Draco stumbled back into Kingsley’s flat in the early
morning hours, his pale face ashen, and his hands shaking as he ran them
through his already rumpled hair. The visit with his parents had been a
success, in the sense that what he had hoped to achieve had been achieved. But
instead of feeling elated and purposeful, it was as though the bottom had
drained from his world and he was left empty and void. The expression on his
mother’s face as he had left haunted him, a mixture of pride and resignation
and terror. She continued to maintain her rigid aristocratic control, but he
was not her son for nothing. He had seen the expression of terror in her eyes
too many times over the past several years.
He shook his head, and became aware that Kingsley, still
looking official, was talking to Neville. The two of them were sitting on
armchairs on the other side of the room while Draco still stood like a lost
child in the doorway. It was unbearably awkward, so he crossed to a bookshelf
near the dining room, and pretended to be interested in books that he had never
seen before until it suddenly dawned on him that these must all be muggle
volumes. The covers were strangely foreign and appeared cheaply made, to his
practiced eye, and the titles were from an entirely different world.
What they meant by “The Selfish Gene” and who “George
Orwell” was he had no idea, and little interest in finding out. A few names
seemed familiar. He had a clouded memory of his father mentioning Mary Queen of
Scots, and the name William Shakespeare seemed vaguely familiar and
uncomfortable, though he was not sure why. Clearly this was a selection of
muggle writings the Minister of Magic had collected, he almost scoffed at the
idea, but a horrifying thought intruded on his mind. What if it was, in fact, a
good idea to read muggle literature, after all wizards did share the world with
non-magical folks… He jumped back as though the books had suddenly caught fire
in front of him and threw himself onto a sofa on the other side of the room.
Kingsley was just standing up, and he looked quizzically at
Draco raising an eyebrow. He glanced in the direction of the bookshelf ad a
small expression of amusement crossed his face and vanished. “Well,” He said,
“It seems as though you and Neville will have to sleep here, as the others have
taken up residence in the spare rooms. Make yourselves comfortable; there are
blankets in the chest in the corner. Good night.” And he swept from the room,
his cloak billowing around behind him.
Draco stared after him for a moment, and then looked over at
Neville who was gazing blankly into the empty grate of the fireplace. He
settled down, and stared out a window that looked onto an idyllic farmhouse
surrounded by starlight. The minutes ticked by, and Draco was soon convinced
that he would never sleep, when Neville’s voice startled him out of his
reverie. “That’s Longbottom Grange, where I grew up.” Neville said quietly.
“Oh.” Draco said, unsure of what else to say fumbling over
words. “It’s different… that is…” He trailed off and stared at the window
again.
“The Longbottoms are not like most pure blood families.”
Neville said mildly, in a tone that Draco refused to acknowledge as vaguely
condescending. “It’s a good place, clean, pure, untouched except by the dark
magic that was there long before my family. We’ve made it ours by caring for it.
I have high hopes that it will stay that way for a long time yet.”
“What about this place?” Draco said, and then almost
immediately wanted to run from the room as a look of ancient weariness passed
over Neville’s face. But he was transfixed by the words that followed, as
though the other wizard’s words had momentarily paralyzed him.
“I’ve died a thousand
times in this room, in my dreams. It’s where my parents were tortured. Where
they went insane. I always worried that there was a weakness, perhaps something
in the Longbottom blood, hidden deep, made them go insane. And then your aunt,
Bellatrix, used the curse on me in the Ministry of Magic, and I felt what it
was like. As though my bones were melting and my skin were on fire and the
whole world dissolved into one giant ball of pain and horror.” He paused, and
Draco could see whiteness in his large fist and, not for the first time, felt
terrified of his former victim.
“But, when it stopped, I felt elated because I realized that
my parents endured hours of that same torture by four people. And I knew, at
that moment, I knew how strong they were…how strong I was, and I swore I would
never let fear conquer me again. And, so far, I haven’t.” There was a firm
finality in his voice, and something deeper something magical seemed to
surround Neville. And an image rose up between them, whether of his own
imagining or something more ancient Draco could not tell, the image of a man
very like Neville, bulky and powerful and ancient, wielding a sword in one hand
and a wand in the other. It was gone in a moment, but it would remain with
Draco, haunting him for the rest of his life. Neville smiled crookedly, and
added, in a more cheerful tone, “Mind you, I’ve been scared plenty of times.
