Claiming Hermione

alpha'd by the eevilalice, who ROCKS! Thank you!

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The ribbons were still on the floor. And the space next to Draco was still dented and warm and scented with honey and amber and jasmine and those other unnamable things that made up Hermione Granger.

Even absent now, he was filled up with her.

Draco lay in his bed watching the tiny snitch swinging from its chain, catching the winter light as it swung to the left, then retreating into shadow as it swung back.

It’s because I believe in you.

He held the chain up higher to catch more of the light. He could still see the pink on her cheeks and her chin jutted out in all her incontrovertible conviction.

More than anything, he wants her conviction for himself. He wants to believe that he is a good man. A man treasured for his skills, his intelligence and the integrity living inside him that he has spent his past burying.

These things are Draco’s tender leaves. Lying quietly in darkness. Delicate and frightened. Secretly hoping to push past his soiled history and bloom.

There is no grey area here. There is light. And there is dark. And the line is sharply drawn.

Draco let out a defeated sigh and swung his long legs over the edge of the bed. He was standing on the line between two worlds, both doors closed to him.

With his elbows resting on his knees, Draco let the snitch rest against the open palm of one hand and touched a fingertip to it.

The shimmering wings unfolded.

**************************************************

The walk to Dumbledore’s office was slow, each step echoing too loudly off the walls and taking too long. Draco’s legs felt like they were made of heavy stone. He’d done nothing in his life to recommend himself to their cause, and yet, here he was, standing in front of the gargoyle with all his courage contained in the tiny silver ball around his neck.

In the golden column of the moving staircase, Draco widened his stance and set his shoulders against the buzzing in his head.

Happy New Year, Draco.

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Malfoy,” the Headmaster said. Movement to Dumbledore’s right cut off his reply and he stiffened.

No. No no no no no.

Hermione gave him a nervous half-smile, half-grimace that suggested it was Dumbledore’s idea for her to be there.

Fucking fantastic.

“You’re aware, I think, that Miss Granger is an Order member. I thought, since we were going, that it would be nice for her to see her friends.”

Draco nodded curtly. Like he had any choice in the matter.

Dumbledore shuffled through the rolled up parchments piled precariously on his desk, begging their forgiveness while he searched for something he’d misplaced. Accio parchment Draco thought sarcastically, but decided against saying anything. The longer he delayed the better.

The Head Girl was doing her best to appear casual as she feigned interest in a whirling gadget teetering at the edge of the mantle. She was also doing her best to avoid eye-contact, which, presently, Draco didn’t mind at all.

She reached up to touch the base of the object and Draco’s gaze snapped to a red mark across her wrist. His face flushed. Instantly, his mind locked on an image of dark orchid ribbons fishtailing up her ankles and calves. And the shiny pink of her sex.

“At last!” Dumbledore exclaimed, breaking Draco out of his untimely memories. “Well, let’s get going. Miss Granger, why don’t you lead the way?”

Hermione stepped into the fireplace without any floo powder and turned around. Dumbledore waved his hand and she disappeared in a swirl of blue flames. Well, that was new and momentarily distracting.

As soon as she was gone, Draco let out a long breath. In contrast to the images that had just played out in his mind, this morning he’d awoken to an entirely different image. One that had stayed with him even after she left for breakfast. A gloomy vision of Hermione, fuzzy at the edges of her hair, but sharp on her sad eyes, large and open and looking at him with disappointment. The embodiment of all his fears.

He didn’t want her there when he was vulnerable and could hide it from anyone else.

“If you’ll wait just a moment before we head over, Draco, I have a small matter I’d like to take care of first. It’ll only take a minute.” Fine. Whatever. Dumbledore didn’t wait for Draco to answer anyway and left through a narrow door across the room.

Draco wiped his clammy hands on his robe, scowling. He was angry with himself for letting all this unsettle him. He was a Malfoy. If he wanted something, he took it. He never questioned his right to have it. But this thing… this… independence from his family, this lived in a world he’d never considered possible. Like Hermione.

“Well, Draco, shall we?”

He hesitated. “Professor?”

“Yes?”

