Be Careful
4: Where You Count To
By Anne B. Walsh
Draco pulled back, startled. "What?"
"You called me Mother." The known-unknown woman smiled half-hesitantly at him. "I have never married. The one man I thought I could learn to love has loved another for longer than he can recall. I have filled my life with my work, and my other family, and I am happy. But you…" She reached out a hand and cupped his face. "You are alone, and I know what it is to be alone. In the darkness of the night, in a silent afternoon, even in a room filled with other people." Her thumb wiped a tear from his cheek. "Let us no longer be lonely. Let what you called me be the truth."
Draco clenched his teeth as two powerful, opposing tides rose within him. Melodramatic woman, sneered one. And you—pitiful, disgusting, needy little brat that you are—do you really think she'll want you around after she gets to know you?
She has no reason to lie, whispered the other. Look at her face! She wants this as much as you do. And you do want it, you know you do…
You can want anything! howled the first voice. That doesn't make it good for you!
This is what you need, the second voice countered. What you have always needed and never had.
It is a trick! A trap! A tempest of fury raged through the words
No. It is the truth. Calm, reasonable, quiet, serene.
Draco made his choice in that instant, and chose as he had always chosen. The side of strength, as he perceived it, over that of weakness.
He flung his arms around his mother and held her close, as a lifetime's worth of tears threatened to wash him away.
She gathered him in and rocked him, back and forth, murmuring love to him. It wasn't until he felt a tear fall on the back of his neck that he realized she was crying too, and began to understand what she had risked in making him the offer. If he had said no—worse, laughed at her, scorned her—
I didn't. Let it go at that.
At last they lay side by side on the bed, his face still pressed against her shoulder, her arms over and around him. Sleep wanted him, he knew, it wanted to come and claim him, but he didn't want to sleep. He wanted to stay here forever, safe in his mother's embrace, in the new world he'd discovered, where nothing could hurt him ever again…
Against his will, his eyes closed, and he knew nothing more.
Narcissa Malfoy hurried down the corridor, lit wand in her hand. She had gone to wake her son when he hadn't come to breakfast, but the only sign of Draco in his room had been a crumpled set of robes near the bathroom door and the upset bedcovers. He had been there, that much was obvious.
But where is he now?
Rather than worry Lucius, she was investigating the upper floors of the house on her own. It was possible he'd been unable to fall asleep last night after—that (even her mind, inured as it was, shied away from what she'd seen), that he'd taken a book or some other amusement into one of the unused rooms so that no one would disturb him, that he'd lost track of time or fallen asleep there instead—
And as she thought it, she opened a door, and there he was. Fully dressed, lying on his side, asleep on a dusty bed. Tear tracks stained his face, making him look absurdly young, eleven instead of seventeen, and she wished once again that there were something she could do, some shield she could raise between him and the pain of the world.
Enough. There is none. He is a man now, and must act like one. The times, and our position, demand it.
She leaned over him and shook his shoulder to wake him.
Draco roused, and took a moment to luxuriate in the comfort of the bed without opening his eyes. He hated waking up quickly, rushing out of the settled comfort of sleep into the worries of the day. With a war going on, though, slow waking was a luxury, and one he hadn't been able to afford for a long time.
When I could sleep at all.
But it was over now, all over. There was no war here, nothing but some vague "troubles" far in the past, no reason to lose sleep or throw oneself out of it suddenly. He would have to ask Healer Black—Mother, he corrected himself, and smiled at the thought—what the "troubles" had been like, who they had been against and how they had ended, but that could wait—
"Draco!" The hiss was familiar, as was the second, more urgent shake. "Draco, get up!"
"Mother?" Startled, suddenly worried, Draco opened his eyes. "What's—"
The word died on his tongue as he saw the woman before him.
Oh, yes, Mother, a voice in the back of his mind mocked. That she certainly is. But not the one you were expecting, is she?
"What are you doing up here?" Narcissa Malfoy asked, looking around the small and dusty room. "Why did you get dressed, but not come to breakfast?"
"I—" Draco sat up, fighting his face into some semblance of bewildered normality. "I don't know. I don't remember coming up here. I took my robes off and went to bed, and then—"
"Sleepwalking." Narcissa shook her head. "I'm not surprised. Not with last night." An awkward hand on his shoulder, quickly withdrawn. "Come to breakfast. You must be hungry."
"I'll be down in a moment, Mother. Thank you for coming." Polite words, meaningless words, but they made her smile and hurry out of the room and shut the door behind her, and that was all he wanted.
