Out of Body
Chapter 2: Out of Body
Breakfast was a sordid affair. Nearly everyone was hungover or in a terrible mood.Theo and Blaise were both. Narcissa had withheld hangover potions to “teach them a lesson” about over-indulging on champagne, and even Theo couldn’t sweet talk his way out of it. Their sausages and eggs were consumed begrudgingly in silence, and after drinking almost two liters of water, Theo’s face lost its greenish hue, finally perking up enough to suggest a game of Quidditch on the ground to sweat out the remaining poison.
Draco sent owls to Greg and Vince, and each of the teens trudged up the marble stairs to change clothes. Twenty minutes later, the two friends appeared through the Floo in a flurry of green flames, Millie trailing behind, holding onto Greg’s hand.
The sun wasn’t quite as bright that morning, as though it knew shining too vibrantly would leave them permanently blind in their current states.
“Alright, so we’ll have one beater and one chaser on each team—Blaise and I’ll be Seekers,” Draco announced.
“Chaser,” Daphne shrugged and Theo nodded as well.
“Greg, Vince, beaters?” Draco pointed to each of them who grinned approvingly. “Alright, so Pansy and Millie, that makes you two the Keepers. Sound fair enough?”
Everyone nodded in agreement before picking which team they would play for.
Reluctantly lifting off into her position, Pansy shouted authoritatively, “if any of you break one of my nails, I’ll avada you right here. Got it?” She huffed when the only reply she got back was a round of laughter.
After nearly two hours, both teams were completely knackered, landing in a tangled heap on the perfectly manicured lawn below. Pansy had quit after the second attempt Theo made to score, squealing and flinging herself dramatically off to the side. She was downgraded to the team’s cheerleader and Vince had to double up positions, playing beater from in front of the goal.
“Well, none of us broke any bones and no one died,” Blaise offered, “I’d say it was a success!”
Draco sniggered, “You just say that because you lost.”
“Think any of us have a chance for the team this year?” Greg pondered hopefully.
“I don’t see why not, you and Vince make fair Beaters and with Flint and some of the others gone, I’d say you’ve got good chances—especially when I make Captain!”
“Do you think I could play too?” Daphne inquired shyly, looking up at the clouds in the sky.
“‘Course you’d make it, Daph!” Theo gave her a lopsided grin, and she smiled back tentatively, looking to Draco for confirmation.
“You already fly better and faster than half the team,” Draco shrugged, not wanting to lay on the compliments too thick. She really was a good flier though, and with her lithe frame, she would be much faster than the majority of their bulky team. He could already see the plays they could use with Daphne as a Chaser slipping between enemy lines…
“…isn’t that right, Draco?” Blaise prodded.
Draco startled, pulled from his “Er—right?”
Loud guffaws erupted from his male companions. “See?! I told you I was the better Seeker!” Blaise cheered triumphantly, as Draco’s face twisted into a scowl.
“Zabini!” He growled, lunging for the dark skinned wizard who was able to dodge his advances with ease.
“Can’t even catch me and I’m way larger than a Snitch!” Blaise taunted as the two fell into the chase, egged on by their surrounding friends’ cheers and teasing.
The game continued on for another few minutes before they all retired for a casual lunch out of the sun which had taken on a much stronger zeal since they first stepped out. The girls took the rest of the afternoon to flip through the latest Witch Weekly and try out whatever new beauty charms they found in its pages. Unfortunately for Theo, he had lingered too long with the witches and ended up with a few purple fingernails and a streak of green in his hair.
The boys, retiring to the library, settled into the large leather furniture while sipping on a confiscated bottle of Cognac from Lucius’s personal stores. They discussed their witches at length, who the new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor might be, and revisited the Quidditch topics from the morning before speculating about the approaching World Cup. It was then that Draco remembered the early morning conversation that seemed so long ago. In reality, he felt it was strange how quickly he’d forgotten something of such a serious nature, and a sudden pang of guilt flooded his chest—this would affect all of them if it came to pass.