“What happens...What happens if they don’t…”

Dumbledore’s smile was warm and understanding. “A simple memory charm. But I wouldn’t concern yourself too much about that Draco.”

Draco forced his frown into a straight line.

“Just step into the fireplace and I’ll send you over. I’ll be right behind you.”

**************************************************

Hermione stepped into the narrow, lackluster kitchen of Number 12, Grimmauld Place and directly into the arms of a squealing Ginny Weasley.

Over the shoulder of her friend, it appeared that there was a welcoming committee waiting. But judging from Ron’s face, caught between scowling and gaping in surprise, Hermione guessed the assembly wasn’t for her.

As soon as Ginny released her, Harry folded her in a tight hug.

“Good to see you, Hermione,” he said. Harry didn’t seem quite as surprised as everyone else and Hermione wondered if maybe her best friend and the Headmaster had been in on the plan. It was a little aggravating to think of them planning behind her back, but the idea had merit, so she let it go and returned Harry’s hug fully.

“Thanks, Harry. It’s good to see you too.”

Harry stepped back and Hermione turned to Ron, whose expression hadn’t changed.

“Are you going to say hello, Ron, or are you just going to gape at me?” she said, amused.

“What are you doing here?”

Hermione gave him a sarcastic smirk. “Hello to you too, Ron. Did you have a nice Holiday? That’s great. Yeah, I missed you too.”

Ron came out of his stupor and rolled his eyes, then smiled good-naturedly and went to hug her. “Sorry, ‘Mione. I just didn’t know you were coming.”

“Clearly,” she said as she hugged him back.

Mrs. Weasley bustled into the kitchen at that moment and Ron managed to get away just before she tackled Hermione in a crushing hug.

“Oh, Hermione! How are you, dear?” She let go in time for Hermione to suck in a breath and continued before Hermione could answer. “Everything going well at school? I hope you haven’t spent your whole break studying.”

“Well, I might have taken breaks long enough to eat once in while,” nevermind from what, she added mentally. “But I missed you all so much. How are you?”

Mrs. Weasley held Hermione’s face in her hands and she was sure that Molly could feel her cheeks heating up at the reminder of what she had been doing over break.

“Oh, fine, fine, dear. You must be hungry. Come sit. I’ve got some nice, hot stew on the stove.”

Hermione’s reply was interrupted by the fireplace flaring to life.

And there was Draco. Stiff and imperious. A pristine column of black in a sea of faded jeans and colorful jumpers. A snake in the lions’ den.

In that strange, stretched out moment, Hermione’s senses focused on the sound of her breath, in and out, mingling with the expanding and contracting of the old house, and the lingering smell of the blue smoke in the fireplace. Like Draco, her eyes landed briefly on each person in the room, starting and ending with Ron.

Everyone looked like they expected Draco to whip out his wand and cast Avada Kedavra’s at them.

“Malfoy,” Harry said carefully.

The bubble of tension in the room popped soundlessly and time rushed forward to catch up. Before Draco could respond, Mrs. Weasley pounced on him. The shock on Draco’s face as Mrs. Weasley fussed over him was nearly comical. Hermione would have laughed if she wasn’t in shock herself.

“Draco. Well, just look at you,” she exclaimed warmly as though addressing a beloved nephew she hadn’t seen in a while. She gripped his upper arms in her short pudgy fingers and held him away from her to look at him. “My, what a tall young man you’ve become. And so handsome.”

Draco looked like he was in extreme distress with his arms stick-straight in Molly’s grasp and his eyes wide and blinking. Hermione had the idea that as soon as Molly let go, Draco might run back into the fireplace. She caught a glimpse of Ginny across the room, trying to hold in her giggles, and had to bite down on her own lips to stop her emerging grin.

Harry looked like Christmas had come twice.

Ron, however, was turning a startling shade of red, and he banged his bottle of butterbeer down loudly on the table. Hermione rolled her eyes. What a baby.

If Molly was aware of her son’s feelings on the subject of Draco Malfoy – and chances were excellent that she was – she turned a deaf ear and kept up with her fussing.

