Be Careful
103: Whose Heart You Hold
By Anne B. Walsh
It took an explosion that rocked the castle before the door of Draco’s prison so much as budged, but once it had he was able to force it open with a few blows from his shoulder. Dust and dirt settled onto him as he pelted down the corridor in the direction of the Headmaster’s office. A predominantly red-haired group, one member of which was far more still than it ought to be, passed through his sight momentarily and was gone.
Serves him right, the outer Draco sneered. That’s what happens when you ignore what’s really called for, in those of us lucky enough to have pure blood...
The inner Draco gritted his mental teeth and added another tally mark to the already overwhelming total of Voldemort’s crimes, then pushed the thought aside for the moment. There was work to be done.
The mental mask he wore, a combination of his own memories and the dreams he’d once had of being the perfect junior Death Eater, ought to help convince Voldemort his wild story was true, but it wouldn’t stand up to more than three sessions with Legilimency, and it controlled only his surface thoughts, not his actions. He was the one who’d have to make every word, every movement, that of a deeply wronged and wounded young man whose only thought was serving the Dark Lord and saving him from the unsuspected traitor.
And if I fumble even once, if he starts suspecting and looks a little deeper, once he gets past the mask he’ll never stop. There won’t be any me by the time he gets done, just a breathing body he can use to transport him to the otherworld and back again, so he can conquer them both.
“Dumbledore,” he snapped at the gargoyle guarding the spiral staircase, and took the stairs two at a time.
Not happening.
Not to me. Not to anyone.
He reached the top and slammed open the door. The portrait frames along the walls were deserted—the past Heads must have gone to see the fighting, along with every other portrait in the castle. That suited Draco just fine, as it meant he didn’t have to have a conversation which would have severely taxed the covering capabilities of the mask.
“Big portrait behind his desk,” he muttered aloud, hurrying to the frame he described. “Hidden compartment in back of it...”
To the outer Draco’s surprise, the portrait swung outward at his first pull. It must not stay latched when the old coot’s not here to anchor it, he decided, scooping up what lay within the compartment. More fool he, for running off at a time like this.
The inner Draco knew better. Dumbledore’s plan, mad and twisted as it was, was taking shape.
And it’s only right that I should be the one to pull it off, since I’m the one who interfered with his first one working out.
Thrusting his loot into his pocket and pushing the portrait back into place, he bolted for the stairs. The first part of his mission was accomplished. Now all he had to do was find the Dark Lord.
He won’t be here, but he’ll be nearby. Somewhere he can listen, and watch. Father would have known where that was, once upon a time. Probably still does, but now he’s not trusted enough to be out here fighting. No, there’s only one person who’ll know what I need to find out.
And coincidentally, she likes me a lot.
Remus’ back hit the stone floor of the entrance hall of Hogwarts, driving the wind from his lungs as his wand clattered against the nearest wall. Antonin Dolohov towered over him, leering.
I’m going to die.
With the acceptance of the fact, his eyes unfocused, looking past Dolohov to the great marble staircase he’d climbed so many times as both student and teacher. Bellatrix Lestrange stood halfway up, her face twisted into what passed for her smile as she took careful aim with her wand.
I’ve seen her look like that before. Somewhere.
Unbidden, the memory came. A dark room, lined with seats in the style of an ancient amphitheater, in its center a rough stone archway.
She’s doing her work, the task she’s given herself. Cleansing her family name, destroying the ones she sees as unfit.
But the only member of her family here is—
Remus’ eyes snapped shut, and opened again in another part of the hall. Everything felt strange, but he didn’t bother cataloguing differences. Instead he dived into the shelter of the stairs, trusting this body’s instincts to save the fall from being too rough. A flash of green behind him, and a brush against the sole of one shoe, told him how close the call had been.
Too close. But she’s alive.
And I’m not, or I shouldn’t be...
Across the hall, a brown-and-gray blur slammed itself against Dolohov’s legs, snatched the wand from his hand as he fell, and Stunned and tied him up in one fluid motion.
Or maybe I should.
Never, said an acid voice at the back of his mind, do that to me again.
What? Take over your body without your permission, or save your life?
Neither, you dope! Nearly get killed yourself!
Oh. I beg your pardon.
You should. Give me back my body and come find me. We’ll fight together from now on.
What a very good idea. Remus shut his eyes, or Tonks’ eyes, once more and willed himself home. I’ll see you soon.
Yes, you will, and if you don’t, I’ll know the reason why!
Rocking Teddy in her arms, Andromeda stiffened as her internal telltale for the curse she had laid over Bellatrix tightened painfully. No—not my daughter—
The knot loosened, and Andromeda breathed again. Nymphadora had escaped, by what means she did not know.
But obviously Bellatrix does not take me seriously.
Perhaps I should change that.
Smiling grimly to herself, she settled Teddy in his cot and left the room.
No wise Healer placed a spell on a patient without knowing some way to enable it manually.
“Aunt Bella!” Draco caught at her arm, dodged her automatic swing of the wand, and held up his hand to show it empty, turning the motion into a frantic beckoning. “I need your help!”
