“Fred and George bought them edible underwear,” Ron muttered in a rebellious undertone calculated to escape the ears of Ginny and Hermione, who seemed to be occupied by the china.
“They didn’t,” Harry said with conviction. “You’re making it up.”
“They did! They showed me. It’s not just edible, any old Muggle underwear can be edible, it changes colour and flavour according to the girl’s—er—mood. So if she’s, you know—” Ron winked—“up for it, it goes all red and tastes like cherry.”
Harry had no words.
“Well, my point is, if Fred and George have come up with something brilliant like that, we’re going to look like right prats if we wander up to them and say, here, Bill, here, Fleur, enjoy this tea set, I’m sure you’re getting married because you want to make tea together all day long.”
Ron cast a hunted look at Hermione as if convinced she could hear him, and when Harry looked over she was indeed glaring at them. Hermione had always been omniscient like that.
Ginny was stooped over a teacup, spinning happily in its saucer and murmuring a song about tea to her. Her bright hair was falling in her smiling face.
Harry transferred his gaze quickly back to Hermione, who had her hands on her hips.
“Can I remind you, Ron, that Fleur is shortly to become your sister?” she inquired. “Do you really think that underwear is an appropriate gift for your sister? Would you imagine Ginny in edible underwear?”
Ginny filed a very definite protest at this point, Ron went pale green, and Harry, as the only person present who quite fancied the idea of Ginny in edible underwear, avoided everyone’s eyes and stared steadfastly out the window.
Through the window he saw Draco Malfoy.
Harry thought he was a figment of Harry’s imagination for a moment. The thought of Malfoy had been occurring to him at unexpectedly regular intervals all summer, even through the wretched business of the Dursleys and Godric’s Hollow. The suspicions of a year were hard to shake off and sometimes he woke up in Ron’s room and before he was fully awake, he thought Today I’m going to find out what Malfoy’s up to…
Then he would remember that he had found out, and that Malfoy’s orders had been carried out, and the lingering memory of Malfoy’s ashen face would be replaced with the one unbearable image of Dumbledore going over the battlements.
He had not forgotten that it had not been Malfoy who carried out his orders, all the same, and when he’d heard that Malfoy had not gone back to the Death Eaters, that they were searching for Malfoy as a traitor who had not done the Dark Lord’s bidding when the way was clear—well, he had wondered where Malfoy was with another of those strange pangs of sympathy.
Dumbledore had offered Malfoy mercy, and Harry was the only one who had been there to witness it. It had almost been Dumbledore’s last wish. Harry did not think Dumbledore would have wanted Malfoy alone, on the run and hunted, with nobody to help him.
Malfoy looked perfectly all right, though. He was standing there in Diagon Alley as if he could not imagine being in danger, staring back at Harry.
Harry kept staring, absorbing the fact that it was real, and then slowly, Malfoy inclined his head, then turned and began to walk away. He was still looking over his shoulder: the message to follow was clear.
Harry spared a glance for the others. Ron, bickering quietly with Hermione over sisters and underwear and appropriate presents, had drawn closer to the girls and they were all staring at a seductive blond shepherdess. She had spread her skirts and was looking at Ron through painted eyelashes.
“Oh, sir, you look very strong and clever,” she said in a tiny voice, like tea-things clinking together on a tray. “Won’t you help me find my sheep?”
“She’s all right,” Ron conceded.
Harry moved quickly and quietly out of the shop, into the street, and put up the hood of his cloak so he could follow Malfoy without being recognised by the usual bustling crowd of Diagon Alley. Malfoy was walking fast, but Harry had no fear that he would lose him. Malfoy kept looking back to make sure Harry was there, and when at last he paused by a particularly narrow alley he smiled.
Harry stopped and stared, even when Malfoy had disappeared into the alley. It had been a—very odd smile. Not unpleasant, but distinctly alien and unnerving on Malfoy’s face, lighting it up and inviting a smile back. Harry had the distinct urge to turn around and go back to the china shop.
If he could ever have talked to Dumbledore again, though, what would he have said? You remember Malfoy? You wanted to save him once, and only I knew about it, and I saw him again and maybe I could have helped him, but he gave me a weird smile and so I ran off.
No. He was being stupid. He stepped cautiously into the alley after Malfoy.
Malfoy was waiting for him, leaning against a wall. He looked pleased at the sight of Harry.
This was creepy.