“My gold’s on Ireland!” Theo proclaimed, running his fingers through his newly fashioned green streak of hair. “I just like the leprechauns,” he admitted, sniggering.
“Nah, Krum’ll catch the Snitch in under ten minutes, just you wait!” Greg retaliated with a confidence not usually associated with his personality. Vince nodded along with his best friend, both enamored with the Quidditch star.
“Maybe he'll fall off his broom too…” Blaise hissed spitefully at the mention of the older wizard vying for Pansy’s attention.
“Oh, come on, Blaise! He wasn’t that bad, besides he had no idea you two were together,” Draco admonished his friend lightheartedly.
Blaise rolled his eyes, huffing as he crossed his arms over his chest, “Easy for you to say, it wasn’t Granger he was chasing after all night!”
Draco chuckled loudly, dismissing the idea entirely. Of course he found her attractive, but what truly endeared him was their witty repartee and her intellect. Granger’s brand of beauty wasn’t the standard—in fact it was nothing close to the Slytherin witches’ posh glamor. They were decidedly aristocratic, while Granger was…well not. He may be a bit misogynistic, but he would bet quite a large sum that a celebrity of Krum’s status would have no interest in a witch such as Hermione Granger, no matter how brilliant she was. He was sure of that.
“Well, of course not, but have some self confidence, Blaise! Pansy loves you, even despite all your ridiculous jealousy.”
“Yeah, well—“
“Well, nothing! She does! Besides, we've got bigger things to worry about at the World Cup than Krum stealing your witch!” Draco barked out, tired of his friend’s self-deprecating nature.
“Oh, like what exactly?” Blaise rolled his eyes unappreciatively.
“Like the fact that my father had a meeting with Macnair this morning before breakfast to discuss a Death Eater attack at the World Cup!”
“WHAT?!” Theo looked horrified, frozen to his seat. “They can’t!”
“They can, and apparently will. Lucius attempted to persuade him otherwise, but it sounded like there’s an uprising in the ranks.” Draco looked to his friend mournfully, “the Malfoys may not have the same pull this time around. Judging by the kind of supporters that showed up to the Manor last night, I don’t think social status or wealth is going to win them over.”
Nodding as if to confirm what he had also seen at the gathering, Greg added, “Not after most of them spent time in Azkaban or had to forfeit their estates and Gringotts accounts to avoid imprisonment.”
“So what does it mean?” Vince looked mostly unconcerned.
“It means, the Death Eaters are going to be starting the Second Wizarding War. At the Quidditch World Cup,” Draco replied, defeated.
“But, I mean, that’s not so bad right? There were loads of people at the party—a bunch o’ them from the Ministry too. The rest o’ those people won’t see it comin’!” Vince shrugged, taking a generous sip of his Cognac.
“Crabbe,” Draco said incredulously—unable to believe the words coming out of his friend’s mouth, “you do realize both sides have casualties in a war, right? It could be your mother, your father, hell, it could even be YOU who dies!”
Vince continued, unperturbed by Draco’s warning. “Nah, we’re just kids to them. We won’t even be involved. If we were, your dad woulda brought you in on that meetin’ wouldn’t he?”
“Kids can be victims in a war too, even when they’re not fighting,” Blaise insisted, having just finished reading Les Misérables which had chilled him to the bone. While initially catching Draco’s interest due to the change of language and Muggle historical references, the French novel was more than he’d bargained for with the depressing themes and he’d decided not to finish once Gavroche was killed—which was exactly the point Blaise was making.
“It would be foolish to think our fathers will fight in the war, and we wouldn’t be expected to join,” Draco mentioned, thinking of his cousin, Sirius, being ‘recruited’ at only sixteen—if one could even call it that. Sixteen wasn’t so far off…
“Nah,” Vince waved them both off nonchalantly, causing the gathered boys to all wince at his careless attitude, “we’ll be fine! You’ll see—in time, the Mudblood filth and half-breeded monsters will be gone, and pureblood wizards will have total control again!” Vincent had a gleam in his eye and a broad smile on his face as though giving a patriotic speech.
