Never A Memory

a/n: Originally, I had thought that the conversation with Draco and Lady Black would have taken longer. However, I found when I tried to lengthen it and make it seem more involved, it took away from the flow of the the scene and made it boorish. I like it the way it is, simple and...not-so-sweet.



Enjoy.













~A Secret Prophecy~



Later that afternoon…

~*~



“Narcissa’s boy.”



Draco wasn’t altogether certain what he expected the woman to do or say when he pulled back the heavy curtain. Scream, perhaps, as she was rumored to do. His godfather had told him of the incoherent screeches she would afford the Blood Traitors that had taken over her household at Sirius Black’s behest and was surprised at the heavy calm that surrounded her being.



Walburga Black wore a heavy laced Victorian gown, the colors dark and somber, and an exquisite cameo fixed at her throat. The tilt of her chin was cultured, her smile quiet but not pleasant, and her hands delicately laid over one another atop her lap as she sat in a beautiful Henry IV chair, the gilded base elegant but not overbearing. Purebloods always knew exactly how to arrange their surroundings to accentuate their own majesty and never over-shout it.



“My lady,” Draco murmured respectfully, affording her a courtly bow before straightening, his hands clasped tightly behind him.



“The Lion whispers to me of a growing closeness between you and the Blood Traitor that has inherited my estate,” Lady Black said, her eyes cool and piercing.



“Yes, my lady,” Draco replied, years of training keeping his voice level and his body calm even at the revelation that the painting of the lion in his room had been gossiping to his great aunt.



“It is true then?”



“Yes, my lady.”



“A passing dalliance, no doubt?”



Draco wondered where this was going. “Of course, my lady.”



“And you will break his heart, then?”



Draco relaxed his features. “Certainly, my lady.”



“I see.” Lady Walburga Black turned her face away, suddenly looking younger. She almost seemed disappointed.



Minutes passed and Draco waited for Lady Black to say something else. Finally, after nearly ten minutes of watching Walburga Black stare off into the distance, Draco could no longer contain himself.



“Lady,” Draco said, “Does my mother visit you?”



“She speaks to me,” Lady Black murmured, her piercing gaze returning to rest on Draco’s upturned face. “I am but a painting, dear boy, but I can hear her.”



“Lady, please,” Draco said, trying not to sound too earnest. “How fares my mother?”



Lady Black’s eyes softened into something more akin to sadness. “She grieves for you.”



Those four words hit Draco like a slap in he face and he stepped back. “Pardon?”



“Narcissa grieves for you, boy,” Lady Black repeated, the sadness gone and replaced by something shielded and cruel. “Her son will pass soon…in accordance with the Prophecy.”



Draco frowned. “What Prophecy?”



Lady Walburga Black’s eyes blazed, as if his words were a direct insult to her. “Insolent boy! The Host doesn’t know his own Prophecy?”



“Forgive me, my lady,” Draco said, giving her another bow, one lower and apologetic. “I have been asleep for many years.” His heart raced and his blood beat in his ears as he waited for Lady Black’s next words.



“A Pact is made on the Quest for Immortality…a God of Darkness relinquishes the Seven Keys…a Promise fulfilled in a Pure Womb…a Child born to Heal severed Lines…a Marking of the Near-Man…when the Dark Lord perishes at the Hands of Love half-remembered…The Gatherer is hosted and calls in the Night…a Sacrifice is laid on the Alter of Justice…and Purity wears the Face of Maul…Darkness reigns over the Land of Men…so be quiet Child…for the Black Tulpa fears only the Eighth Key.”



~*~



The Ministry…

***



“So…do you want to take Malfoy in shifts now?”



“What?!” Harry exclaimed a little too loudly, his head jerking up to look at Ron incredulous.



Ron spread his hands. “Well, I just figured you’d want a little time off with the little git. Two weeks is a long time.”



Harry forced a laugh and ran a hand through his jet-black hair. “No, its not nearly as bad as all that. I need you to be my eyes and ears here at the Ministry, Ron. I’ll inform the minute anything comes up.”



“All right,” Ron said, not even slightly attached to the idea of babysitting Malfoy when he could be spending quality time with his fiancée. “Even if you are a glutton for punishment.”



“If you only knew. How is Hermione?”



Ron leant over his desk and plucked a paperclip to fasten a set of papers. “Oh, she’s fine.”



“She still vexed with me?”



Ron shook his head. “You should know by know that staying angry at you is one of the hardest things she can do.”



“True,” Harry said with a smile as he sat on the edge of Ron’s desk.



“Are you sure Malfoy’ll stay put if you leave him alone for this long? How do you know he won’t take off or something?”



Harry hesitated before answering, knowing he couldn’t possible tell Ron he was shagging him. “I trust him.”



“You’re completely mental.”



“I am not.”



“Mad. Utterly, mate.”



“Ron…”



~*~



Number Twelve Grimauld Place...

***



Lady Walburg Black would speak no more on the subject and left her portrait, leaving Draco trembling in the middle of the hall.



His mind was blank save for the words of the Prophecy ringing through his mind. He was shocked, realizing, even as Lady Black was uttering the words, that they were the same that Voldemort had mocked him with the night before.



Soon, his trembling became violent and his anger grew. Shouting, Draco picked up a chair and threw it across the hall. Seconds later, the entire hall was a mess as Draco tried to spend his rage by breaking and hurling anything within reach.



When there was nothing left to break, Draco collapsed to his knees and wept. His tears were angry, defiant at what that Prophecy meant, knowing, as he had always suspected, that he was not merely born, he was bred.



