Chapter 8
You have a chance to fix your mess, Draco read. Believe in yourself, risk everything. But do not assume that you can outsmart death.
Kind words. They were scribbled across the desk.
It must have been Regulus who wrote them.
With one finger, he traced the words.
Do not assume that you can outsmart death.
All he ever heard about Regulus’s death was that he was a traitor who deserved to die. It was speculated that either the Order of the Phoenix killed him or the Dark Lord himself. Yet no matter how he died, he knowingly faced death.
“I might die too, Regulus” he whispered, his gaze burning into the desk.
A sudden knock ripped him out of his thoughts.
“Draco?” Bill peeked inside.
Draco looked to the side, not keen on meeting his gaze.
“Hello.” He replied quietly.
Bill stepped inside and closed the door behind him in a careful manner.
“I came to check up on you.”
Breathe, breathe.
“You didn’t come for days.” Draco spoke to the desk. His fingernails dug hard into his palm.
“I know. There was a lot going on and I didn’t quite find the time.“
Draco turned around slowly to face Bill.
“How’s Fleur?” he asked with a lump in his throat.
Bill faltered and his face turned sad.
“She is in St. Mungo.”
“Will she make it?” Draco whispered.
“Yes. Yes, of course. She- it’s not critical, not at all. But the Death Eaters still messed her up.”
That took a load off his mind. He breathed out shakily. “I’m so sorry.”
Bill didn’t answer, but his face spoke volumes.
Draco averted his gaze.
“How are you holding up?” Bill asked eventually, his voice raspy.
Draco looked around in the old room. He cleaned it thoroughly.
“I’m alright.” He answered and crossed his hands behind his back. Bill didn’t look pleased with his answer.
“Do you need anything?”
He was just about to shake his head when he thought of something.
“Can you bring me some paper, a quill and ink?” he asked carefully, “Just to pass time.”
“Of course,” Bill nodded, “I’ll see to it.”
“Thank you.”
An awkward silence arose. Bill then cleared his throat and gestured at the door.
“Okay, if that’s everything…”
“Wait!” Draco yelped. “Uhm… may I write my friends a letter?”
Bill‘s face contorted into a grimace. “I don’t think that’s a good idea…”
“Please!” Draco pleaded. “I need to know which side they are on. Whether we’re still friends or not.”
“You won’t write about that.”
“But-“
“No. It’s too dangerous.”
Draco shuffled back, tears pricking at his eyes. He’s far too emotional these days.
Bill pressed his lips together. “I’ll see what I can do, okay? But I can’t promise anything.”
“Thank you,” breathed Draco before furiously rubbing at his eyes. He hadn’t meant to cry.
“May I see Peksy?”
Bill considered it before shaking his head. “She can’t enter the house and you can’t leave. So, no.”
“Makes sense.”
“Anything else?”
“I’ve run out of toilet paper,” said Draco quietly.
“I’ll send some up. If that’s it, I kinda need to get going now, I’ve already been here longer than I planned,” said Bill and tapped his bare wrist.
“No, that’s it. Thank you.”
Bill nodded and left without another word, leaving Draco feeling more miserable than before. The loneliness really got to him.
He appreciated Bill’s company, but Bill didn’t even like him.
How could he, when Draco is the reason his girlfriend was at St. Mungo’s.
Draco stared down at the desk in agony. Then, he mindlessly pulled open a drawer. He’d never even thought about rummaging through them, the thought alone feeling disrespectful. Now, he didn’t care about that.
Inside he found tons of old paper, closely written. He picked one up.
Sirius is not my brother, he read, he missed his chance to come back to us. Now that he is gone, we will burn his name out of the tapestry.
I know he hates me; it’s written all over his face when he looks at me. The disdain, the fury. The feeling is mutual, dear stranger.
Draco swallowed before putting it back. This was personal. He didn’t fancy involving himself in drama that happened centuries ago.
He didn’t care to read the rest.
He shoved it back into the drawer and wandered to his bed where he flopped down. He groaned into a pillow.