“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!” Draco bellowed, and as if in slow motion, Theo and Blaise grabbed him from each side, quickly removing him from the room and toward the marble staircase. Greg had taken his cue to rip Crabbe from his chair and yank him quickly into the Floo.
While the incident hadn’t had the chance to escalate, they all knew, now, where the lines would be drawn. Vincent Crabbe was no longer one of their inside men and they would have to be cautious about what they said in front of him from now on.
…
Draco paced his rooms, roaring obscenities and threatening the life of his ‘dear old friend’ to Theo and Blaise, their matching grimaces growing with each tongue lashing against their friend—ex-friend?
That was the unnerving part.
Where did they stand with Vince now? Draco didn’t know, and neither did the other two boys. While not a founding characteristic, Slytherins held loyalty in high regard. Greg returned a short while later, only to check in and fetch Millie from the girls’ suite, who seemed none the wiser about the dispute. Blaise was finally able to persuade Draco to take some tea and try to calm down.
After drinking his tea, which Mippy had surreptitiously laced with a calming draught, Draco drifted off to sleep, and his friends left him in peace to fill Pansy and Daphne in on the afternoons soured events.
…
Draco found himself staring into a grate housing a lit fire, it’s golden orange flames flickering at the edges of the shadows encircling the room. However, before he could get a decent look around the room, a timid and fearful voice interrupted his thoughts.
“There is a little more in the bottle, My Lord, if you are still hungry.”
“Later,” he felt himself say—although it wasn’t his voice at all…the voice was all wrong…high and cold. “Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail.”
No. It couldn’t be!
Wormtail set the bottle down on the table to his right, but Draco couldn’t turn his head. In fact, he seemed to have no control of any of his body even though he felt as though his feet and hands were moving a bit of their own accord. The heavy chair he sat in began to move as Pettigrew pushed it across the wooden floors, scraping and grinding as it went.
“Where is Nagini?” The cold voice escaped Draco’s throat once again and he cringed internally.
“I—I don’t know, My Lord,” Pettigrew answered nervously, “She set out to explore the house, I think…”
“You will milk her before we retire, Wormtail. I will need feeding in the night. The journey has tired me greatly,” Draco’s lips paired with the cold voice to respond.
“My Lord, may I ask how long we are going to stay here?”
“A week, perhaps longer,” he replied. “The place is moderately comfortable, and the plan cannot proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the Quidditch World Cup is over.”
Draco’s pulse quickened. So the Dark Lord knew about the attack…this is why his father couldn’t oppose it!
“The—the Quidditch World Cup, My Lord?” Pettigrew stuttered out. “Forgive me, but — I do not understand — why should we wait until the Quidditch World Cup is over?”
“Because fool, at this very moment, wizards are pouring in from all over the world, and every meddler from the Ministry of Magic will be on duty, on the watch for signs of unusual activity, checking and double-checking identities. They will be obsessed with security, lest the Muggles notice anything. So we wait.”
“Your Lordship is still determined then?” Wormtail asked quietly.
“Certainly, I am determined, Wormtail.” He said menacingly.
Peter Pettigrew did not speak for a moment. Suddenly the words tumbled from his mouth as though he was vomiting them uncontrollably, “It could be done without Harry Potter, My Lord.”