But it’s never gotten the best of me, and please Merlin, it never will. That
you can attest to.”
Draco smiled uncertainly, feeling uncomfortable and unsettled,
but it continued to lurk in the back of his mind, mixing with memories of his
father’s disdain for the Longbottom family, hearing him say that they were the
most traitorous group of pure blood wizards there were, apart from the
Weasleys. Desperate to change the subject he asked the first question that came
to his mind, and instantly regretted it as he heard himself saying “You don’t
keep house elves do you?”
Neville laughed. “No. Not in the traditional sense anyway.
We have house elves that keep our sheep for us, but they’ve never served us,
they’ve only served alongside us.”
Despite the growing feeling of discomfort as to where this
conversation would lead him, Draco was overcome with curiosity and heard himself
asking, “Why not?”
Neville shot him a sharp and slightly challenging look, as
though trying to decide if Draco was just making conversation or if he was
really interested in hearing the answer. After appraising him for a moment,
Neville said, “My grandfather and I used to talk about that. Growing up I had
other family who kept house elves, and I always wondered why we were different.
He told me that in order to really say that something is yours, you have to
care for it. Whoever cares for something the most is the person that owns it.
He always saw our sheep as truly belonging to the house elves, rather than to
us. They do a brilliant job, really looking after them and caring for them.
Grandfather said our family has always cared for our land and our house
ourselves, and we must always continue to do so, because that is the only way
that it truly belongs to us.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Draco scoffed skeptically, suddenly
filled with an angry desire to refute the other, “That would mean that most of
the pureblood houses belong to the house elves. What an incredibly insane
notion. It’s the wizards who won the lands and estates, who earned them, not
the house elves.”
“Actually, I think you’ve missed the point entirely.”
Neville said calmly, brushing aside the rude comment with a shrug of his large
shoulders, “If my grandfather was really correct, and I think he was to some
extent, then it’s not just the estates that the house elves own. It’s the
wizards as well.”
Draco stammered incoherently turning first red with furry, then
feeling the color drain from his face as Neville continued in a slow, even
tone.
“I mean, after all. Who looks after the pure blood families
with more devotion, their own family members or the house elves? If families
look after each other, then they belong to each other. If someone else looks
after them and cares for them better, then they belong to them instead.” He
smirked, as he saw the expression on Neville’s face. “Think about it, for all
your past disdain for them, have you ever seen a pureblood family with more
love and devotion and connection with each other than the Weaselys? For all
they fight and argue, they are more devoted than any other family I’ve ever
seen. Even Percy, for all he abandoned the family, didn’t really do it because
he didn’t care for them. He left them out of frustration because he was afraid
that they were putting themselves in unnecessary danger. It was love, albeit misinformed
love, which drove him away. And it was love for them that made him able to
realize his mistake and return to them when it mattered most. Have you ever
seen that kind of love in a pure blood family?”
“Not often.” Draco said hoarsely, swallowing against the
rock that seemed to have settled in the center of his throat, “Only in my
mother.” And he felt an echo at the back of his mind, the quiet part of himself
that was painfully honest, the part that had come closer to the surface once he
had set his conscience free. And maybe in
you as well, you’ve done that haven’t you? With the DA and the Creeveys. The
Creeveys came to you desperate and you took them in and made them your family.
I won’t ever admit it because my pride won’t let me, but I want to be like you.
Only I never will, and I want to hate you because of that. But I can’t, because
you’re too good to hate, damn it.
Neville settled into a quiet silence, leaning back in the
armchair, staring at the farmhouse that was now beginning to light up with the dim
light of dawn. For a while he seemed to be waiting for Draco to say something more,
but eventually he slept instead. But Draco sat and stared blankly at an empty
wall, fighting back the feelings of panic and confusion, wondering if Neville
understood how thoroughly he had devastated Draco’s world with that one simple
explanation of a philosophy of life that Draco could not even imagine.
Draco finally fell asleep long after Neville had, but his
sleep was fitful and troubled. He dreamed of himself wandering around it
tattered garments being dictated to by a house elf who mocked him. And then his
whole vision filled with the angry, teary face of Dobby, who clutched a knife
handle that protruded from his chest, asking why young master didn’t do
something to save poor, poor Dobby who only ever tried to help young, cruel
master. He ran, but he could not escape the figure who followed him crying
through the rest of the night.