Draco flopped back down on the bed, buried his face in one of the dusty pillows, and snarled three of the worst curses he knew. Then he yanked at both ends of the pillow, for good measure. The fabric tore slightly at the top of the case, and a feather or two floated free.
Sleepwalking. That makes it all make sense, doesn't it? I got up, put on a fresh set of robes, and came up here to lie down again. Possibly making a few other stops along the way, if I was acting out my whole dream.
His cheeks burned with shame. Such a pretty, perfect place you dreamed up, Draco. Would it have been impossible to show a little common sense? To remember that perfect places don't exist? That anything that good, that happy, can't be real?
Poor little baby, the inward voice taunted. Dreamed he'd flown to the moon, and woke up crying for the stars.
Angrily, he swiped a hand across his eyes, smearing dust and tears together on his cheeks. He'd have to stop and wash his face before presenting himself at the breakfast table.
I could have been happy there. I know I could.
And that's what should have told me it was just a dream.
Shoving the thoughts away, Draco stood up and walked towards the door. Before he opened it, though, he took another look around the room. Small it was, dusty it might be, but it was a place he could have been—no, a place he had been happy.
Dream or no dream, that feeling was real.
He'd start moving his things after breakfast.
Draco distracted himself as he worked with thoughts about the dream-world he'd left behind.
Aunt Andy and Mo—no, Healer Tonks and Healer Black—they were Heirs of Ravenclaw, M—Healer Black said so herself. I wonder if there are Heirs of Hufflepuff and Gryffindor too? And who are the Heirs of Slytherin, or are there any if there's not—him? He cast a look towards the door, towards the stairs, towards the Dark Lord whose Mark he still carried on his arm and in his magic.
None of them said anything about the Mark. I'm not sure they even noticed it. Or if they did, maybe they just thought it was a tattoo. He snickered. "What, this? No, I'm not the evil follower of a Dark wizard, I'm just your typical rebellious teenager. Nothing to see here, move along."
Taking his own advice, he levitated the first wandload of books up the stairs, a bag of clothing slung over his shoulder. For all his family's money, he'd never managed to accumulate too many things—or maybe that was just the effect of living out of a trunk for the past six years.
Whatever it is, it's making my life easier now. Huzzah.
He dropped his load just inside the door and went back for the next.
His father was standing outside the door of his bedroom, looking bemusedly at the chaos within.
"Sir," Draco acknowledged, stopping short of the door. A sudden, impossible urge to laugh struck him as he recalled who, in the other world, had been the master of the house.
Father'd come over apoplectic if I told him. And then find something sharp and silver and go out hunting…
The recollection of another sudden terrified death quashed the laughter effectively, and Draco looked up and met the eyes so like his own. "Did you need me, Father?" he asked.
"Not particularly. I was curious to see what you were busying yourself with, is all." Lucius turned to regard the room once more. "Do you no longer care for your room?"
"There's nothing wrong with it…" Draco hesitated, trying to find the right words to explain without immediately labeling himself as insane.
Lucius frowned. "Why, then, the move? You have slept in this room since you were a baby."
Draco grabbed at the word thankfully. "That's exactly why, Father. Because I'm not a baby. Not anymore. I'm of age now. I should act like it."
"Ah, I see." The eyes gained a trace of—was that approval? "So you hope, by changing your surroundings, to give yourself a constant reminder of your new status."
"Yes. That's it." Draco let a smile get onto his face. "Not quite the way I'd have put it, but… yes. That's what I'm doing."
Lucius laughed aloud, and the hand he laid on Draco's shoulder was fatherly in the extreme. "It does not matter to me how you put it, so long as you know what you are doing, my son. I have been worried about you. It is good to see you starting to find your feet again." He squeezed Draco's arm. "Make me proud."
"That's all I've ever wanted, Father," Draco said, shutting his eyes for a split second to hide the lie.
All I've ever wanted—until now.
"Then we will do very well together as men," Lucius said, squeezing tighter for a moment, then releasing his grip. "Very well indeed."
Draco watched his father down the hall and around the corner before he returned to his work.
Talk about ironic. I try all my life to do what he wants, to be what he is, and I fall and fail and never get anywhere. One night, one dream, about things he wouldn't touch with three of his canes put together, and suddenly he thinks I'm worth noticing again…
He swallowed against the pain that thinking of his dream world had brought him. He's willing to be my father again. That's all that matters. And Mother—
A sharp shake of the head as Cecilia Black's face tried to interpose itself on Narcissa Malfoy's. No more dreams. Dreams are nice, but life is what matters.