Harry had wondered what Malfoy was doing, and if he was all right. He’d even thought of finding him somewhere, and telling him that Harry knew he wouldn’t have done it. Face to face with him, he found that the words did not come easy.
“Hi,” he said, after a minute.
“Hello,” Malfoy responded with brilliant originality, and smiled again.
All right, Harry had seen many scarier things than a warm smile. He pulled himself together. Maybe Malfoy was just trying to be friendly. Perhaps he was trying to placate Harry, as a prelude to saying he was sorry for everything and asking for Harry’s help. Which Harry would give, and since Malfoy had learned better he would hardly say a word about how the smug bastard had brought it all on himself.
“Right,” said Harry, and tried to put together the first non-hostile words he had ever said to Malfoy. “Look. I’m glad you’re here. People are looking for you, but it’s going to be OK.”
“I hope so,” Malfoy said earnestly.
Harry was cheered by this sign that Malfoy was going to co-operate: once he had explained fully to Harry how stupid he had been and how sorry he was, he could probably be hidden somewhere by the Aurors, just like Dumbledore had wanted.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he began.
“I’m relieved I found you in time,” Malfoy interrupted, and when Harry nodded he went on, “If you’ll just wait a moment, things will become much clearer.”
“Er—what?”
Just when Malfoy was being sensible for the first time in his life, he had to start talking in riddles. Harry stared at him with speechless frustration that lasted for all of four seconds.
Then Malfoy shook out his white-blond hair, which was falling in cascades around his face—surely there was a limit to how girly even Malfoy could be, and surely it hadn’t been that long a second ago?—and Harry saw the bones in Malfoy’s face change, subtly but surely, and his grey eyes go blue as the sky.
Narcissa Malfoy stood in front of Harry, breathing hard.
Narcissa, who had borne Kreacher’s tales to Voldemort and whose sister had killed Sirius. Alone with him in an alley, and obviously trying to trick him into something.
Harry grabbed his wand. “What d’you think you’re playing at?”
Narcissa lifted her hands, palm up, as if in surrender. “I am not playing,” she replied in a clear voice. “I want to make a bargain with you.”
“What do you have,” Harry spat, “that I could possibly want?”
Narcissa smiled, and Harry saw the smile for what it was on her true face: the conscious, half-flirtatious smile of a woman who knew she was beautiful and had been using it all her life. No wonder it had looked bloody odd on Malfoy.
The smile was a reflex that faded almost at once. She said, “Let me explain something first.”
“Talk, then. It won’t do you any good.”
“My whole life,” said Narcissa Malfoy, “I have never loved anything—except my son.”
Harry was aware of his steady hatred faltering, and hated himself for being so weak. It was just—mothers, and the thought of his own mother, and what she had done when he was in danger, and what she would think if she knew what was happening to him now…
It was stupid. Mrs Malfoy wasn’t anything like his mum.
She went on. “I never cared very much about politics—” and Harry was amazed that the war, the bloodshed and all the disgusting prejudice that had won Voldemort support could be brushed aside so easily as ‘politics’ in Narcissa’s smooth tones—“but of course I have always been loyal to my family, and loyal to my husband. I have always tried to be a good wife to Lucius, and I was delighted to be of use in telling him the news Kreacher brought to me.”
“I really want to strike a deal with someone like you.”
“Listen to me! I want you to understand. I would not have broken with the Dark Lord for any reason but this—but that he has condemned my son. My Draco, who is a child and who never understood, because he had never seen, the true nature of the world in which we live. He should never have been asked to pay for his father’s mistakes! He should never have been asked to do what is against his nature! It was nothing but malice because Lucius had disappointed the Dark Lord, and I shall not forgive it.”
She stepped closer to Harry as she spoke and Harry let his wand drop an inch, but in case she thought he was giving way he kept his voice hard.
“I don’t think we want anyone like you on our side.”
“I think you need anyone ruthless enough to be useful,” Narcissa retorted. “That, however, is not why I am here. Do you think I would come creeping around the Chosen One begging to be allowed play on his precious little team? I came to you for one reason. I came to you for Draco.”
“Well, I don’t have him!” Harry snapped. “You must, if you have the hair to make a Polyjuice Potion.”
Narcissa looked coldly furious. He would have thought she’d remind him more of Malfoy if she was angry, but where Malfoy went pink and lost control Narcissa simply became paler, and calmer, and looked more ready to kill.