“Where have you been since yesterday?” his aunt demanded, yanking him into the nearest hallway. “And what have you done to yourself? Your arm—”
“Snape’s a traitor,” Draco cut her off. “Dumbledore’s man, he always was. He’s going to give us away to Potter if he gets the chance. I have to see the Dark Lord, right away. Where is he?”
“In Hogsmeade, in the Shrieking Shack, but the Apparition wards—”
“I can’t let them stop me!” A bit of his very real desperation slipped out through the mask, and all at once Draco knew exactly how he would get to the Shrieking Shack. “I’ve got to find a way! I’ve got to—I—”
He spun in place and, judging by the expression on Aunt Bella’s face, apparently vanished.
Whereas in reality I have merely become smaller.
Quite a lot smaller.
Andromeda stood in the center of her living room, arms upraised in gentle curves, eyes closed. In her mind, in her heart, she was reliving her life, as though she and not her daughter had just passed through the nearness of death.
That childhood. So cramped, so stilted, so unnatural a thing, and yet I managed to learn what love was, and that I could never live without it. How it is that I did, and my sisters did not, I suppose I shall never know.
Then her Hogwarts years, the triumphs and despairs of learning magic, the decision to dedicate her own life to saving others, and the fumbling awakening to just what it meant that she sought the company of a stocky Hufflepuff in the year above her own to the exclusion of all others. She had feared so greatly that he could not, would not, did not, but he had soothed away those fears as he had all her others, with deft touches of his broad hands and his soft lips on hers.
Oh, I have known love indeed. Love passionate and boiling hot, love quiet and simmering warm, the one for nights and the other for days. He had always a laugh, a smile, a touch, a turn of the head, that could make me love him more than I had the minute before, and he swore I had the same.
Their daughter’s birth had drawn them even closer, turned them into a two-world system with a little pink-haired witch as the sun. By turns each parent spoiled and corrected, pampered and disciplined, and somehow the girl grew up as normal as most magical children ever did. When Nymphadora chose to become an Auror, Andromeda thought her heart would burst with mingled fear and pride, and Ted swelled his chest in public and shed tears of terror in private.
“Parents aren’t meant to outlive their children,” he’d told his wife, his voice shaking in a way he never let his daughter hear. “What are we going to do if we lose her?”
In some ways, I am glad he is gone.
He would not approve of the answer I am about to give to that question.
Andromeda brought her palms slowly together, imagining the air between her hands being squeezed more and more tightly with every passing instant. Those on whom my curse now rests, let them suffer this same fate, she willed, her two brutal brothers-in-law firmly before her mental eyes. Let their hearts be wrung and strained for the sake of hate, as mine has been for the sake of love, and give them no rest or respite unless they can summon up some tiny piece of love for some living creature other than themselves...
Luke’s three-legged, limping run down the stairs and towards the Whomping Willow took on the qualities of a nightmare, which Draco thought was just fine. The less his mask-self remembered of the journey, the better.
Let him, and his dear Dark Lord, assume necessity and accidental magic combined to crack the Apparition wards this once. Who knows, it might even be possible.
He slipped between the thrashing branches of the tree and into the cramped tunnel, bounding along as quickly as he could manage. His mind was clearing, and that wasn’t good.
If I run up against some big contradiction, something I can obviously do that doesn’t fit the mind and the world of the brat I used to be, it could break the mask before I ever get to use it. Even if I can hang onto it, it won’t be as strong as it was before. But this was the only way to get here in time, truly it was...
A familiar voice warned him just in time that he was approaching the other end of the tunnel. “Here he is, my lord. Must I stay?”
“No, Lucius, you may go,” the Dark Lord answered smoothly. “My business with Severus is private.”
Perfect. Here we go.
Luke scurried out of the tunnel and around the darkest edge of the shabby room, nipped out the door between his father’s feet, and was staggering, human, into the entryway when Lucius turned around. “Father,” he choked out, bringing the mask to the fore again. My father, my idol, everything in life I’ve ever wanted to be...
“Draco!” Lucius caught him into what felt suspiciously like an embrace, then let him go to look him over anxiously. “Merlin’s blood, your arm—”
“It doesn’t hurt now,” Draco fibbed, coughing on the last word. Lucius conjured a glass of water, and Draco gulped half of it down. “Thanks,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “It’d been a while. Was that Snape I saw with you? Is the Dark Lord here?”
“Yes, yes, but what does that matter? You’re here—”
“To expose Snape for what he really is,” interrupted Draco. “He’s a traitor, Father, a traitor and a spy. Dumbledore’s man to the core.” He held up his bandaged stump before Lucius’ horrified, fascinated eyes. “And he burned my Mark out of my flesh to stop me telling the Dark Lord that.”
One truth, one lie, and the verdict on the mask is... The inner Draco swore to himself at the results of his impromptu test. Not good. It’ll last me one go-round with Legilimency, but only one.
Here’s hoping one is all I need.
Leaning on his father’s arm, Draco made his entrance for the role of a lifetime.
‘Tis late and I must to bed. More on Friday.