The last few days have been horrible. Draco felt himself losing sanity every minute he spent alone in this room.
He tried everything to cure his boredom while also attempting not to brood over Mother or Bill and Fleur.
He blinked a rhythm. Blink, blink, blinkblinkblink.
He whistled, he sang. The words just came to his mind.
He was in a reverie most of the time. Daydreaming kept him busy.
Sleep didn’t come easy to him, nightmares woke him every night. And yet he spent a majority of his time dozing away.
And he was slowly going crazy.
Changing the sheets on the first day left him frustrated already. He never had to do it before and in the end, he wanted to rip his hair out. Luckily, he didn’t go through with it, so now he could still run his fingers through his beautiful strands. Although it really needed a wash.
He will take a shower later. Just… not now. He was too tired to get up again.
Later. Later. Later.
Draco woke with a start. The moon shone through his window; it was the middle of the night. Yet he was wide awake.
A nightmare interrupted his sleep. Something about an exploding house and dark creatures that hovered in the air. Their faces were covered by weird masks, very pointed and golden. Someone was screaming.
Draco supposed his mind made up its own idea of the evening of the attack on Bill and Fleur’s flat. He shuddered; the images still flashed in his mind. It was scary. The heavy weight of guilt returned, making Draco feel sick to his stomach.
He rolled out of bed and shuffled to the attached bathroom. The door groaned loudly and Draco cursed before slipping in. The light flickered on and Draco shielded his eyes. Then he turned on the tap and splashed his face. He looked into the mirror that hung above the washbasin and sneered at his mirror image.
The rings under his eyes really popped out in contrast to his pale skin. And not to mention his hair- it fell flat on his head, greasy and thin.
At least his cheeks weren’t so hollow anymore, now that he got good food on a regular.
He buried his face in the towel and propped up his elbows on the washbasin. So tired. So, so tired. And yet wide awake.
He hated how he stagnated here. He was used to feeling alone, feeling lonely, but in the past he could always count on his mother to have his back.
Not anymore. Now he was truly alone.
Mother would not want that. She would want him to keep going, to never give up on himself. Because he was the only one who can take the reins for his life, she always told him.
He longed for her warmth so deeply it hurt.
With light tremors he took away the towel and blinked at his mirror image.
Suddenly, the crackling sound of apparition reached his ears. Draco froze up.
He heard quiet muttering. Somebody was strolling through his- Regulus room.
“This is ridiculous,” the person muttered darkly, a bit muffled through the door, “These blood traitors are spreading everywhere.”
Draco backed up and pressed himself against the wall. He stared ahead with wide eyes.
Didn’t Bill say that nobody ever came in here?
The person grunted angrily, going back and forth, rummaging through some things.
Draco dared to glance out through the door crack. What he saw surprised him. A house elf was in his room. A very old and grumpy house elf. A dirty loincloth hung loosely around his body, and he had a crooked hump.
His blanket has been thrown on the floor, his pile of clothes next to his bed knocked over.
Suddenly the house elf looked in his direction. Draco flinched back behind the door and tried to keep his breathing under control. Panic rose in his chest.
“Kreacher saw the strange man,” the house elf croaked, “What would my poor mistress say? Kreacher got used to a lot of things, but this room is off limits.”
The door was thrown open and Draco stood face to face with that creature who stared up at him in disgust. Draco could only manage a grimace.
“You foul thing, probably here to steal Master Regulus things, aren’t you? Just like the rest of them blood traitors, doing whatever they want.” He muttered. “Disgusting mudbloods.”
Draco was too stunned to speak. He already grew a dislike against the elf just for assuming he was anything other than an eminent pure blood.
“Nobody sleeps up here!” he grunted. “Get out! Get out!”
“I’m supposed to be here,“ Draco tried to defend himself, “You can ask Bill, he told me told to stay in this room.”
Kreacher’s face lit up when Draco mentioned Bill. “Bill said that?” he asked, looking very suspicious of him, “But Bill never mentioned you. Kreacher has never seen you before.”