She insistently ushered Draco to the far end of the kitchen and made him sit down at the long wooden table.

“Come on, Hermione. You too. Let’s get some food in you both and you’ll be right as rain.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” she said, ignoring Draco’s panicked glare. This house was too small for more than one baby. Draco would just have to buck up and deal with it.

She climbed onto the bench opposite him. Opposite, and a seat to the left. Just to be on the safe side.

**************************************************

This had to be Hell. Draco was sure of it. He had died at some point during his floo trip and he’d landed in Hell. As he sat at the gouged and ratty table, not daring to open his mouth, Draco wondered which of his wicked deeds had been the deciding factor. He probably shouldn’t have tied up the Gryffindor Princess. Or spanked her.

Potter sat next to Hermione, and the Weaselette, looking entirely too eager for Draco’s taste, climbed in on the other side of her directly across from him. Weasley stood just behind them while he apparently made up his mind that killing Draco wouldn’t be as satisfying as drawing out the torture as long as possible. From the looks of it, it was a tough decision, but the red-headed prat eventually sat down on the other side of Potter.

Great. A Gryffindor firing squad. Draco maintained a disinterested look as best he could. Yawning would be a nice touch. Risky. But nice. Nobody spoke. Where was Dumbledore?

Mild panic set in when Mrs. Weasley headed back towards the table with two large, streaming bowls floating in front of her. Who knew what kind of tripe they served here. The grey kitchen looked barely fit enough to serve gruel in. Besides, there was no way he could eat with his stomach in knots. He’d skipped breakfast for that very reason.

The bowls touched down gently in front of them and Draco begrudgingly admitted it was nicely done. Too many people figured making things fly was good enough and neglected the art of setting them down again.

It smelled bloody fantastic. Not that he was prepared to eat with four sets of eyes trained on him. Where the fuck was Dumbledore?

“You two eat up,” Mrs. Weasley urged. “Come on, Ginny, you and I have work to do.”

The youngest Weasley rolled her eyes dramatically and slumped away from the table. “Fine,” she groaned following her mother out of the room.

Super. Alone with the Golden Trio. Life was playing a joke on him. And then his stomach growled loudly. Oh, no… NOW, life was playing a joke on him. Harry snickered.

Hermione was four spoonfuls into her bowl and she looked up at the sound. Draco kept his hands in his lap and averted his eyes towards the fireplace.

“Honestly, Draco! It’s not poisoned,” Hermione admonished, but she was smirking at him. Oh, this was so unfair.

“Too bad for that,” the Weasel grumbled, just loud enough for there to be no doubt that Draco could hear him.

In a totally backwards and wrong kind of way, he was glad the Weasel was here. He might not know where he stood with the Order, or Potter, or even Hermione, but he knew where he stood with the Weasel. It wasn’t hard to tell.

He was about to retort when Hermione cut in, “Ronald Weasley, if you are quite done behaving like a bloody, whiny prat, we’d all appreciate it.”

Nice. It was pleasant to know that he wasn’t the only one who’d been on the other end of Granger’s indignation.

Weasley glared at her hard. “Piss off, Hermione!” he bit out and scraped the bench on the floor as he stood up to stomp out of the room. The kitchen door slammed behind him leaving Hermione staring at it with her mouth open and indignation rushing to her face. Though Draco tried to cover it, he let out a sigh of relief that he was gone.

Then Potter began to chuckle. For a second, Draco thought he might be going a bit barmy, but then Granger, too, was fighting a grin. An annoyed one, but a grin all the same. Gryffindors.

“Good grief, Harry, has he been like that this whole time?”

“That was tame, actually,” he said with a wry smile.

Draco, however, could suddenly, and clearly, see his biggest obstacle. Ron Weasely. Hermione Granger’s other best friend.

She might be ready to give him a piece of her mind now, but if Weasley put up the fight that Draco suspected he would, there was little question where Draco would land in the fallout.

“I’m really glad you’re here, Hermione,” Harry said easily. “Now, please tell me you haven’t really spent your entire break studying?”

Draco kept his eyes on his stew, tipping his spoon in his mouth and swallowing, but he could feel his self-satisfied smirk down to his toes.

