Foxhole
“Lovegood?” Blaise said, not incredulous, because he didn’t do incredulous, but as close as he could get without embarrassing himself.
“Hello!” She said brightly, walking past him and into the common room without a second thought, “Are we leaving already?”
Once again, Blaise’s patience and capacity to remain unflappable is tested. Though, he had to admit, Lovegood was a far sight better to deal with than any gryffindor.
“I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest what you’re on about,” He said neutrally, after all, Lovegood was still technically one of his in-laws.
Lovegood doesn’t seem deterred in the slightest, in fact, her face splits into a wide smile, “Yes you do, silly,” she chides, hiking the bag she was carrying higher up onto her shoulder, “I’m coming with you!”
Blaise blinked, considered her words, and quickly came to a conclusion, “Yeah, alright.”
Coincidentally, there were suddenly several choking noises from around the room that Blaise politely ignored. In Blaise’s experience, there was no use talking Lovegood out of anything, least of all something she by all means shouldn’t have known about at.
Damn Malfoys.
Pansy pushed herself off the couch, her smile a touch too wide to be genuine, “Blaise, a word?”
Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed him by the elbow and marched him into one of the many winding hallways of the slytherin dormitory, “What in Merlin’s hideous beard are you doing?”
Blaise sighed, waving his wand in a simple privacy charm, “Pans, she already knows, if we leave her behind, who’s to say she doesnt go blabbing?”
“Ugh,” She growled, “Damn Malfoys. Fine, she can come, but if she gets annoying, I’m obliviating her.”
“Fair enough,” he agrees, cancelling the privacy charm and turning on his heel to walk with Pansy back to the common room, where Lovegood seems to be specating Greg and Vince’s chess match with great enthusiasm.
He claps his hands, not needing a sonorous to project his voice, “False alarm! Resume!”
Immediately, students began poking their heads out of their dorms, quickly tidying and forming lines of organised chaos to the Floo in Blaise’s and Draco’s room.
“Alright Lovegood,” Blaise sighed, “You’re already packed?”
“Mhm-hm,” She hummed, practically jumping off the couch, “I’ve even got my nargle repellent, you know, for stealth.”
Blaise nods with what he hopes is the proper amount of sincerity, “Fantastic. Stick with Crabbe and Goyle, they’ll show you where to go.”
Lovegood nods happily, her eyes holding the same distant look as always, but Blaise could see something else there too, something he’d never noticed before. It was odd, with how much magic he was surrounded with on a daily basis, that he’d been one of the people to discount her as air-headed and, well- loony .
These days, Blaise felt more open minded.
—-----
The password gave him some trouble, but the castle was just another sentient building, the same as his Manor. It only took a bit of coaxing, some well placed compliments, and a slight twist of magic, before the griffin revealed the staircase.
His cane clicked ominously against the stone, loud and warning to anyone, but something in Draco knew it didn’t matter. Dumbledore had already let him get this far, and Draco would not be so arrogant to assume it was anything other than let . He could be egotistical sometimes, but at the very least he’d had the good fortune to learn some self awareness in the meantime.
When he stopped for a moment to check, there wasn’t a single flicker of magic in the dungeons.
That was . . . good.
That was good, he told himself, even if there was a visceral sense of wrongness he could feel, like a pit had opened in the castle that had then been plastered over. The castle seemed to ache at the missing students, something Draco spared a brief moment to linger on before almost physically dragging himself away. Now was not the time for melancholy.
He climbed the spiral staircase with what he hoped was the right amount of respect, considering he was about to kill one of the most beloved Headmasters Hogwarts had ever seen, but Draco couldn’t help but feel a bit silly. He was a Lord , of two great houses no less. He had done more before 17 than most adult wizards could dream, thus, being scared of his headmaster was childish and immature.
It still didn’t stop the way his fist tightened around the head of his cane, or the cold, oppressive feeling across his chest, but it was a nice thought.
When he reached the top of the stairs, he was almost surprised to see the door to the headmaster’s office wide open. Taking the invitation, Draco didn’t hesitate to enter, not even bothering with a customary knock.
The old man didn’t even look up, taking a moment to finish reading something on his parchment before letting his eyes flick upwards to Draco, “Well, I must say, this was later than expected.”