“Yes! Uh, yes. He- I’m new. Here. I didn’t want to sleep in a room with the others.” Draco laughed awkwardly.
Kreacher sneered. “No wonder,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. What is your name?”
Draco blinked. He couldn’t really give out his real name, now could he?
“Gerry… Weasley,” he offered after a moment.
“Great, another blood traitor.” Kreacher glowered at the floor. “You do remind Kreacher of the young Mr Malfoy.”
“I do?”
Kreacher scrutinized him and nodded earnestly. “Very much so”
“What a coincidence…”
“Is it not?” Kreacher gestured at him. “You can’t take Kreacher for a fool! You’re no Weasley. No red hair, no excessively foul behaviour… you smell like a fine pureblood.”
Draco swallowed worriedly. This might be his end.
“It took Kreacher a bit to recognize Mr Malfoy, Sir, but Kreacher is very pleased to meet you.” He bowed down until his big nose pressed down on the floor before straightening up again.
“Kreacher apologizes deeply about his choice of words, young Mr Malfoy. Kreacher respects your family a lot!”
Draco breathed out, relieved his surname still held some influence.
“How about we get out of the bathroom and talk outside?” he suggested.
“Very well, very well.” Kreacher mumbled and pressed himself against the wall to let him past him.
“Kreacher is very sorry about your mother, Mr Malfoy.” Kreacher told him once they stood in Regulus old bedroom again. The light from the bathroom barely reached the bed end and he could only make out Kreacher’s silhouette.
Draco was surprised. “You know about that?” He picked up the blanket and put it back on the bed before sitting down on it.
“Kreacher reads the newspaper sometimes,” mumbled he, making Draco scoff.
“The newspaper is trash,” he said. “They only tell lies. Lies the Death Eaters made up.”
“What is the truth then, Sir?” Kreacher asked and shuffled towards him. His floppy ears twitched.
“Who do you serve?” Draco tried to redirect his attention elsewhere, not quite ready to talk about his mother that night.
Kreacher’s face darkened. “Kreacher’s master is Harry Potter.”
Draco pulled a face. That oaf owns a house elf?
“Sirius Black owned Kreacher before Master Harry Potter and Walburga Black was Kreacher’s mistress before him,” he continued in his grumpy voice.
“So… you have lived here your entire life I assume?” As soon as it was out, Draco grimaced. What kind of question was that? He had no idea how to converse with a house elf. “You must know a lot about this house, no?” he tried again.
“Of course.” Kreacher nodded and eyed him up. “Kreacher can’t tell you much, but since you’re a Malfoy…”
Draco nodded encouragingly. More information was always valuable.
“The noble house of Black lived here for centuries. Sirius Black gave the house to his godson Harry Potter along with Kreacher. The line of Black is almost extinct… if it wasn’t for you.” Kreacher’s eyes pierced into his.
“Is anyone else in this house? I heard voices a few days ago.”
Kreacher’s face contorted like the question caused him great pain. He opened his mouth and struggled for an answer. “Kreacher can’t say, he is not allowed,” he choked out eventually and flinched back like he expected a slap.
“Surely you can tell me some names?” Draco asked, almost demanded.
“You know Bill visits sometimes. Kreacher can’t tell you more, but you can guess who he affiliates with, Sir. Kreacher is very sorry, Sir.”
Draco could indeed guess. His family, perhaps? He just found it weird that a Weasley kept coming back here, when the Blacks were known for their affiliations with the Dark Lord.
Except for Sirius Black, who was best friends with James Potter, Potter’s father. Whom the house used to belong to and who has given it to Potter.
“Is Potter here?” he asked, the thought just occurring.
Kreacher swallowed before nodding curtly, looking anywhere but Draco. “They pollute the entire house with their blood.” Kreacher grumbled under his breath, so quiet Draco almost didn’t catch it.
So Potter was here, and possibly the Weasleys. Exactly the people he wanted to be around.