“You know, Harry, it wouldn’t kill you if you cracked a book now and then. Just because you are on Holiday, doesn’t mean you should slack off entirely.”

Draco could feel his mouth quirking with pride at his little lion’s ability to divert attention and at her scolding the Boy Wonder. But when Potter didn’t take offense as expected, Draco suddenly became aware of Potter’s eyes on him.

The weight of Potter’s gaze was hard to ignore and when he couldn’t avoid it any longer, Draco turned to glare at him, or tell him to fuck off. But Potter’s look was intense and contemplative, like he was puzzling something out, and it made Draco’s heart thump suddenly against his ribs.

And then, just as suddenly, it was gone, and he’d turned back to Hermione. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Professor Dumbledore thought I might like to see my friends and invited me to come along.”

Harry snorted, “Right. I’m sure it had nothing to do with your being here helping to make the transition easier for some people. I mean, seeing as how you and Malfoy are friends…”

Draco scowled into his stew. “I don’t need any help, Potter,” he said bitterly.

Potter and Hermione shared a look and Potter rolled his eyes. “Shocking as it may be, Malfoy, I wasn’t actually talking about you.”

Where the fuck was Dumbledore?

Hermione abandoned Harry and Draco in the kitchen with the excuse of finding Ron and tell-him-just-exactly-what-she-thought-of-his-little-display, and I-hope-he-hasn’t-been-a-total-lay-about-too-he-simply-can’t-afford-not-to-prepare-for-his-NEWTS…

After the door swung shut, Draco and Harry sat in tense silence, Harry drumming his fingers on the table and Draco staring into his empty bowl, until Harry suggested they wait in the library.

**************************************************

The narrow hallway off the kitchen was dark and musty, like rooms closed off for too long without air. The faint green cast to the walls gave Draco the sense of being at the bottom of a murky lake. Like he was walking in algae and slimy mud. A feeling of war seemed to have permeated this place. Or what he suspected war felt like anyway. But there was also something familiar about the hallway. Not comforting, just…familiar. The eerie green light spilled down the staircase at the end of the hall, sending rail-post shadows against the wall like a jail cell.

A scurrying movement at the end of the hall caught Draco’s eye and he looked over Potter’s shoulder to find a small house-elf rubbing a cloth slowly over the nameplate of a picture frame. Potter seemed disinclined to acknowledge the house-elf and the house-elf seemed to agree.

Draco wondered briefly if Hermione was aware of Potter’s lack of manners towards house-elves. The ugly little creature (okay, so Draco wouldn’t be signing up for S.P.E.W. anytime soon) turned to give Draco a once-over and froze wide-eyed. God, it was ugly. And old. And badly in need of an ear-hair trimming.

And then, to his surprise and horror, the elf rushed past Potter and dropped to its knees in front of Draco. “Oh. Oh. Oh, Sir…” it said in a raspy voice, “Oh. Noble, NOBLE Sir! You… You is… HERE!” The elf was beside itself, stuttering and making an abundance of grand, sweeping gestures that didn’t match up with its words.

Draco didn’t bother to hide either his confusion or his disgust at the prostrate and inarticulate elf fawning over him.

“Oh,” it continued, “Oh, we has waited and hoped and prayed for your beautiful, excellent, honored presence…”

“Get a grip, Kreacher,” Potter said dryly and turned to go up the stairs. Draco continued to stare aghast at the elf. Did… Did it just… growl at Potter? That’s…highly unusual.

Draco stepped back and carefully around onto the first stair tread, ready to escape the crazy elf, when a loud gasp had him turning around again. There was an old, matriarchal woman glaring at him from the painting on the wall. Draco had the distinct feeling that he’d seen her somewhere before.

“It is about time, Mr. Malfoy,” the portrait scolded. Her tone immediately brought a hex to the tip of his tongue, but he was caught off guard that the painting knew his name. She’d apparently seen him too. “Too long has this house been under the influence of those unworthy. You’ve allowed mudbloods and blood-traitors to soil…”

Potter flicked his wrist at the painting and a heavy black curtain flew shut in front of the frame, abruptly silencing the screechy old lady.