Draco woke hours later to the smell of bacon and a shrill
female voice coming from the direction of the kitchen. Neville was still asleep
in the chair he had occupied the night before, and Draco wondered how he could
sleep through the shrill voice coming from the kitchen then reflected that
Neville had lived in Gryffindor with the others, so he had probably become
accustom to the noise over time. He stood up and waved his wand at himself to
straighten his clothing and hair, before sauntering into the kitchen to
investigate.
In the kitchen Kingsley was sitting at a table holding a
quill and surrounded by owls and a large stack of parchment. In the center of
kitchen Harry was standing in front of the stove with a sheepish look on his
face holding a wand in front of him defensively, being berated by a shrill and
very bushy haired Hermione.
“Harry Potter! I can’t believe you can cook! All last
year…all last year, I cooked and you made absolute rubbish and here you are…”
Her voice trailed off in a sound that would have wounded any bird less
indifferent than the official looking birds blinking reproachfully from the
table.
“S-Sorry Hermione!” Harry said, “I just, it’s that well, my
aunt…” He caught sight of Draco and trailed off for a moment, “It’s just not
something I’ve really enjoyed, to be honest. But Fleur showed me some household
spells at the cottage, and it’s a lot more fun doing it this way. I just, I’m
sorry Hermione, you’re right, I was selfish.” He said looking ashamed.
But at the mention of his aunt, Hermione had softened a
little, “Oh, your aunt, right. Sorry Harry, I just forgot. It was just so
frustrating…”
“I know. It wasn’t fair to you, honest. And I promise if I’m
around I’ll never ask you to cook again.”
Kingsley spoke up, “Your aunt made you cook Harry?”
“It’s nothing, not important.” Harry mumbled, and then
looked angry as Ron broke in, elbowing his way past Draco.
“Course she did.” The ginger headed giant said, briskly,
swiping a piece of bacon from the frying pan and kissing Hermione on the top of
the head, “Treated him like a bloody house elf, didn’t they? Say Harry, this is
delicious. Fleur taught you how to do this?” He said with his mouth full.
Harry mumbled something incoherent, from where he had turned
back to the stove. Hermione piped up
looking uncomfortable, after elbowing a confused looking Ron in the ribs with
her elbow. “Kingsley, have you considered my request from yesterday?’’
“Yes,” Kingsley said still looking at Harry with a strange,
almost remorseful expression, before he turned to Hermione, “As long as you are
sure that is what you want. You have read the reports I gave you?”
“Yes.” Hermione said, turning slightly pale, “I still want
to go.”
“Then I’m sure we can accommodate you. I will be returning
to the ministry, but an escort will be arriving in an hour or two to accompany
you. I know you are all perfectly capable of taking care of yourselves, but
considering the events of last night, it is not amiss for us to take extra
precautions. Especially when Mr. Malfoy is involved.”
“What’s going on?” Asked Neville sleepily, as he edged his
way into the kitchen and sat down casually on a chair, accepting a cup of tea
that Kingsley passed to him.
“You will all be returning to Hogwarts later this evening,
but first you will be taking a couple of stops at Hermione Granger’s former
residence and also at Malfoy Manor. If everyone is amenable.” Kingsley said evenly.
Neville coughed into his tea, and glanced at Hermione.
The bushy haired witch said briskly, “Of course that would
be fine. Why wouldn’t it?” Sending a sharp glance at Neville, who just looked
down at his tea and took another sip.
“That…that would be fine with me as well.” Draco said
feeling unaccountably horrified, despite having been the one who originally
made the request, he had not, at the time, fully intended to have the others
accompany him. But he remembered the conversation he had overheard the day
before, and noticed a fierce gleam in Harry’s eye, as the black-haired wizard
glanced his direction.
“Excellent, well the other wizards who are accompanying you
will arrive shortly with muggle clothing. You can’t go into a muggle
neighborhood dressed as you are.” Kingsley said, sealing the last of his
letters and handing them to the owls, who promptly flew out an open window in a
flurry of feathers.