He decided to drop the topic as it seemed to make Kreacher uncomfortable. He was likely ordered not to disclose any information.
“What about Regulus?” he asked, looking around in the room they were in.
Kreacher’s eyes glazed over, looking into the distance. “He was a kind master,” he said, “Kreacher remembers him very well. He was quiet, closed off- but responsible. He shouldered the burden of the Blacks all on his own. He had no choice since Sirius left.”
He thought back to the note he read earlier that day. It made the impression that Regulus was glad Sirius left. But did he actually leave Regulus behind?
Draco studied him quietly. “He was a Death Eater, right?” he asked.
Kreacher nodded. “Yes. He paid with his life.” He stood there with sagging shoulders, his crooked back even more visible than before.
Draco waited for him to say more, but Kreacher has fallen silent.
Of course, a traitor was more valuable dead than alive. A traitor who lost all worth should pay for their misdeeds.Like himself. Like his mother. He felt sick.
Regulus wasn’t a regular topic in conversations at the dinner table; in fact, he knew next to nothing about him. Regulus seemed almost like a mystery most people didn’t remember.
He suddenly felt very scared again.
It made him think about the task he was given. Somebody would kill Dumbledore. It didn’t have to be him, as some Death Eater pointed out that one night, everybody could kill him. He wasn’t anything special. Others had even better chances; they were more experienced, more passionate. It’s what the Dark Lord had planned so it would happen. It just won’t be Draco who does the job. Their only disadvantage was that they couldn’t just infiltrate Hogwarts, yet the old castle was the one place where Dumbledore usually stayed.
Draco remembered hearing stories about the old man yet being curious when he first saw him as a first year. He remembered collecting frog cards, being excited to get Dumbledore only to get his picture ripped out of his hand. He remembered hating him with a passion in school. The stupid speeches he held, the liking for sherbet lemon. The way he made it blatantly clear he didn’t like Slytherins.
And yet Mother chose to go to Dumbledore and ask him for help. She must have seen something trustworthy in him, unlike his father, who only cared about politics. Mother wanted what’s best for them. She wanted to save him.
That alone was enough to keep Draco from wanting attempt an assassination to get back in the Death Eaters ranks, if it wasn’t too late for that, anyways.
But was it enough to want to save him? Only hypothetical, of course. There was no way he could leave Grimmauld place and go save one of the greatest wizards by himself.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to do some research. He couldn’t help but feel like he was severely underequipped to take anyone in a fight. Especially if some Death Eaters found him and decided to just kill him off like his mother.
He couldn’t use his wand because he was still a minor. If he wanted to defend himself, he needed to learn wandless magic.
He‘s tried it out before and found it unsuccessful. But with a bit more practice…
„Is there a library here?“
Kreacher squinted his eyes before his entire face lit up. „Of course, you can enter… how smart of Mr Malfoy. Kreacher can show you the way.“
„Thank you, Kreacher,“ he pulled a wobbly smile.
„He said ‚thank you‘...“ Kreacher uttered in awe, likely not meant for Draco‘s ears.
Together, they set off for the library, treading softly. Darkness wrapped up the hallways, yet Kreacher seemed to have no trouble getting his bearing, if only he could move as fast as he wished. Draco just slowly followed along on tiptoes, running into walls or commodes occasionally. The cry of pain was difficult to suppress, yet he tried his best to be quiet. He had no desire to run into any of the occupants of the house.
Eventually, after many turns and stairs, Kreacher stopped, puffing. Draco could barely make out his face as he turned to him.
“This is the library,” he whispered, “Only members of the house of Black may enter.”
“I’m only half a Black, Kreacher!” Draco whispered back, confused.
“That is enough. Please enter.”
Draco breathed through his nose and stepped up. The door in front of him seemed heavy. It had no handle, but was adorned with flourishes. He sighed; a bit frustrated. He would love to enter if he only knew how.
He turned to Kreacher as a silent way to ask for help. He only held up his hands. Draco stared at them until the big light went on.