And right now, life consists of moving everything I own from one floor of this house to another.
Throwing another bag of clothes over his left shoulder, Draco pointed his wand at the second pile of books. "Wingardium Leviosa."
Fifteen minutes, three more Levitating Charms, and a lot of sweat later, he stood in the doorway of his new room, his belongings at his feet, looking around.
Maybe I should have cleaned first.
Oh well. I'll know for next time.
If there is a next time.
He lifted his wand again and concentrated his mind on the task at hand. Domestic spells or not, this was a job for a skilled wizard.
"Evanesco!" The dust was gone.
"Scourgify!" Floor and walls gleamed as though freshly polished.
"Alohomora!" The window sprang open, and a brisk summer breeze flirted the curtains.
"Revisere!" The bedlinens lost their mustiness, and the pillow he'd torn mended itself, a last feather tucking into the pillowcase with apologetic haste.
Ha. Draco lowered his wand, a triumphant smile on his lips. Beat that, Granger.
The books were quickly arranged on the shelves built against one wall, the mementos and pictures with them or hung up around the room. His schoolbooks went on a corner of the desk—even if he couldn't return to Hogwarts, he could still study—and his quills and ink and parchment in the drawers. Underclothes, socks, shirts, trousers flew from the bags into the bureau.
Finally, Draco unlatched the large wardrobe, then turned to the bag holding his robes. "Accio." It scooted across the floor to him, and he pulled it open and dragged out a handful of black. He would hang them all up first, and then do a mass Cleaning Charm and Anti-Wrinkle Spell on them, to save time.
Three sets of work robes, the letter always says, but who stays with three? Most of us end up with at least five, and I've always had seven, just in case of accidents. Can't be too careful about how you look.
Draco hung the seventh robe from its hook and stepped back, preparing to cast his spell.
Then he stopped.
Seven robes. I hung up seven robes.
But I'm—
He bit his lip, deliberately cutting off that thought. There was still work to be done. He aimed his wand and cast.
But deep in his heart, a seed began to sprout. A seed of excitement, of anticipation, even, perhaps, of hope.
Late that night, Draco lay in his new bed and stared at the pale outline of the window.
The thought tried to return. This time, he let it.
I only own seven robes. And there are seven robes hanging in that wardrobe.
But I'm wearing robes right now. I have been all day.
Where did they come from?
He shut his eyes, trying to summon sleep, but sleep didn't want to come this time. His mind was too busy, too filled with ideas and wonderings, and sleep kept a wary distance. He tossed, turned, punched his pillow into shape what felt like a hundred times, and sleep still refused to arrive.
Finally, Draco sighed, climbed out from under the covers, and curled into an approximation of the position he remembered from the morning. "There," he muttered to sleep. "Happy now?"
It would seem, from the rapidity of sleep's arrival, that sleep was very happy indeed.
"Come on, sleepyhead, wake up," teased a gentle voice in his ear, and the arm around him tightened in a momentary hug. "We'll be late to dinner if you don't…"
Draco didn't even bother to open his eyes. He knew.
One tear escaped his left eye. A second later, one followed from his right.
"Crying again?" A cloth whisked across his cheeks. "That's enough of that, now. You're at the perfect number already."
"Perfect number?"
"Two is just right for you today." A hand across his hair, half a caress, half a motherly straightening. "Two for joy." Lips against his cheekbone. "My joy. But my sorrow if you won't get out of bed at five o'clock in the afternoon!"
Draco opened his eyes and smiled at Healer Black—
No, at my mother. My mum.
Dream or no dream, she's mine now.
"One for sorrow," he recited, "two for joy."
"That's right." Her smile in return sent warmth shooting straight down to his toes. "Do you know the rest?"
"Three for a girl and four for a boy," Draco said, sitting up. "And I know the next lines are about money, or treasure, but I can never remember them."
"Five for silver, six for gold," Mum reminded him. "And seven—"
"For a secret," Draco finished. "Never told. But I don't have any secrets. Except that I'm hungry."
"I believe I may have a cure for that." Mum stood up and held out her hands, drawing him to his feet beside her. "Come with me. It's time to meet your family."
My family. Draco repeated the words to himself, marveling in their sound, even in silence. My family.
Unseen on the pillow, five small round spots of wetness gleamed where Draco's face had been. Two of them dried quickly in the breeze from the open window, then two more. But the last one stubbornly refused to fade.
Fate was not finished with Draco Malfoy just yet.