A pregnant pause echoed in the silence of the room, the tension growing thick. Draco felt a rage writhing inside his chest—not his own though…
“Without Harry Potter?” His nostrils flared, “I see…”
“My Lord, I do not say this out of concern for the boy!” Wormtail cried in his squealing voice like a stuck pig. “The boy is nothing to me, nothing at all! It is merely if we were to use another witch or wizard — any wizard — the thing could be done so much more quickly! If you allowed me to leave you for a short while —you know that I can disguise myself most effectively — I could be back here in as little as two days with a suitable person—“
“I could use another wizard,” Draco felt himself speak again, mulling the words over, “that is true…”
“My Lord, it makes sense,” said Wormtail, relief evident in his voice. “Laying hands on Harry Potter would be so difficult, and he is so well protected—“
The anger in his chest had quieted to a dull ember, however Draco could feel his mind slithering like a serpent about to strike. It was the same feeling he got when his parents were being so calm about something he’d done wrong.
“And so you volunteer to go and fetch me a substitute? I wonder…perhaps the task of nursing me has become wearisome for you, Wormtail? Could this suggestion of abandoning the plan be nothing more than an attempt to desert me?”
Pettigrew’s eyes cast themselves wide in panic before he began to grovel. “My Lord! I have no wish to leave you, none at all—“
“Do not lie to me!” Draco’s second voice hissed. “I can always tell, Wormtail! You are regretting that you ever returned to me. I revolt you. I see the way you flinch when you look at me, feel you shudder when you touch me…” Disgust and betrayal seethed through Draco’s veins.
“No! My devotion is to Your Lordship—“
“Your devotion is nothing more than cowardice. You would not be here if you had anywhere else to go. How am I to survive without you, when I need feeding every few hours? Who is to milk Nagini?”
Draco felt violently ill at the thought of anyone being ‘milked’ for the Dark Lord.
“But you seem so much stronger, My Lord—“
“Liar,” breathed the second, cold voice. “I am no stronger, and a few days alone would be enough to rob me of the little health I have regained under your clumsy care.” Wormtail began sputtering uncontrollably. “Silence!”
The fumbling man immediately stopped. Not a sound was made aside from the crackling and popping of the fire.
When he spoke once more, Draco’s cold voice was a hiss. “I have my reasons for using the boy, as I have already explained to you, and I will use no other. I have waited thirteen years. A few more months will make no difference. As for the protection surrounding the boy, I believe my plan will be effective. All that is needed is a little courage from you, Wormtail — courage you will find, unless you wish to feel the full extent of Lord Voldemort’s wrath—“
He no longer felt the heated anger, but a frozen, stony tundra. A threat made with a solemn promise.
“My Lord, I must speak!” Pettigrew cried out in panic. “All through our journey, I have gone over the plan in my head — My Lord, if Bertha Jorkins’s disappearance will not go unnoticed for long, and if we proceed, if I murder —“ he paused to gulp, but was interrupted.
“If?” The cold voice whispered. “If? If you follow the plan, Wormtail, the Ministry need never know that anyone else has died. You will do it quietly and without fuss; I only wish that I could do it myself, but in my present condition…Come, Wormtail, one more death and our path to Harry Potter is clear. I am not asking you to do it alone. By that time, my faithful servant will have rejoined us —“
An exuberant pride glowed from within himself at the mention of this servant. Could it be…was he talking about Lucius?
“I am a faithful servant,” the short, balding man said sullenly.
“Wormtail, I need somebody with brains, somebody whose loyalty has never wavered, and you, unfortunately, fulfill neither requirements.” Draco felt the cold voice’s smugness in his words. The sharp lashing cutting deep into Pettigrew at the word ‘loyalty’.
“I found you,” said Pettigrew, sulking now. “I was the one who found you. I brought you Bertha Jorkins.”
“That is true,” Draco spoke again in amusement. “A stroke of brilliance I would not have thought possible from you, Wormtail—though, if truth be told, you were not aware of how useful she would be when you caught her, were you?”
“I—I thought she might be useful, My Lord—“
“Liar,” he spat. “However, I do not deny that her information was invaluable. Without it, I would have never formed our plan, and for that, you will have your reward, Wormtail. I will allow you to perform an essential task for me, one that many of my followers would give their right hands to perform…”
The words felt like double edged swords leaving his lips as they turned upward in increasing amusement. Pettigrew was hanging on every word as though his life depended on it…and he supposed they did.