Remembering the front door, he put a hand on the cool metal. A hiss sounded and Draco drew back his hand like he’s been burned.
Click, click, click. The door swung open with a squeak, allowing an impressive view of a large room with shelves so high they reached the ceiling.
Draco stepped in carefully. “Can you turn on some light?”
Kreacher shuffled behind him and next thing he knew he was blinded by the illumination. He squinted one eye and shielded the other with one hand.
The door shut behind them.
He saw now that the room wasn’t as large as he initially assumed. There were three rows of shelves on each side, he stood in the middle. Two armchairs stood at a window opposite of him, and in-between them a little table.
“Master Regulus loved to spend his time here,” informed Kreacher Draco.
“I can imagine.” He walked down the middle section, moving his finger over the spine of the books. They were just as dusty as everything else in this house, yet he felt immediately comfortable. It reminded him of their own library back in the manor.
The books were sorted by titles. “Magical and mundane plants” he read. A couple books to the right: “Muggles and mudbloods—a history.” Not exactly what he was looking for. He blew away some dust.
“Kreacher is very sorry, but Kreacher has to leave.”
“Oh, you’re busy?” Draco studied the books with interest.
“Yes, Sir. Will you find the way back?”
“Yes, yes. I’ll be fine.”
“Good night, Sir.” From the corner of his eyes he saw Kreacher bow deeply before he disappeared with a pop. The sound reminded him of Peksy and he pursed his lips. Kreacher was nice enough, but Peksy… he missed her. Sort of.
Whatever. Focus, Draco. What could be helpful, what information is valuable? He wanted to learn wandless magic, wanted to learn more about Hogwarts and the Dark Mark. The chances were low for the latter. Given this was the library of the house of Black though, he at least hoped for some valuable books regarding the Dark Arts.
He walked through the rows, his eyes wandered over the various old spines.
Merlin: The Prince of Enchanters said one. He shook his head. Merlin was not what he was looking for.
He finally found the W-section. One book was about wand making, another about the obstinacy of wands. And then, finally: Wandless magic for beginners. Draco huffed and took it down; it was an embossed leather binding. Deciding to take a proper look at it later, he continued to search for books about Dark Magic and Hogwarts.
Hogwars: A History was easy to find. He put it on top of the first book. Now the only book that was left was a book about the Dark Arts. Shouldn’t be too difficult to find in a library of the Blacks, Draco surmised.
This library held a lot of interesting books. It was a fine collection. And finally, after a minute of wandering through the rows, he found what he was looking for.
Magick Moste Evil. Draco reminisced about seeing this book in his own library. Carefully he stretched his hand out. Did this book contain any precautions? He couldn’t remember, yet when he grabbed the book, nothing happened. Perhaps it knew who was right to read it and who wasn’t.
Draco exhaled, relieved. He got everything he wanted. Now he just needed to get back to his room unscathed. But when he thought back to earlier, the house was dead silent. Everybody must be in bed.
In truth, Draco felt weirded out at the thought that Potter was here. They always stood on opposite sides, fighting for the upper hand, yet now they resided in the same yucky house, whether Potter knew it or not. Potter would argue to hell if he knew. As if Draco had control over any recent events. He was just trying to survive so Mother died for a reason.
He turned to leave, two books pinned under his arm, the third in his hand. The light… he had no idea how to turn it off. He would notify Kreacher later.
He pressed his free hand against the door. Again, three clicks sounded, and the door opened. The hallway before him was abandoned and dark. Draco set to move. He only kind of memorised the way, so he would have to improvise.
The staircase appeared soon after. Draco hastened up the steps as quietly as he could and stepped into the hallway before looking back once. Everything was quiet.
Suddenly, he collided with someone. Draco grappled with his books as they almost glided out of his grip.
Light flared up from the tip of a wand. His pulse picked up. He stared at his opposite. It was so quiet he could hear the blood rushing in his ears.
“Malfoy?”