A little alarmed, Draco looked to Potter, who only rolled his eyes in annoyance. He turned back up the stairs muttering, “Can’t get rid of either one of the blasted, old…”

Draco looked around now, taking in the stained striped wallpaper and the dusty corners of the stair treads. A weird feeling settled in the pit of Draco’s stomach as his awareness of the house prickled against his skin, knocking at the edges of his mind like something he’d known at one time but had since forgotten.

He looked up for the source of the sickly light and his stomach lurched. Three preserved and slightly shriveled looking house-elf heads were mounted under glass high on the wall overhead. He was sure now. He’d been here before.

Draco stepped onto the landing behind Potter just as a loud thud like a heavy book dropping came through the closed door on their left. They both looked at the door and heard the unmistakable sound of an irate Hermione Granger.

“Just who do you think you are, Ronald Weasley? You have no right strutting around telling me what to do or think! How dare you suggest that you, of all people are just being logical! And obviously?” her voice rose in pitch and fervor. “You mean, like in third year, when you accused my cat of obviously eating Scabbers? Or in fourth year, when you accused Harry of obviously cheating and then abandoned him during the TriWizard Tournament? Or maybe you mean obviously like in fifth year…”

Potter grinned at Draco, “Not a good idea to make Hermione angry.”

“Yes. I know.”

Potter raised a questioning eyebrow.

“She didn’t know about me and…. any of this,” he explained with a wave of his hand, indicating his request to join The Order.

There was a puzzled look on Potter’s face, followed only by, “huh”.

A door opened behind them and Remus Lupin emerged, smiling. “Hello, Harry! Mr. Malfoy. How do you?”

“Fine, Sir,” Draco replied, not feeling fine at all.

“Been a long time, eh?” he said looking around at the landing. “Well, you two go on in and Dumbledore will come let you know when it’s time.” With that, he bounded down the stairs and out of sight.

“Where the hell are we?” Draco demanded as soon as they walked into the library.

Potter turned around with a strange, mad sort of smile on his face, “Oh, didn’t you know? This is your house.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, okay, not exactly ‘your’ house, but you are currently standing in the library of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.” He said with a flair of his hands.

“That obnoxious portrait downstairs would be your Great Aunt Walburga Black. Piece of work, that one. And it seems that my devoted house elf is simply beside himself with glee at the hope that you are here to rescue him from the evil mudbloods and blood traitors that spend countless hours torturing him. As if we have nothing better to do.”

“The House of Black?” was all Draco’s eloquent, stuttering brain could manage.

“And if that doesn’t bend your mind, try this. Your ancestral home was owned by your cousin, Sirius Black. First cousin, once removed, to be exact. Who,” he paused for effect, “is my Godfather. He left the house to me when he died two years ago.”

Potter plopped down in a large armchair and picked up a Quidditch magazine, leafing through it while Draco stood dumbly staring at him.

So many thoughts and feelings rushing in on Draco that he couldn’t sort them out. It was too much. His purpose in being here, Granger’s unexpected presence, his bizarre reception, and now this. For ten minutes he stood in front of a wall of books, staring at the titles and not seeing them.

He just had to get through the questioning. That’s all. He could decide later how he felt about the fact that Potter owned what would be his Aunt Bella’s or his mother’s home.

“I bet it’s just killing you that we’re connected in this way. By family.” Potter gloated with the air of someone who’d had more than five minutes to get used to the idea.

“Shut up, Potter.”

**************************************************

Lupin poked his head in to ask Harry and Draco to wait in the drawing room since they were just about ready.

His heart and stomach and every other important organ he had, suddenly felt like they were lodged in the middle of his throat. Draco swallowed around it. Nevermind the damn house.

He followed Potter down the large hallway taking deep careful breaths and trying to slow the crashing waves in his chest. Thank God Potter couldn’t see him.

The heavy oak door of the drawing room closed behind him and Draco stood just inside the room. Potter motioned to the wall behind Draco. “The Black Family Tree,” he explained.