“R—really, My Lord? What—?” The terror was growing in the scraggly man’s wavering voice.
“Ah, Wormtail, you don’t want me to spoil the surprise? Your part will come at the very end… but I promise you, you will have the honor of being just as useful as Bertha Jorkins.”
“You…you…” Pettigrew’s voice grew hoarse, his mouth dried out in his fearful gaping. “You…are going…to kill me too?”
“Wormtail, Wormtail,” Draco spoke silkily, placatingly, “why would I kill you? I killed Bertha because I had to. She was fit for nothing after my questioning, quite useless. In any case, awkward questions would have been asked if she had gone back to the Ministry with news she had met you on her holidays. Wizards who are supposed to be dead would do well to not run into the Ministry of Magic witches at wayside inns…”
Pettigrew mumbled defiantly, “My Lord, we could have just modified her memory.”
A cold, high, mirthless laugh erupted from Draco’s chest. “We could have modified her memory? But Memory Charms can be broken by a powerful wizard, as I proved when I questioned her. It would be an insult to her memory not to use the information I extracted from her, Wormtail.”
“Y—yes, My Lord,” Pettigrew murmured almost incoherently.
“One more murder…my faithful servant at Hogwarts…Harry Potter is as good as mine, Wormtail. It is decided. There will be no more argument. But quiet…I think I hear Nagini…”
Draco then seamlessly slipped into Parseltongue, only noting the change by the confusion and panic in Pettigrew’s small watery eyes at the words leaving his lips.
“Come…Nagini…come to your Master.”
The sound of slithering grew louder as the large snake approached.
“Nagini has interesting news, Wormtail,” the cold voice whispered from Draco’s throat.
“In-indeed, My Lord?” said Pettigrew.
“Indeed, yes,” he said, “According to Nagini, there is an old Muggle standing right outside this room, listening to every word we say.”
Pettigrew dutifully marched to the door which stood slightly ajar, flinging it wide open.
“Invite him inside, Wormtail. Where are your manners?” Draco cooed in the cold voice.
The large snake has slithered into the room and had coiled itself up on the rotting hearth rug, like the pet she clearly was. Pettigrew beckoned the Muggle man inside, both radiating fear. The old man, gripping his walking stick, limped into the room.
The fire was now casting long, spidery shadows across the floor and ceiling, giving off sinister vibrations. The man was standing behind the armchair Draco was trapped in, unable to see him.
“You have heard everything, Muggle?” the cold voice hissed.
The worn old man grew defensive, “what’s that you’re calling me?” he said defiantly.
“I am calling you a Muggle,” the voice said cooly—tempering his agitation, “it means you are not a wizard.”
“I don’t know what you mean by wizard,” the Muggle’s voice grew steadier. “All I know is I’ve heard enough to interest the police tonight, I have. You’ve done murder and you’re planning more! And I’ll tell you this too,” he added, “my wife knows I’m up here, and if I don’t come back—“
Draco grew nervous. This Muggle wouldn’t just get himself killed, but his wife as well! He willed the man to shut up. He didn’t care much for the Muggle, hell, he couldn’t even see the man, but he certainly didn’t think he deserved to die for…for eavesdropping…
“You have no wife,” the cold voice hissed quietly, but firmly. “Nobody knows you are here. You told nobody that you were coming. Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Muggle, for he knows…he always knows…”
Draco felt a tingle down his spine. The words backed him against a wall and inspected his very core. It was as though the Dark Lord was peering into his soul in that moment—tearing away any shred of cover he had; he was exposed. The words may as well have been meant for him instead of the old man shaking with fearful anger and embarrassment behind him.
“Is that right?” the Muggle answered roughly. “Lord, is it? Well I don’t think much of your manners, My Lord. Turn ‘round and face me like a man, why don’t you?”