Not long after, Kingsley left for the Ministry following a
brief but hushed conversation with Harry, Neville and Ron while Hermione was
elsewhere in the apartment. Draco stood awkwardly in front of the bookshelf
full of muggle books, wondering why it held such a draw for him. It was one
thing to realize that the Dark Lord was evil, and acknowledge that his devotion
to the dark arts was not the glorious achievement that he had once believed, it
was quite another to find himself interested in the writings of non-magical
beings. This was truly rather alarming. After all, admitting that there was
some value in muggles as living fellow human beings was rather different than
showing real interest in them. But, almost involuntarily, he found himself
reaching out and lifting a book off the shelf. He soon found himself sitting on
the sofa reading “The Industrial Revolution and British Society” by Patrick
O’Brien. The entire book was so foreign to him, that he made very little
progress, he did find himself feeling reluctantly impressed at the inovations
that muggles used in order to live without magic.
Not many hours later he found himself clothed in unfamiliar
and awkward muggle clothing, unsure of what exactly he was doing in this
strange party, which now consisted of two more Weaselys and a couple of extra
Aurors. The others, apart from Percy Weasley, seemed much more at ease in their
muggle clothing. Draco jumped slightly, as he found his elbow gripped by a
tall, solemn Auror, one that he vaguely remembered as having been at the Battle
of Hogwarts. While he stood slightly unsteadily, waiting for the momentary
discomfort of apparition to vanish, he looked around at the muggle street and
tried to get his bearings, it was newer and strangely more uniform than the
Wizarding world where he had lived his entire life, there were cars parked in
the drives of many of the homes and the plants in the gardens were incredibly
ordinary, though surprisingly beautiful.
They stood facing a
detached house of red brick with a slate roof, fronted by a garden that
appeared as though it must have been very well kept not long ago. But the blown
out windows, and the blackened door that hung crookedly on its hinges, and
weeds overwhelmed what must previously have been a very orderly and ornate
garden. From the corner of his eye he saw Hermione standing glassy-eyed
supported by Ron on one side, and Harry on the other. He looked away, when he
felt the ginger haired wizard’s burning gaze fix on him. He and Ron would never
be on more than speaking terms, there was too much prejudice and bad blood
between them, but he still resented the way that his classmate immediately
connected him to everything done by the death eaters. Although, the small voice
of reason at the back of his mind reminded him, that for this near fatal
tragedy, at least, he had some culpability. After all, if he had not drawn his
father’s attention to the depth of Harry’s friendship with the insanely
brilliant Gryffindor, this never would have happened.
Try as he might to tell himself that he had not understood
the depths of Voldemort’s evil at the time, he knew that he had known enough to
keep his mouth shut when he was able. No matter how deeply he had buried the
knowledge, he had understood that the Dark Lord’s cruelty, and that of his
fellow Death Eaters ran deep and strong. He wished that it was more surprising
to him that, in Hermione’s parents absence, the house had been destroyed enough
to leave her with a memento of everything she had lost.
He hazarded a glance in her
direction, and saw her wipe a stray tear from her eyes, set her jaw, and swing
open the front gate. Ron and Harry followed close behind her, and the others
ushered Draco in after them. Ever since the Battle, there had been an increasingly
hardened but much more open expression on Percy Weasley’s face, there was no
confusing the expression now, or the expression on George’s face either. The
world stopped for a moment as he passed them, and he read in their expressions
a warning not to repeat the cowardice of his past. And he wondered, futilely, if
they only knew how deep the agonizing threads of remorse dug into his soul, if perhaps
they would be more kind, more open, more understanding. But they had lost a
brother and friends, and their world had be unalterably changed. Could he have
forgiven himself were he in their shoes? If one of his parents had died, would
he have even been as merciful as they were?
And then he was inside the house,
and it smelled of damp and magic and fire and hate. A sound of tears filled the
hallway, and they turned into a sitting room that must once have been a warm
and inviting place, but was now dreary and damp and destroyed. Half of a sofa
sat in the middle of the room, and Hermione knelt by the fireplace, her hands
shaking as she pulled a brick from the fireplace and removed a small box from
behind it, which she put into the tiny beaded bag she carried after waving her
wand and murmuring a series of complicated spells over it. Draco had never
really paid much attention to the back, but he raised his eyebrows for a moment
as he looked away.