He was the fulfillment of a promise, the host. He would become the one thing that he had fought to destroy. The Dark Lord.



Unless…unless he could find the Eighth Key.



The Eighth Key.



Abruptly, Draco’s tears vanished and he set his chin. That’s it, then.



He would have to decipher the Prophecy, find the Eighth Key, and figure out a way to stop this whole thing before it took him over.



No use crying. Draco stood to his feet and called Slightly to clean up the hall. He had no idea how long he had…but if he ran out of time, he would make sure Harry Potter killed him.



Therefore, he would have to keep Harry close and thinking everything was fine. He needed Harry’s resources and protection.



Draco smiled, knowing that Harry’s hate for evil would make him the perfect candidate to end it all of things went astray.



It was perfect, in a strange sort of way. Bad faith.



~*~



Number Twelve Grimauld Place...

***



Harry hung up his cloak in the hall and strolled quickly to the staircase. “Malfoy!” he called but received no answer.



Harry jogged up the steps, taking two or three at a time. He found Draco in the Study up to his elbows in scrolls and dusty books.



“Looking for something?” Harry asked when he entered the room.



Draco sent him a guarded look but shook his head as he stood to his feet. “No, just humoring myself.”



“Ah.” Harry walked over to his desk and picked up a file, flipping through the pages intently.



Draco stood to the side and waited patiently.



Finally, Harry pulled a photograph from the file a lifted it up. “Do you remember this man?”



Draco raised a brow. “Of course I do. He was my Social Worker, Michael Deans.”



“His real name is Maximus Cure.”



“Oh,” Draco murmured after a moment.



“He was hired to steal your magic and kill you.”



Draco snorted. “He failed then, didn’t he?”



“Miserably,” Harry conceded with a grin. Harry put the file away and went to stand before Draco. “Here’s the fun part. The American Aurors have Cure in custody and claim that he was hired by someone calling himself The Gatherer.”



There are many skills necessary to tell and maintain the perfect lie. Some would even claim it to be a science. Severus Snape claimed as much. His ability to convincingly lie kept him alive when he had the most dangerous role in the Order of the Phoenix as a double spy. Severus passed down the secrets to his godson, teaching him how to maintain an even heartbeat, to control the iris dilation in his eyes, and school his features into one of mild interest but complete innocence. Severus had taught him to look up and to the left as if trying to recollect some vital fraction of retainable memory that may, even in the slightest, be helpful, and then look the opposite person directly in the eye whenever actually delivering the lie. The eye contact is never to convince the recipient of honesty, it is always to challenge the recipient to disqualifying their claim. Most are ashamed of eye contact and the challenge is often misinterpreted as confidence.



And so, when Harry asked Draco if the name “The Gatherer” meant anything to him, Draco’s reply was even and convincing; the perfect delivery of a lie. And Draco’s heart twisted guiltily. It’s for the best, he reminded himself.



“And what is this person gathering,” Draco asked.



“Death Eaters, we think,” Harry replied, turning away and pouring himself a glass of water.



“Death Eaters to kill me?”



“A few think so.”



“But not you,” Draco stated.



Harry shook his head and took a sip of water. “I’m beginning to think there’s more to it. I was one of three who devised the plan to send you to America. That someone knew you were there outside of Ron, Hermione, and I must mean that there is a spy inside the Ministry. Why spend so much time and effort turning you into a Muggle?”



Draco looked suddenly as if he had eaten a bug. “I beg your pardon?”



“Oh, right, Cure poisoned you with the Inversion Echantratem in an effort to steal your magic.”



Draco almost smiled. Irony at its best. “Oh, I see. No magic tends to mean Muggle. Quaint. I’ve never heard of the Inversion Enchantratem.”



“Before today, neither had I,” Harry replied. “Well, again, it just all seems so much more involved for it to be just an attempt to assassinate you.”



“I agree,” Draco murmured, inclining his head a little.



“And the Americans have closed their Apparatal Borders.”



Draco was silent for a moment. “That ought to keep the world nice and calm.”



“Do you think they overreacted?”



“I don’t know enough about anything to say.”



“You seem awfully calm.”



Draco’s eyes were blazing when they met Harry’s. “What do you want me to do? Dance a jig or tear my hair out in fear?”



“I just thought your interest would be slightly more piqued at the notion that someone is organizing the surviving Death Eaters into an army,” Harry said slowly, wondering why Draco seemed angry all of a sudden.



Draco shrugged. “Am I not safe here with you, oh hero?”



“It’s not about you, Malfoy. It’s the possibility that these Death Eaters think their Dark Lord is—“



“Don’t you fucking say it,” Draco interrupted heatedly. “Voldemort is dead. I killed him. He is never coming back.”



“What has gotten into you?” Harry asked, reaching out a hand that Draco brushed away.



Draco paced for a moment, trying to reign in his temper. He must have less time than he thought. It was all happening way too fast.



When he finally looked back at Harry, his heart twisted again at the look behind Harry’s brave, green eyes.



“I wish to see Pansy.”



“I don’t think—“



“I am not asking for your permission, Harry,” Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m asking for your help. I wish to see Pansy.”



Draco watched Harry take his words like blows and a confused, helpless look creeped into that true green of his eyes before something stoney and hard replaced it.



“Fine, I can arrange that,” Harry said, turning to leave the study. “We’ll leave at dawn.”



~*~









a/n: Tune in next time for Chapter 31, "Understanding Pansy"!