Draco felt a surge of the foreign rage that had temporarily held at bay. “But I am not a Muggle,” said the cold voice, barely audible over the crackling flames. “I am much, much more than a man. However…why not? I will face you…Wormtail, come turn my chair around.”
Pettigrew whimpered at his presence being remembered so soon.
“You heard me, Wormtail.”
Face screwed up, as though it was the last thing in the world that he wanted to do, he approached the chair in which Draco and the Dark Lord were residing. The small man began to turn the chair, the snake lifting her large triangular head, hissing as Pettigrew’s clumpy feet dragged on the hearth rug she had been coiled up on.
And then the chair was facing the old Muggle man, and Draco saw whatever strange form he had taken mirrored in the horror of the man’s eyes. The walking stick fell to the floor with a loud clattering. The Muggle opened his mouth and screamed so loud, he could never have heard the two words that took the life from him in a bright flash of green—not that he would’ve known what they meant anyway.
The man crumpled to the floor.
…
Draco woke with a startling scream, two men hovered over his prone form.
“Wha—?!”
“Shhhh!” Sirius hurried to hush the teenager. “You’ll wake the whole bloody house if you haven’t already!”
“What do you mean?” Draco whispered, flustered, as he attempted to keep his heart from beating out of his chest.
“We heard you in here, you crying out about Peter Pettigrew and the Dark Lord—“ Lupin calmly explained, assessing Draco’s face with concern.
“And naturally, hearing dear old Pete’s name, we came to investigate,” Sirius finished sardonically.
“It felt so real…it was just a dream?” Draco looked to the two men standing next to his bed who shared a look of concern and curiosity between the two of them before speaking.
“Perhaps you’d better explain it to us?” Remus requested gently, though his eyebrows were still furrowed together and there was a momentary trace of fear in his eyes.
Draco’s eyes gazed into the darkness of the room, “It was odd. It was like I was the Dark Lord…he—he was talking to Pettigrew—he’s taking care of the Dark Lord somehow…I—I don’t remember the details…I—he killed some woman—a witch…and then he turned around and…a Muggle—an old caretaker…he didn’t even know magic was real…” Draco felt the warm, wetness fill his eyes as tears started to fall. “I killed him. He was just a harmless old man! He didn’t even have a family—he was just listening outside the door!”
He buried his face in his hands and sobbed. He felt the embarrassment of crying in front of grown men—his mentors, in a way, but couldn’t find the Occlumency walls to shut it out. The tears flowed freely as Draco felt the shock and anguish of what he had seen—witnessed; the horror of it all unfolding on an unending loop.
“Draco,” he felt Lupin’s hand on his shoulder, “you didn’t do this. You may be a bit of a schoolyard bully at times,” Lupin gave him a knowing wink before returning to a more resolute look, “but you are not a murderer.”
He gulped air, trying to fill his lungs and stop the panic rising in his chest like a suffocating balloon.
Sirius sat next to him on the bed, spinning his signet ring around his finger—not unlike Draco had done countless times. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.”
Draco couldn’t agree more. The feeling in his body was disgusting and vile. He wanted to tear his skin off and peel back the infection that seemed to be coursing through his blood. The grotesqueness of it all seemed as if it planned to haunt him til he died.
“Draco, does your mum have any birds around here besides owls?” Sirius asked offhandedly.
Answering in a monotonous, empty way, “There’s a few tropical birds in the conservatory that live in some of her more equatorial plants, why?”
“Perfect! I need to send a letter, and Aquila won’t let me transfigure him anymore.” Sirius got up, marching off assumingly in the direction of the conservatory, leaving his two companions staring after him baffled.
“Transfigure?” Draco repeated in horror.
“Isn’t there a Kappa in there?” Lupin asked, frowning.
“Yea, but what d’you think he meant by—.”
“Well, best be going!” The ex-professor jumped to his feet, rushing out of the room after his impulsive friend. Draco lay back onto the bed, attempting to even his shaky breathing.
It wasn’t me.
It wasn’t me.