There was a fumbling sound at the
door, and the two Aurors faded into the shadows, when a elderly female voice
said, “Hermione, Hermione dear is that you?”
Hermione jumped to her feet and
wiped tears from her eyes. “Mrs. Jenny?” She darted towards the door where a
tiny white-haired woman stood blinking at the room full of tall figures, her
eyes red-rimmed and watery.
“My, my, dear.” The elderly woman
said taking Hermione’s hand and patting it kindly, “You have brought quite the
party, haven’t you?”
Hermione stammered something
unintelligible, and then said, “And how are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine dear, just fine. But
I am so sorry about your parents. Such a tragic loss, we were worried that you
had been caught in the fire, but then Reginald reminded me that school was in
session. It must have been so hard for you my dear.” The woman patted
Hermione’s hand again, and Hermione shot an agonized glance at Ron and Harry
who moved into action.
“Hello, ma’am, my name is Harry
Potter.” He said.
“Oh, my, why hello. My name is
Mrs. Peters.” The elderly woman shook his hand gently. “Are you a friend of
Hermione’s from school?”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Is this your young man, dear?”
Jenny turned to Hermione who had turned bright red.
“That would be me, ma’am.” Said
Ron, stepping forward and taking the woman’s hand gently in his.
“And who’s that other lot over
there?” She asked pointing suspiciously at Draco and the two other Weasley brothers.
“Just people I know, Jenny, and
those are Ron’s brothers.” Hermione said, taking the woman’s arm. “It was
really very nice of you to come over, I suppose you saw us coming in the gate?”
“Why yes, dear, and I said to
myself, Jenny, that young girl has had far too much happen this year. She needs
a familiar face, someone who has known her a long time. And Reginald told me to
go on over, and here I am. You are well aren’t you dear? You look a bit drawn,”
And she gave Hermione a searching look.
“As well as can be expected.”
Hermione said.
“And you’re looking after her,
aren’t you?” Jenny said turning to Ron.
“I’m trying.” He said, giving
Hermione a rueful glance.
There was an uncomfortable
silence, and the elderly woman said, “Well, you all seem nice enough, so I’ll
be going.” She turned to Herimone, “Come around for a cup of tea my dear, when
you have the time.”
“Thank you, I’ll show you out,
Jenny.” Hermione said, in a slightly husky voice.
“Thank you dear.” Jenny said, as
the two women left the room, her frail voice echoed back to them in the hollow,
burned out space. “You have had a difficult year of it, poor dear. What a sad,
strange sort of accident. Everyone has been very on edge ever since, I suspect
there’s been something in the air. So sad, so very, very sad, and such lovely
people your parents. But I’m glad you have a nice young man to look after you
in this difficult time. He seems the right sort. I thought at first that you
might be seeing the blond one, a bit of a toff, isn’t he? You can always tell
the posh ones, I think it’s something in the way they stand.”
“I suppose you can.” There was a
slight edge of vague amusement in Hermione’s voice as she answered, and Ron and
Harry were biting back laughter. Draco turned his back on them and moved to
another room. He had never paid much attention to muggles before, there were
the few muggle-born witches and wizards at school, but none of them were in his
house, as far as he knew, and this was entirely different. This woman had no magical
connections at all and yet she seemed as intelligent and capable, if slightly
odd, as any magical person he knew. He shook himself and walked into the back
garden, there was a long, low bench that was untouched, under a tree. And he
sat on it and thought, staring blankly at the house where he could hear the
others stirring around and talking to each other.
When it was time to go, and Harry
waved him inside, he went through the house, trying to ignore the smell of fire
and damp. In the front garden Hermione was standing with her face buried in
Ron’s shoulder with his forehead resting on the top of her head. George was
pacing the front lawn, with a grim look on his face and Percy was standing
talking with the Aurors, gesturing towards the gate.
“Well, all right then Draco. You
lead the way.” Harry said grimly, giving Hermione a final questioning look, “I
think most of us have been there at one point or another. If you haven’t, then
latch onto someone now.” They disapparated as a group, right before the small
wrinkled face of Miss Jenny peered through the window, looking in astonishment
at the suddenly empty street.