Draco barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes, feeling more like a petulant child than he had in months, “Well, It’s hardly good form to be predictable.”
The headmaster let out a small chuckle, folding his hands on his desk, “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” A smile creased its way onto his face, “Sit, please.”
There was the smell of old books and dust in the air, but for Draco, the scents were underscored with lemon drops and mahogany wood, not to mention the familiar and ambiguous comfort of Hogwarts itself. He unconsciously drew in a deep breath, the smell turning in his lungs and settling there heavily. The last time Draco had seen Dumbledore, he'd been intent on putting the fear of the Malfoy name into him, now, he could only find himself above such overt displays of emotion.
Draco let out a weary sigh, “Must we?” He asked, already feeling half like he was going to crawl out of his skin.
Dumbledore had the audacity to laugh again, “When you reach my age, Lord Malfoy, you’ll find that looking death in the eye and having a nice chat is far more preferable to any alternative.”
Draco chose to ignore the assumptions of that sentence. Dumbledore’s age, please, he thought to himself scornfully, at this rate he’d be lucky to reach his father’s.
Still, he sat.
“I don’t know,” He mused with a sigh, settling his cane on the arm of the chair, “I think there’s something to be said about unexpected surprises.”
Dumbledore nodded, “I suppose I can’t disagree. I’ve always loved being surprised, no matter how infrequently it happens.” His eyes shone, peering over his spectacles at Draco, “You’ve managed to surprise me more than expected, Mr. Malfoy.”
“Lord Malfoy,” Draco corrected, mostly out of habit, “And isn’t that backhanded.”
Dumbledor’s mouth twitched upwards, “Maybe so, but nonetheless true. You’ve grown in ways I couldn’t have imagined. It’s almost supernatural.”
“I think petty wordplay is above you,” Draco said simply, one hand disappearing into his sleeve to feel the cold silver edge of the knife, “If you don’t mind, headmaster, I have an appointment that can’t be avoided.”
“Yes yes,” Dumbledore nodded, adjusting his spectacles, “If you must be on your way.”
Draco stood, pushing himself upwards without the cane, rounding the desk, “You’ve played a good game, Albus, I’ll give you the benefit of choice.”
“Sitting, I think,” The headmaster answered easily, “My knees have been giving me trouble recently.”
Draco raised his eyebrows, but accepted, letting the knife he’d taken from his aunt’s body slide into his palm. His last gift to her.
She’d have been so pleased, he thought.
The cold of the knife seemed to bite into the skin of his hand, but there was no hesitance when Draco lifted it to the headmaster’s throat, a hair’s breadth away.
“Last words?” Draco asked, thinking it appropriate.
The headmaster tilted his head, thinking over it for a few moments, “it’s hard knowing what to say in these moments, even for me,” He said simply, “But there’s nothing more to do, I suppose. It’s in your and Harry’s hands now.”
Draco didn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes this time, though he waited a moment more before committing the final act, feeling the weight of it pressing on his chest.
Though strangely, he felt more at peace with it than he had all those months before. The necklace was crude. Impersonal. He liked it better this way.
Without a moment more, he plunged the knife into the headmaster’s throat, quick and simple. Not at all his aunt’s style, but that could be done postmortem.
Draco had had enough of the cruciatus curse, he found.
Withdrawing the knife, Draco tilted his head, looking down at his former headmaster. As the man took his last breath, Draco could feel the aged and almost wooden magic drain from his body, sinking into the floor and dispersing through the castle. It was strange, though not unlike the flashes of memory he had from when Voldemort had him work in The Manor.
He stayed for a moment longer, dropping the knife onto the headmaster’s desk, then using a wave of his hand to vanish the blood from his robes, not bothering to do so for the headmaster and the desk itself.
Still, it was too clean. He singular stream of blood dripping from the dark wood of the desk to the stone floor would never be believable as the work of Bellatrix Lestrange, so Draco pressed his fingers to the would, using magic to draw out some blood from the headmaster’s eyes, ears, and nose.
In the past, this had been the exact picture Draco saw in nightmares. It would have made his stomach turn even a few weeks ago.
Now, only the dull press of nostalgia and relief remained. It was over.