“You stupid little boy, do you imagine Draco has left no brushes with his hair in them at his own home? I wish to God he had come to me—then I could have taken him away somewhere, I could have kept him safe, and I would not have to lower myself to conversations with you! He has not come home… but he has sent me an Owl.”
She put her hand to her chest, but did not take a letter out. She only held her hand pressed to it, as if the touch of parchment beneath her robes helped her. Her voice was tight when she spoke again.
“He said to keep his eagle owl because it would be too conspicuous where he was. He’s keeping away from me because—he does not want to put me in danger, my son, as if I would not die or kill to save him—”
Harry was absolutely horrified to see tears in Narcissa’s blue eyes. He didn’t know what to do, whether he should curse or comfort this strange woman. All he knew was that Malfoy had said He’ll kill my whole family! as if that was the bottom line, the worst threat that could have been used against him. Coward though Malfoy was, he was not surprised Malfoy had chosen to shield his mother.
It made him think a little better of Malfoy, all the same. He had chosen to be out there, hunted and alone, for someone he loved.
“Why did you turn yourself into Malfoy?” Harry asked abruptly. “The Death Eaters are looking for him—”
Narcissa laughed, high and cold. “Oh, I wish that one of the creatures trying to harm my son had accosted me,” she said. “I would have loved to kill them—slowly.” She paused, apparently involved in a private murderous vision, and then abandoned it with visible regret. “As for why—I thought you might follow him. Draco wrote, before all this happened, that you had been following him all around the castle.”
“To see what he was up to!”
“Yes,” said Narcissa, looking at him oddly. “Obviously, and I thought that if you had been watching him, and since you had that old man’s confidence, you might have more of an idea of what went on that night than all the fools who have condemned him. I wanted to speak with you because of that—and because you have power, you have influence in the Ministry, you can help—”
“Help you how?”
She regarded Harry as if she thought he was unbelievably stupid, and at that point she did remind him of Malfoy quite forcibly.
“Help Draco,” she answered. “I haven’t the resources. I’ve searched and searched, I asked all his friends, I do not know how to find him nor how to insure his safety once I do. You can do that.”
Her certainty irked him. He might be willing to do what he could, but she talked as if he didn’t have better things to do than scour the countryside for Malfoy.
“Why should I?”
Narcissa lifted her chin. “Because,” she answered deliberately, “I can give you Severus Snape.”
After a moment, Harry lowered his wand completely and let it hang by his side. He spoke softly. “Where is he?”
“A house at the end of a street called Spinner’s End, in the Muggle world, in West Yorkshire.” Narcissa produced a package, wrapped in silk. “This is a Portkey that will place you at his door,” she said. “You can give me Veritaserum, you can have it tested to see that I am telling the truth. You will find yourself there, and find him unprepared… and then you can take your revenge.”
Harry reached for the package, but she stepped away from him.
“Why would you hand him over to me? I thought he was friends with your husband.”
“He was my friend,” Narcissa answered quietly, her voice going slightly softer, “and I am—I am very sorry to betray him, but he did not speak for Draco before the Death Eaters. He has shown no pity for Draco now he is condemned, none of them have, and so I must turn to your side. I want you to make an Unbreakable Vow to me that you will find and protect Draco. Will you do it?”
Harry was silent, studying Narcissa’s strained face.
“Why should I trust you?” he asked, and heard the small desperate noise she tried to suppress. He held out his hand. “Give me the Portkey first.”
Narcissa hesitated, and then suddenly she moved forward, so close to Harry she was a blur of blond hair and white skin that could have been Malfoy after all, and once she had stepped back he had the wrapped Portkey in his hands.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Now—wait here while I find a Bonder,” Narcissa ordered, voice purposeful and relieved.
“Oh, sorry,” said Harry. “Did you think I was going to make the Vow? I don’t think I said that.”
She stared at him, her face wiped clean with shock.
“I’ll do my best to protect Malfoy,” Harry continued. “You have my word—as long as it doesn’t interfere with anything else. I do have slightly more important things to think about, and I won’t let anyone get in the way of what I have to do. But I know Malfoy needs help, and I will give it to him if I can.”
Narcissa’s slim body was caught in a fine trembling, as if possessed by rage too intense to allow her to speak.
Harry met her eyes with a gaze as cold as her own. “You don’t care about Dumbledore at all, do you? You wanted Snape to kill him, so you could keep your precious son safe. You said that no-one has shown any pity for Malfoy… but Dumbledore did. One of the last things he did, before he died, was tell Malfoy that he would protect him.”