Draco turned and felt everything inside him stop. Fifty pairs of eyes stared down at him. The entire Black line, as pureblooded as the Malfoys, everything he was raised to be – the legacy he was bred to inherit – glared at him through their black, twisting vines. He didn’t know where to look. He didn’t want to look, but there was his grandfather, Cygnus, and his grandmother. And his Aunt Bellatrix – eyes gleaming madly even in needlepoint – and a black scorch mark where Andromeda Tonks would have been. The fate of traitors.

And like a magnet, his eyes locked onto his mother and his heart let out a deep, aching throb to see her face again. And there was his father, haughty and damning, staring out at him. His father was going to watch. From his needle and thread image, he was about to witness his son’s betrayal to everything he believed in. Draco swallowed past the thickness in his throat.

And then he looked down between his mother and father. There he was. Draco Malfoy. About to be burnt out of his own family.

Fuck.

All the energy and tension of his anxiety bled out of him. He felt heavy and exhausted. In the face of his lineage, his determination to end the Malfoy name’s association with darkness felt impossible. Too mired in muck and mud and cruelty and the weight of history.

Draco turned his back on his family to find Potter looking at him, his bright green eyes frank and open behind his glasses.

He held Potter’s gaze and was steadied by it. There was an understanding there. Something between them that passed beyond schoolboy rivalry. Something human. And it gave him strength and reminded him that someone believed in him.


Potter knew what Draco was giving up to be here and Draco found that he was grateful that someone understood.

Still holding Draco’s gaze, Potter called out for Kreacher.

“Tell Dumbledore that we’ll be meeting in the sitting room instead.” When the elf popped out of the room, Potter had the decency not to mention the change.

**************************************************

Okay. Not what he’d expected. Somehow, he’d imagined something a little more… prison like. Dark and grimy, like an interrogation room or a holding cell in the windowless depths of the Ministry.

A large fireplace glowed and crackled loudly, sending warmth into all but the farthest corners of the room. The curtains had been flung open, sending the white light of a wintery morning cascading over the plump couches and chairs. And mercifully, there was no sign of any Black or Malfoy pureblood fanatics staring down at him. It would be so much easier to be gutted without everyone watching.

A minute later, Dumbledore came in at last, followed by MadEye Moody’s stumpy swagger, and Arthur Weasley, looking considerably more wary than his wife.

“Why don’t we all get comfortable and I’ll have some tea brought up.”

Moody stumped over to the chair furthest in and facing the door. He sat on the edge of the seat, his crazy eye swerving over every inch of the room. The senior Weasley sat in an armchair across from him and casually crossed a long leg over his knee. There was something professional in his manner. An economy of movement that contradicted the way Draco thought of Weasleys. It was almost…elegant. Not that he’d admit that Except under Veritaserum his brain added wryly.

Dumbledore pointed Draco to a plush comfortable-looking pale gold chair, and took the red Victorian chair directly across from him.

Potter sat with his legs folded up in a gold chair like Draco’s, off to the side a bit.

So these were his executioners.

Mad Eye Moody. Scarred and disfigured from years of pursuing Death Eaters. Draco’s aunt. His father. His whole bloody family tree in the next room. Draco looked at the harsh line of his scowl. At the eagerness in his posture. He would be the first in this group to tear into Draco, the first to twist his answers and damn him.

Arthur Weasley. Draco’s mind skipped through the countless times his father had degraded the senior Weasley. From his pensive expression, Draco imagined he was remembering the same thing. For once Draco wished that he didn’t look so much like his father. And for his infuriated son’s sake, Draco thought Arthur Weasley might be almost as eager to cut him down as Moody.

Draco looked at Potter and remembered that day in front of the gargoyle. Potter didn’t need Veritaserum, he’d said. Suddenly his mind skipped back in time, leaving him standing in front of an eleven year old Potter with his palm outstretched in offering.

And Dumbledore. Draco’s heart sank. His headmaster was smiling warmly and twinkling in that way Dumbledore did. The only adult who’d ever suggested Draco could be something more than his father’s son. If he disappointed Dumbledore, it would gut him.