The Gates of Malfoy Manor appeared
solid and firm, but with Draco leading the group they proved to be no more
substantial than smoke as the party passed through. Draco heard Hermione
whispering to Ron and Harry, “That’s really impressive magic, very ancient!
I’ve never seen anything like it before, it must be a family spell. I just
thought that it would be the face every time…like it was when…when…well, it’s
really rather rare and impressive.” Ron mumbled something in response, which
was both indistinct and unquestionably derisive.
Draco flinched a little as one of
the white peacocks stepped across the path, he would have to get rid of the
bloody things, they were such a nuisance and incredibly embarrassing. White
peacocks of all the ridiculous things, what had his parents been thinking? It
was utterly absurd. He led the others straight down the path, not looking
around or talking but heading straight for the front door. As he opened the
door he heard a nervous squeak from the kitchen, and a small head with pointed
ears peaked down the hallway but as soon as the large eyes met his the head
nodded, there was another squeak, and the elf disappeared.
Draco ushered the others into the
room and torches lit the hallway, there was a murmur from the wall, and the
ancient painting that hung to the right of the door was muttering
indecipherable but undeniably foul expressions. Draco gave it a cold look, “Be
quiet, or I will personally remove you to the attic.”
The wizard in the painting stopped
talking, but gave him a deeply offended look.
He turned to the others, who were
looking at him with raised eyebrows. “Sorry about that,” he said, “I will speak
with them and ensure better behavior in the future. I have some business in the
upper floors, if you wouldn’t mind waiting here for a bit. The drawing room is
to your right, but there is quite a nice parlor at the back of the house, if
you follow the hallway to your left.” He glanced nervously at Hermione who was
looking pale but ferocious. Ron stood next to her, looking slightly ill and angry.
Harry caught his eye, and nodded
grimly, “Right then, to the left everyone.”
“I’ll have tea brought in to you in
two hours.” Draco said. “I…apologize for the wait, if you wish to explore the
gardens, you are welcome, but I recommend staying out of the upper floors. The
Death Eaters left a cocktail of rather unpleasant spells behind them,
presumably to torment my father for his poor performance. They did not, of
course, expect to be defeated, and thought they would have a little fun at his
expense once they won.”
As the others headed down the
hall, Draco turned to go up the stairs and felt a hand on his shoulder. It was
Neville, “Do you want someone to come with you?” Neville asked.
Draco paused and stared at the
Gryfindor uncomprehendingly, he took his foot of the stair that it was resting
on and turned to other wizard. “I don’t understand.” He said, “I was a beast to
you in school, and you’ve been…kind. It’s a bit hard to take, actually and I
can’t help wondering why.”
Neville shrugged and leaned back
against the wall, “Well, I guess I’m not afraid of you and you seem like you
need a friend. Besides, I reckon I can take you, so there’s no reason to be
intimidated by you.”
“So, you reckon I’m a pathetic
rich boy who has fallen from favor and in need of some friendship?” Draco said,
making a rather poor attempt at sounding derisive, and angry.
“That’s about the size of it.”
Neville said casually, “I mean, here you are, surrounded by people you still
aren’t sure won’t hex you the moment your back is turned. Ostracized, or worse,
by your former friends, and clearly you are getting ready to take on the
responsibilities of your family’s estate. I’d say you need a friend or two.”
“You’re wrong.” Draco said, putting
all his remaining pride into the words, holding back the surprise he felt at
Longbottom’s accurate assessment of his position, “I’m perfectly fine and I
don’t need anyone.”
“Fair enough.” Said Neville, in an
unconcerned tone of voice, “If you change your mind I won’t be hard to find.” He
smiled wryly and turned towards the hallway that the others had already gone
down then turned back. “Draco, by the way. Blaise sent a message. He said to
let you know that Daphne wanted to talk with you when you have a chance. The
Greengrass family are considering a betrothal between Astoria and a rich wizard
in Italy, Daphne thought that you might have some connections that could help
get her out of it.”
“Astoria! But she’s just a child!”
Draco said, surprised.
“She’ll be in seventh year this
year, we were doing much more shocking things than getting betrothed two years
ago. Come on Draco, you know how it works in pureblood society. Don’t act so
shocked.” And Neville turned down the hallway and disappeared.
