The Phoenix Potion - chapter 10 - On Probation (July 21, 1997)
Still working on my Dramione fic. Still not sorry. Also on AO3.
It was oddly calming to look at the little creek that ran through the small wilderness in the parc of Malfoy Manor. Draco had loved this place as a child, and so far, this place had not been compromised, not tainted by killing or torture. Listening to the burbling water was soothing.
Draco tried to gain control of his thoughts. He would have to become a better occlumens if he wanted any chance of survival at all. He had prided himself that he was good enough to shut out Dumbledore, but his certainty about his skills had wavered when he understood that Dumbledore must have known the whole time. When his mother had thanked Severus Snape for finishing the task that had been his, he had finally understood. Snape had told Dumbledore about his task, and Dumbledore had trusted Snape that he would prevent Draco from killing him. Only to be betrayed.
So, Draco did not know if his occlumency had really been enough to shut out Dumbledore. And it was just his luck that the person who had proven to be a better occlumens than Dumbledore was also the one person he couldn’t possibly ask to help him hone his skills. Draco had to scoff. It would certainly be not a good idea to ask Snape if he could teach him more occlumency so that the Dark Lord would not realise that Draco was not loyal, that he hated him.
For now, it was probably best not to shield his thoughts too obviously. A blank mind would be suspicious. He would have to concentrate on the thoughts that could not expose him. And he probably should practice his unspoken spells.
One of the bushes at the creek rustled. A small ferret sniffed at the air and descended to the creek. Draco went still and slowly directed his wand at the animal. It was time to test a theory. He hated ferrets anyway.
Draco remembered his fourth year and Alastair Moody who had introduced the unforgivable curses. “Each of you could yell the killing curse and nothing would happen.”
“Avada kedavra”, he thought, and a green light shot from his wand and hit the ferret. The little animal fell into the creek with a splash.
Draco edged closer, when the ferret sprang up again, shook itself and ran.
“Looks like I don’t hate ferrets that much,” Draco muttered under his breath.
“What a strange pastime, Draco,” he heard a voice behind him. “Did you try to kill that poor ferret?”
It was Severus Snape. And there was no use denying anything. The green light of the killing curse was rather unique.
Draco shrugged. “Just practicing unspoken spells. They need some refining.” That was not a lie.
Severus Snape face was unreadable. “The Dark Lord awaits us in his dining room. He wants to sit in judgement amongst his loyal followers.”
Draco did not comment on the fact that it was not actually the Dark Lord’s dining room. That the Dark Lord had taken over the manor as his residence was supposedly an honour. Draco did not doubt that the judgement would not be in favour of Hogwarts teacher Charity Burbage who was being held at the manor to await her fate.
The cold sweat that ran down his back as soon as he came into the Dark Lord’s presence had become oddly familiar. The Dark Lord’s eyes on him felt like a heavy burden. Draco pushed his fear into the forefront of his thoughts. Better to be thought a coward than a traitor.
The so-called judgement on Charity Burbage went as was to be expected. Bile rose in Draco’s throat when the Dark Lord killed her and fed her to Nagini. He tried to look elsewhere and concentrated on not throwing up. He barely registered that they made plans to hunt down Potter. He did not know if he should be relieved that he was not to be involved. It meant that he would not have to move against the one person who might have at least a chance to defeat the Dark Lord, but it also was clear that he was not trusted. And Draco was certain, that he would get another task to test him.
It was barely a surprise that his father had to give up his wand. The Dark Lord had no qualms about showing his distrust. Draco hated to see his father so subservient. It only reminded him that all the bravado and pride his father had expressed over the years had been a lie. It only reminded him that the man he thought would protect him at any cost was helpless in the face of the dark wizard who had occupied their house. That death might hit any time. Draco tried to bolt from the table as soon as the plan on how to catch Potter was agreed upon, but the Dark Lord called him back.
“Draco.” His eyes seemed to bore into Draco’s scull and Draco desperately pushed his fear in the front of his mind again. It was not difficult.
“I have a task for you, that should be easy enough.”
The other death eaters laughed. Draco could see his mother pressing her lips together.
“My Lord,” he answered.
“There is this mudblood, that hangs around with Harry Potter,” the Dark Lord said. “What is her name?”
Draco bowed for a moment, breaking eye contact. His fear threatened to overwhelm him. His thoughts whirled. When he looked up again and met the Dark Lord’s eyes again, the memory of Hermione punching him in the face in third year was the thought he pushed forward.
“Granger.”
The Dark Lord laughed. “You let that slip of a girl hit you.”
Draco blushed and held on to the memory of the punch. He felt the Dark Lord probing his mind further. “She bested me in every class but potions. She does not know her place. I’ve hated her for years.” Not a lie.
It was easy to string thoughts about her into a line for the Dark Lord to follow, thoughts about her besting him, about her getting points, about her waving her arm, when she wanted to answer a question. It was even easy to conjure up the feelings of hate and disgust he had felt once, his simmering sense of the unfairness of their teachers favouring her. Draco did not know if he imagined it, but he almost felt the Dark Lord picking up his thoughts and looking at them.
The Dark Lord smirked. “Then you should have no problem, getting your revenge by killing her and her parents.”