Draco looked across the room at the bright window and wondered what Hermione was doing right now. He felt like he was going to be sick.

Kreacher appeared with a tea service and went about preparing a cup for each of them. Just then, Lupin came in, a bit out of breath but smiling.

“Have some tea, Remus,” Dumbledore waved his hand casually toward Kreacher before taking a sip from his own cup.

“Thanks, Albus. I think I will. Thank you, Kreacher,” he said taking a cup and saucer from Kreacher and dropping into the chair next to Draco.

It was all very polite and pleasant and it only served to make Draco more nauseous.

There was a thin line of sweat breaking out along his hairline, and though he thought he was doing a good job appearing indifferent, he had to keep his eyes on a large painting above the fireplace to avoid looking anyone in the eyes. The crazy house-elf offered him a teacup with a deep, old-fashioned bow, and he mentally cursed its timing and tried not to blush in embarrassment. Potter snickered. Draco scowled.

Draco’s mind was swimming with all the questions he’d prepared for, feverishly reviewing the pat answers he’d like to give, as well as the answers he feared he give. It was a sickening feeling, having no control. He would be at the mercy of his inner most self and it terrified him. For a moment he wished he had some way of eluding the Veritaserum, but then he reminded himself that he was going to jump off this cliff with a clear conscience.

Draco focused on holding his hands still. Mr. Weasley and Moody discussed the merits of some new invention – clearly a conversation continued from earlier – and were interrupted by Dumbledore.

“Well, how about we put Mr. Malfoy out of his misery and get on with it,” Dumbledore said happily. This time Draco wasn’t so sure he’d managed to keep the red off his face.

The energy in the room sharpened as everyone sat up a little straighter, except for Potter who seemed to be acting more as an observer than a participant. The knot in Draco’s stomach cinched tighter. His mind suddenly landed on the snitch hidden under his shirt, and – as he didn’t dare do it physically – he imagined himself holding it, the little wings unwrapping and coming to life under his fingertips. And quite unexpectedly, not to mention untimely, he thought of Granger, legs spread, coming to life on his bed.

“First, I suggest we get the Veritaserum out of the way, so we can move on to more important things,” Dumbledore inclined his head toward Moody. Draco was so glad for the interruption that he missed the cryptic phrase “more important things.”

Moody reached in his vest and pulled out a small vial and handed it to him.

Draco felt like he was going to detonate. Before the rampaging herd of hippogriffs burst through his belly, he unscrewed the cap quickly and tipped it back. The bitter potion was cold and metallic in his mouth and throat and he couldn’t help his disgusted grimace.

Moody huffed loudly. Mr. Weasely smiled and suggested he wash down the bad taste with some tea. The tea wouldn’t diminish the effects. Draco took his advice.

And waited. He looked at Dumbledore, and Mr. Weasley, and Potter, and Lupin and Moody, all watching him expectantly. All he felt was the churning in his stomach and the buzzing in his mind. He wondered if it had worked. Maybe it hadn’t worked, and Draco would be able to sidestep any uncomfortable topics. He could always hope.

“Well then, that’s settled,” Dumbledore said, drawing the eyes away from Draco. “Some formalities… What is your name?”

Ah. There it was. Compulsion. A heavy pulling at his insides. A sting that made his ears prickle. An easy question, and he tried fighting it, to see if he could. “Draco Malfoy,” he replied without hesitation.

“Do you know why you are here?”

“Yes.” The compulsion was strong. It didn’t give him even a moment to wrestle with it.

Moody clunked his wooden leg against his chair leg, “Are you here of your own free will?” he groused.

“Yes, I am.”

With each question and reply, Draco could feel the inevitable encroaching. The things he didn’t want to say, things he didn’t want to answer for, moving in and making his chest tight.

“Good.” It was Arthur Weasely who spoke next. “Draco, the Order of the Phoenix is a group of people from all walks of life, purebloods to squibs, dedicated to fighting Dark Wizards and Witches and those seeking power who would do so at any cost to others. Principle among those is Voldemort and the Death Eaters. The members of the Order of the Phoenix believe that Voldemort must be destroyed and are working toward that goal.”