Draco stared after him, and then
went up the stairs, his mind spinning. He spent some time in the room that had
once been his father’s office, but was now his, filling out paperwork and
replying to letters, then speaking with the house-elves, before travelling
through the house ridding it of some of the nasty spells left behind by
paranoid and sadistic death eaters. It was hard work, and by the end he was
thoroughly exhausted, partially singed, and half-wishing that he’d taken
Neville up on his offer of friendship. As he made his way downstairs he saw
that the door was opened to the drawing room, and approached it carefully. There
was a now-familiar wrenching stab in his chest.
Hermione stood in the center of
the room, alone, with her arms wrapped around her body, staring through the
opened window. She did not look up as he entered, but shifted slightly. “It is
just a room, isn’t it?” She said quietly, not looking at him. “Just an
elaborate drawing room, it doesn’t really have power, does it?”
“Rooms hold memories.” Draco said,
shifting uncomfortably under the weight of his own candor, “It’s not a pleasant
room…anymore, there have been too many murders here…too much torture…” He
trailed off looking at the floor.
She turned at the sound of his
voice and gave him a surprised look, “I…I’m sorry.” She said, “I thought you
were Ron.”
“No, just me I’m afraid.” He said,
“I can go if you’d rather.”
“No, it’s your house. I was
just…thinking.” She said, quietly.
“I am sorry.” He said, “If I could
turn back time....”
She laughed bitterly, “A lot of us
wish for that power, amazing that with all our magic we can’t manage to erase
the past. At least we can hope for a better future.”
“I wish I could leave it all
behind, start over.” Draco said, surprised by his own honesty, “It’s not that
simple.”
“Maybe you just think it’s more
difficult than it is.” Hermione suggested.
“No. No offense, but you weren’t
really born in our world,” She opened her mouth, looking offended, but he held
up a hand, “I’m not saying that you’re not brilliant, because its abundantly
clear that you are unreasonably intelligent. I’m just saying that it’s a
different world when you’re a pureblood. You’re born to a vocation that
requires you to commit to a way of life that connects you to the past as well
as the future. Family, history, blood, these things matter and are incredibly
important to us. There’s a lot of good tradition there, it’s not all dark
wizardry and hatred of muggles, ask Ernie MacMillan or…or Neville.”
“But if you’re not happy, then why
don’t you change things.” Hermione asked, perplexed.
“I will change things, I just
can’t escape the way that I’d like to. There’s over a thousand years of history
in this building. I can’t just walk away from it, to do that would be to forget
who I am. I’m not going to keep what was wrong, but I refuse to forget it. To
forget the past opens the doors for people to forget in the future and repeat
the same mistakes.”
“I don’t really understand.”
Hermione said, dryly, “Isn’t that why we have history books and scholars?”
“Do you really think that that
poor pathetic ghost actually gets people to listen to him? Only real scholars
like you and some of us pure bloods actually pay attention to his lectures.
They’re unaccountably boring. Or did you fail to notice apart from the
Ravenclaws and Neville Longbottom, you were the only person paying attention to
those lectures.” And some of the old haughtiness returned to his voice, as he
spoke,
“Very well.” Hermione said, her
eyes searching his face with strained look, as though she was trying to see
something deeper in him than he was willing to reveal.
“Look, just talk to one of your
pure-blood friends about it. They can probably explain it better than I can. Neville’s
estate has been in his family four hundred years longer than mine has. It’s one
of the oldest wizarding estates in Europe. There’s a reason that his family has
been pure blood for so long, despite the fact that they have never subscribed
to the idea of pureblood.”
“I will.” Hermione said, staring
at him as though she’d never seen him before, then she shook herself, “Right,
well, tea is probably getting cold. The House Elves told me they would be
brining it in soon when I came here.”
“Ah, yes, must not upset Corry too
much.” Said Draco, and led the way from the room. Pretending to be unaware of
the shock and surprise on Hermione’s face as she followed him.
The lunch was a simple affair by
Manor standards, something that had been unaccountably difficult for him to communicate
to the house elf, Corry, who had made a rather insultingly poor attempt at
disguising his delight at having the great Harry Potter as a guest, when Draco
had called him up to the office. Draco had begun making inroads towards
improving his treatment of the house elves, but the effort left him feeling
sour and out of sorts. So he was glad to have some vaguely hostile conversation
with Ron Weasely during the meal.
