopes of having the werewolves side with him for the battle and such. Greyback was not a Death Eater, but he served the Dark Lord," he explained. "Well…you see, the Dark Lord was very angry that my father had failed him and gotten himself locked up in Azkaban, taking along with him several others. He blamed my father, because he had been in charge that night, but he could not punish my father by any of his typical methods while he was locked away, safe, as irony would have it. The Dark Lord decided he would punish my father the way Greyback favored, which was to go after the children of those that had wrong him in some perceived way," he said dully, almost like he was not even talking about himself.
"You mean, you were attacked and infected as your father's punishment for failing the Dark Lord?" he asked in disbelief.
"Infected? He damn near killed me," Draco said, eyes just a little wide as he looked at the table edge near Reamann's hands. "I had shattered ribs, a broken collarbone and arm, torn muscles and ligaments in my left arm when he just about ripped it off…I had horrendous gashes and wounds from his claws and teeth, a concussion, extensive bruising, a torn and bruised liver, and extreme blood loss. My Healer did all he could for me, but werewolf bites and scratches…if you want to call them scratches…cannot be healed by magic. You can't heal too much at once or you risk sending the person into shock, so I was left in agony for days as I was healed a little at a time. My Healer was able to mend my bones and repair my muscles enough in my arm so that I would regain full use of it in time, and he gave me Blood-Replenishing Potion so that I would not bleed to death. It restored the blood I had lost, and continued to lose, but he could do nothing for the wounds, and nothing for the…scarring," he finished softly.
"Wow," Reamann said, leaning back against his seat, away from his food. He did not know what to say to Draco other than, "That's really messed up."
Draco just nodded while looking down at his food.
"I was not a Death Eater while at Hogwarts, regardless of what the texts may claim. I was a werewolf," he said, dropping his voice.
None of the Muggles around were listening in, but incase their words carried, he did not want the word "werewolf" catching their ears. He pulled back his left sleeve with his arm palm down on the table to expose the back of his forearm. The scaring there was horrific, worse than it had been on the inside where the Dark Mark dominated. It really did look like a dog had chewed Draco up and spit him out.
Draco pulled his sleeve back down and chewed his bottom lip.
Would Reamann believe him now?
Would he trust him?
He doubted it.
People did not trust "Death Eaters," and they rarely trusted werewolves.
"But, then, how did you keep that hidden? I mean, surely someone would have figured it out…" Reamann asked, still looking at Draco's arm that was covered again.
"Oh, someone did," he said.
"Who?" Reamann asked, leaning forward, his food just as forgotten as Draco's for the moment.
"Dumbledore knew. The old codger knew from the moment I stepped into the school my sixth year what I was. He also knew I was working for the Dark Lord. He did not know what my assignment was, but he knew…he watched over me the whole year, suspecting me but never stopping me, even after students had gotten…hurt," he said softly, feeling awkward and, a little guilty…maybe. "He even dragged me up into his office and offered me help a few times. Said he knew I was `sick' and that he could help me," he said bitterly. Reamann said nothing in hopes Draco would continue on his own. "I did not need his help," he said forcefully. "You familiar with the Room of Requirement?" he asked.
"Yeah…that's where you plotted to kill Dumbledore and fixed the cupboard, that being the way you snuck the Death Eaters in that night."
"Good to know those texts got something right," Draco grumbled. "Well, never mind that. I did not kill Dumbledore," he said fiercely, "and the Room of Requirement is whatever one requires," Draco said, looking to Reamann to make sense of that. Reamann's eyes lit up with the answer and he took a breath.
"You used the room, on the full moon. It became what you required, that being a safe place to transform where you wouldn't hurt anyone or yourself," he said.
"Precisely," Draco answered, pointing his finger at Reamann.
"Did you have Wolfsbane to help? You know, to make it easier…"
"No," Draco said, flustered slightly, still frustrated so many years later that he had been unable to successfully brew the potion at the time. It really was a complicated potion.
"Wow," he said.
"Yeah," Draco mumbled, not sure what more could be said between them.
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Author's Note:
A line of dialog in this chapter is based off of a line of dialog from the movie DragonHeart, one of my all time favorite movies.
"Don't try and clutter up a clever scheme with morality."
The whole sort of tone and some of the dialog in the flashback scene was loosely inspired by my favorite B-movie werewolf flick Gingersnaps. I had tried my scene a few different ways, but I feel the end result I have now is most realistic and best.
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