His tone was serious, but not unkind, and Draco found himself hanging onto every word, feeling desperate to take in every single thing he said.

There was a pregnant silence that seemed to pull each person into their own thoughts, as if reminding themselves, yes, this is this important work I’m doing and I still believe in it.

“Do you understand what I’ve told you, Draco?”

“Yes. I do.” The teacup rattled in his hand and he set it down. It was almost here. He could feel it. Importance hung in the air. Still and heavy.

“Good,” Mr. Weasley sat forward and continued carefully. Deliberately. Draco held his breath.

“Draco Malfoy, are you committed, without reservation, to the fight against Dark Witches and Wizards, Voldemort and Death Eaters?”

It would have been a good time to take a moment and do a thorough search of his soul to be sure of his answer, even just to appear that he was thinking carefully about his answer, so that they would believe him. But then, there it was, with no help from him, pulled from the darkest and brightest places of truth inside him.

“Yes.” Unequivocally. Simply. Truthfully. Yes.

Draco blinked.

He felt like he was moving in slow motion. Looking around at the faces staring at him, one by one, to confirm that, yes, that had just happened. He’d said yes. Under Veritaserum, he’d answered yes without hesitation.

In his deepest fears – not the ones about all the horrible things he’d done to the Golden Trio, or the singular pain he’d smugly caused a bushy-haired eleven year old girl, not even his fears of disappointing his family – in his most secret, most hidden fears, he was sure that the Veritaserum would reveal some part of him that still believed that muggleborns were scum, that purebloods were superior, and that no matter what he did – ever – he would always be evil.

He felt like he could fly. Without his broom.

Lupin stood up, still smiling, and then Moody and Dumbledore. Mr. Weasley gave him a scrutinizing, thoughtful look for a minute before standing as well. Draco looked up at all the standing men and wondered what was going on. Potter smirked at him over his teacup.

“We’ll be back soon, Draco. Just sit tight for a few minutes,” Lupin said as he held the door open for the Order members, and they walked out, leaving him alone with Potter.

“Where are they going?”

Potter raised one eyebrow and set his tea down. He had a malicious sort of glee on his face that made Draco want to hit him. “They’ve gone to determine your fate, Malfoy,” he said with a wicked grin.

“What?” Draco nearly shouted. “That’s it? One bloody question? ‘Are you bloody committed?’” Draco was scandalized. “Do you lot let just anybody in?”

“It was the question, Malfoy. And, no, we don’t just let anybody in. Nor do we make them swear eternal servitude and brand them for life.”

“I could have… I could taken a potion or something, an antidote, to counteract the Veritaserum,” Draco reasoned.

Potter shrugged a shoulder, looking unconcerned. “You could have. And it could work… if you had taken the single dosage Moody was going to tell you to take before you downed the whole vial.” Potter was smirking. “With the amount you took, you’d need an ocean of antidote.”

Draco’s eyes widened. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Idiot. He narrowed his eyes at Potter and tried to regain his composure. It was easier to focus on Potter. Maybe he could get him to go away.

“Why didn’t you go with them? Afraid to leave me alone?” he drawled.

“Right,” Potter said dryly.

Potter leaned back in his chair and gave Draco a scrutinizing look. Draco tried not to squirm under the frankness of Potter’s stare and met it with a glare of his own. Potter looked like he was having an internal debate over something.

Harry leaned towards him. “They already know what I think. Besides, what I want to know, Malfoy…”

Draco narrowed his eyes.

“Is what your intentions are towards Hermione.”

Draco’s stomach plummeted. Oh, fuck…

“Because if you ask me,” Potter continued, leaning in a little too close, a little too confidently, “I’d say you’re in love with her.”


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Hello luvs! Been a while, eh? I can't believe it's been a year since my last chapter. I apologize for the very long wait. Pregnancy got complicated, but now I have a completely-freakin-adorable-oh-my-god-it-hurts-so-wonderful baby boy, Luca. He's 4 months old and doing great! All smiles and red hair! And he let me write again, which was awfully generous of him. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Let me know what you think!

xoxo ilke