Narcissa’s gaze did not waver. “Did he? Well then… perhaps I will mourn for him.” Her voice was cold as a knife. “Once you have found my son.”
Harry waited that night for all the sounds in the Burrow to die down, for all its inhabitants to settle in their rooms. He listened to the murmurs and laughter from Hermione and Ginny’s room, heard Mr Weasley’s slow, tired step towards his bed and said “Good night” in response to Mrs Weasley as if he was not going to kill someone in a matter of hours.
He waited, listening until Ron’s breathing had gone deep and slow, and then he slid into his clothes and crept for the door.
The passage was dark and silent, though he kept thinking that someone was going to come out of their room for a glass of water. He stopped for a second in front of Ginny’s door, and pressed his palm against it. He thought of her sleeping in her bed, her bright hair spread out on the pillows, utterly innocent of what Harry was about to do.
Well, that was for later, if there ever was a later. He left the door after a minute and continued his stealthy way down the steps. He knew there were new wards all around the Burrow, and he did not plan on trying to Disapparate inside the walls. He just hoped that the door being opened from the inside would not set off any alarms.
It did not. He went past the garden as well, to be sure, and then stood looking at the Burrow. Everyone he loved was inside those slanting walls, and leaving them behind was—a wrench. Ron and Hermione had followed him every step of the way up till now, and they would be with him at the end.
They did not need to see Thestrals just yet, though, and he alone had seen Snape kill Dumbledore. Snape was his. Dumbledore would have wanted it that way.
Dumbledore had said he wasn’t worried because he was with Harry, but Harry had not been able to shield him when he needed it, had not been able to protect him from betrayal. He could make Snape pay for the betrayal, though.
Harry unwrapped the Portkey, blinking back stupid childish tears. He had to do this right.
In the folds of silk lay what Narcissa had chosen as a Portkey: something she had been sure Harry would recognise, and which would remind him of the mission she had given him. It was Malfoy’s broom, shrunk to fit in Harry’s hand.
He was not going to forget Malfoy, but first things first.
He closed his free hand over the broom that lay in silk on the other, so his hands were clasped together as if in prayer. And Harry’s stomach jerked, and he felt himself spin away, and away, and he went with the pull gratefully, to the place where he would find and kill Snape.
It was pitch black in Spinner’s End, as if all the street lamps were broken. Harry could smell a filthy river winding somewhere nearby, and just make out something that seemed to be a mill outlined against the sky. The last house on the road looked as dilapidated and abandoned as all the others.
Harry wondered for a moment if Narcissa had tricked him: if she had, it hadn’t cost him anything but his time. Besides, for all Snape’s pride, this place looked like it might belong to him. It was about as grim and vile as he was.
He went around the back, stepping easily over a fence which had so many gaps and broken places in it that it reminded Harry of a beggar’s teeth. The tiny garden had overlong grass that wet Harry’s ankles as he passed through it: and he remembered something Tonks had said once while she was telling him and Ron about Auror business: wizards in the Muggle world could not afford to bespell everything in case they were noticed. They always did the doors, she’d said, but watch for unwarded windows…
“Alohomora,” whispered Harry to a darkened window, and it clicked softly open. He climbed inside, the worn material of his jeans catching the edge of the windowsill and slowing him a little. It did not slow him down long, and in a moment he was in Snape’s house with his wand clenched in his hand.
“Expelliarmus,” responded a voice, and Harry’s wand went flying. “Lumos,” added the voice.
Light spread to reveal a tiny sitting room and, seated on an old armchair, Snape. He bared his yellow teeth at Harry in a malicious smile. He had not even bothered to get up.
“Do you never listen to a word anyone says, Potter?” he inquired. “You need to keep your mind closed or you will never get anything done!”
He had his head tipped back, his greasy hair hanging over the back of the chair. This was what Dumbledore had trusted, this was what Dumbledore had gambled his life on!
“I don’t need my wand,” Harry said. “I’ll tear you apart with my bare hands. You murderer. You coward.”
Snape’s wand, levelled at Harry, trembled as he was suddenly caught in a quiver of anger. His face twisted and Harry stood, braced for whatever might come next, when he heard the slam of what sounded like the front door and then the slam open of the door behind Harry.
Snape stopped looking at Harry, his eyes widening, and Harry seized his moment of distraction by throwing himself on the ground, rolling and then coming back up with his wand at the ready.