Draco should have expected it. It still felt like a punch, and he could feel the blood drain from his face. He pushed his fear, his hesitation, his cowardice in the front of his mind, in the hope, that his reluctance, his revulsion would stay hidden.
The man laughed. “You really are not the most strong-willed of my death eaters, are you?”
Draco felt more than he saw that his mother was about to step forward.
“My Lord,” she called out. “Let me do this!”
“Ah, Narcissa,” the Dark Lord said. “No, Draco shall do it. He must learn how to kill. We must root out pity in our followers. We have access to the ministry’s files on mudbloods and their parents. Minister Thickness will give you the address.”
The Dark Lord nodded to the heavily imperiussed minister who smiled blithely.
***
Draco kissed his mum on the cheek before he left. He did not dare to show more affection. It would not do that anybody would suspect that he had no intention to follow the Dark Lord’s order. He suspected his mother knew. She had volunteered to relieve him of his task, as if her killing for him would save him. As if it would make this any better. Deep in her eyes he saw her desperation. Not telling her anything was the only choice he had.
It was dark by the time he apparated to 7, Mayweed Grove. No lights burned in the house. He tested for wards and was surprised to find none. Either Granger had been so stupid as to feel safe or her wards were undetectable. He suspected the latter, but even running several detection spells produced nothing. Could the Grangers have left? Draco felt a flicker of hope. He might not have to fake a defeat after all.
He opened the door with an unspoken alohomora. He enlightened the house with his hand of glory and searched through the house. It was mostly empty, only odd pieces left, a shattered photo frame here, an abandoned stool there. The house still felt like it had been inhabited until recently, but the family had moved out. And although the move had been hasty, the lack of furniture told Draco that it had been planned. He left out a breath he did not know he had been holding. Although he knew he probably should report back, curiosity made him search all the rooms.
Draco decided that the room on the left with a blue carpet had been Hermione’s. He could smell the lingering smell of violets, persistent but unobtrusive. There was a note of cinnamon as well, a sharp refreshing lemony overtone and just a hint of fresh paper. The smell reminded him of something, but the memory eluded him for the moment.
He sighed in relief. She was gone. She and her parents had probably left the country. His lips burned with the memory of the kiss they had shared in the hospital wing on that moonlit night.
Before he left, he picked up the shattered photo frame that had stayed behind in what probably used to be the living room. A middle-aged couple about the age of his own parents, but with a look of normalcy about them smiled into the camera. They did not move. Draco shook the photo before he remembered that Muggle photos did not move. He recognised Hermione’s eyes in the face of the woman. She had obviously inherited her curls from her father though. Even with his hair cut short the curls were distinctive.
“I wonder how you would look with short hair,” he told an absent Hermione.
He was about to leave when something struck him as odd. The couple on the picture was not in the centre of the photo. Mr Granger had one arm around his wife, but the other lay on the back of the sofa. Draco could easily picture Hermione sitting next to her parents.
It hit him then. She had not left the country. He could hear his own ragged breath, when his knees gave way under him while he tried to fit the puzzle pieces. Her parents had left the country, but not her. She had tempered with their minds. A kind of memory charm, that had affected the photos. Wherever Mr and Mrs Granger were they probably had no idea they had owned this house or had a daughter. They were safe and could not be used as leverage against Hermione. Draco let out a wail of anguish. If he knew her at all she would be with Potter and in danger of getting into the ambush the Dark Lord planned.
There was a chance that she would be somewhere safe already, maybe with the Weasleys. Not a very comforting thought, but still better than in danger. Draco tried to make his mind work. He should return, that would be safer for his mother, but he also should probably hide what he had found out. He wondered if his method of pushing his fear at the front of this thoughts would be enough.
A shadow of a plan formed in his mind. He went into the former kitchen and looked for some glass that could serve his purpose. He found an empty bottle which would have to do. He transformed the bottle into a vial. Reluctantly, he pulled memories from his mind. Hermione at the Yule Ball, beautiful as a fay, Hermione flushed with excitement when she mastered a spell. Hermione’s eyes searching for him after he had been strong enough to go to classes again. Each memory that might betray him went into the vial. When he retrieved the memory of the moonlit night in the hospital wing, he almost cried. A faint smell of violets was in his nose. He corked the vial and slipped it into his pockets. He searched for the memory of their kiss and just found the certainty that it had happened, as if it was something that someone else had done. There would be nothing for the Dark Lord to find.
Afterwards he wreaked havoc on the house. He cast about every destructive spell he could think of, quickly and in short order, systematically reducing the house to shreds. He disapparated when the neighbours called the Muggle police.
“They have fled the country”, Draco told the Dark Lord. He could feel Severus Snape’s scrutinizing eyes on him. His mother’s face gave nothing away, not even a faint echo of the relief Draco knew she felt.
He let him pick his brain, led him on a short chase after his relief that he had not had to kill. He had his reputation as a coward to uphold after all.
“Your wand,” the Dark Lord said.
Draco handed over his wand. The Dark Lord cast a priori incantatem on it. Fortunately, he was bored by the destructive spells that the wand spouted long before the detraction of memories was shown.
“Why didn’t you just burn the house?”, the Dark Lord asked.
Draco shrugged. The vial felt like a block of ice against his leg, while cold sweat ran down his back.
“I thought it was a good opportunity to practice unspoken spells,” he answered. Not a lie.