“Expelliarmus!” he shouted, before he was even on his feet, and this time it was Snape’s wand that hit the wall. Harry was breathing hard as he advanced on him. “Now,” he said. “Let’s see how brave you are, without a wand, without defences, just like Dumbledore was… I wonder what your last words will be…”
“Get out!” Snape commanded, just as someone else said, “No!” and ran to stand between Harry and the seated figure of Snape.
Harry blinked, not letting his wand falter, and recognised the real Draco Malfoy.
Definitely the real Malfoy, even though he was still thinner than normal, and scruffy in what actually appeared to be Muggle clothes. The very sight of him made Harry angrier.
He’d thought he felt sorry for him, even thought he might want to help him, but now he realised that he did not want to do anything of the sort. All he’d been thinking of was Malfoy crying—probably scared for his own skin—and Malfoy lowering his wand—probably just afraid of Dumbledore—but now he could see Malfoy clearly, his cold eyes narrowed and his hateful face set.
If Malfoy hadn’t let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, Dumbledore would never have died. It was his fault too, and he hadn’t been hiding anywhere feeling sorry about it, he had been sleeping over at the house of Dumbledore’s killer! He did not even look as sick as he had earlier this year. He had his usual colouring back, such as it was. Clearly, Dumbledore’s death had taken the heat off him. He was probably really glad about it.
Harry stepped forward, so close that the tip of his wand touched Malfoy’s chest. Malfoy’s eyes widened but, rather to Harry’s surprise, he did not step back or even flinch.
“Move, Malfoy,” he said quietly. “Or do you want me to make you?”
“Go to hell, Potter,” Malfoy answered.
“Draco, I do appreciate the gesture, but it’s not really necessary—” began Snape.
Harry whipped his wand up so it was pointing over Malfoy’s shoulder. He wondered whether he should cast a curse at him now, and deal with Malfoy later.
He would have done it, but he had to pause for a second to think about whether he should try Avada Kedavra or simply say Sectumsempra and watch Snape’s blood drain out of him because of his own rotten spell.
“Lower your wand!” Malfoy said sharply.
“Actually, Malfoy, I don’t think I will!” Harry snapped, glaring at him. Malfoy sneered back and Harry thought perhaps he would kill them both. Maybe he would cast Cruciatus on Malfoy, like Malfoy’d tried to do to him. Might be good to see Malfoy scream.
Malfoy tilted his head up a little and began to undo the buttons of his shirt.
For a moment Harry’s mind simply staggered back from the sight, as if it had been slapped. Exactly what good did Malfoy think undressing was going to do?
He thought he realised why when the first button was undone, and Harry saw the tip of a raised mark against Malfoy’s pale skin. He remembered Snape saying, There may be a certain amount of scarring. Something in his mind quailed and tried to push the hideous memory of Malfoy falling away, but Harry did not let his wand waver. If Malfoy thought he could guilt-trip him, he was dead wrong.
Then Draco undid the next button, and held the points of his faded shirt collar open.
There, glittering below the hollow of Malfoy’s throat, lying on the raised scar that ran along Malfoy’s exposed chest, was a golden locket. Harry stared at the S inscribed on it, following the lines of the single letter that was Slytherin’s mark.
Here was the locket that Voldemort had held in his hands as Tom Riddle, that held a piece of his soul. Here, hanging round Malfoy’s neck, was the locket that Dumbledore had made himself defenceless to win.
“Give that here,” Harry ordered.
Malfoy frowned. “Oh yes, right away, Potter. I hardly think so.”
Harry stepped in closer, closed his hand on the locket, and pulled as hard as he could. The chain did not break.
Malfoy let out a little laugh, close to Harry’s ear. “It’s enchanted not to leave my neck until a certain person says a few special words.”
Harry threw him up against the wall, not relaxing his hold on the locket. He felt the hitch in Malfoy’s chest as his breathing was cut off and he slid his wand up to Malfoy’s chin. Then he used the tip to force Malfoy to look at him, and with Malfoy staring balefully into his eyes he felt Malfoy flinch at last, and felt nothing but satisfaction.
“Fine by me,” he breathed. “Now I’m going to use Cruciatus, or maybe I’ll just rip you apart again, until you do what I want.”
“Wait,” Snape said, but he did not get up from his chair. Harry wondered what Malfoy thought of the man he’d been trying to shield now.
He did not look away from Malfoy’s face. “Scream all you like,” he said.
“It is not Draco who can open the locket,” Snape informed him. “Only I can do that.”