Erlestoke

IV. Ghosts

Huddled at the foot of his bed, as far away as possible from the dead body in his cell, Draco sits awake and waits. Fenwick comes earlier than usual, at least an hour before breakfast. Perhaps he sensed that it's over. He doesn't acknowledge Draco, eyes fastened on Mr Greengrass on the floor. Slowly he approaches the body. He picks up the candle, touches the water bottle as if to make sure it is real.

Draco wonders whether this truly was Fenwick's plan all along. Whether he left the bottle with Draco intentionally. Whether he gave Mr Greengrass these few minutes with a wand that allowed him to Transfigure the bottle into a silk ribbon -- or anything, tie, rope, anything to top himself. Draco cannot make himself believe it. Fenwick wanted Mr Greengrass dead, there is no doubting this. But too much of his plan has been coincidence, too many risks, too many possibilities for things to turn out differently. Draco is strangely reminded of his own fumbling schemes at second-hand murder, the Cursed necklace, the poisoned mead. How much of a killer can one be when giving fate so many chances to intervene?

As if he's heard his thoughts, Fenwick turns to him. He is paler than Draco's ever seen him, but he tries for a lop-sided smile.

"Should have taken up with you, blondie, shouldn't I?" His voice is quiet, the quiver in it barely perceptible.

"I don't think so." Draco tries a grin of his own. "You don't even like girls, Fenwick."

Fenwick laughs at that, the brittle bitter laugh that never was enough to make up for what Jake Fenwick lost during that sixth year in Hogwarts. Draco wonders if anything or anyone could have ever made up for it. Fenwick affectionately pats his knee; he lets his hand linger a moment on the blanket that covers it. Then he turns to Mr Greengrass. It's all the apology Draco will ever get from him.

Crouching beside the body, Fenwick puts his hand against the broken neck, gently, as if the man was still alive. Carefully he turns Mr Greengrass' head towards his own chest. He takes the body in his arms and lifts it from the floor. Mr Greengrass lost a lot of weight at Erle. Still, he was a full-grown wizard, turned heavier even in death when all matter sinks towards the earth. The muscles in Fenwick's neck stand out like tightly pulled ropes. He sways for a moment before he finds a balanced stance that allows him to carry his burden. Quietly he walks towards the door and steps out of the cell. He never looks back at Draco to say good-bye.

The door, two inches of solid iron, swings back as if to close, then it comes to a halt. Pulling the blanket tightly around his shoulders, Draco steps to the side of the door and glances into the corridor. Fenwick walks towards the stairs with slow, heavy steps. His head is bowed as if he's buried his face in Mr Greengrass' hair. Other than Fenwick, the corridor is empty.

Draco looks back into the cell. The bottle has rolled underneath the chair, the Prophet lies half-hidden underneath the bed. The sconce hangs from the wall, its candle gone with Fenwick. The winter sunlight is dimmed by the ice flowers, which cover almost the entire window. Nothing in the cell reminds of Draco. The sudden chance of escape makes his heartbeat stumble and race at the same time. He checks the corridor one more time, listens for noises on the stairs. Nothing. Draco steps onto the threshold of his cell.

Magic beats down on him like sharp, ice-cold hail, as he is thrown back into the cell with vicious force. The door is open, but the wards to keep him in are securely in place. Draco sobs from sheer frustration. He rages against Fenwick, egoistic bastard that he is. He could so easily have taken the wards down and given Draco his one chance of escape. Still, he won't give up, tries again and again. For a while he's losing it, throwing himself naked against the wards, screaming and begging and pleading that somebody please let him out. He ends up beaten and dizzy in a pile inside the door.

It's the girl who finally makes him pull himself together and sit down on the bed. Bright red blood is dripping from her pussy down his thighs to her small feet. Before it can drip onto the Prophet, Draco shoves the paper out of the way.

Astoria's lost her father not a day after Draco's lost his. Half-orphans, half-men, both of them. Or one and the same.

The girl moves her hands over Astoria's breasts. In the icy cold of the cell her tiny nipples are hard and almost white: small buds that will open into the glittering beauty of the ice flowers.

*

Water is seeping from the worm-eaten window frame where the ice flowers have taken root. Last night's cold spell turned it into a sheet of ice that runs down the wall from the window sill to the floor. Astoria has made her bed on this pure, clear layer of ice covered by rime so fine and fragile it's like spun sugar. Carefully she's stretched out on it and wrapped herself into the soft light that trickles through the window -- brighter even than sunlight, a blinding translucent white that enfolds her and keeps her safe.

The shadows in the cell are lengthening: noon has long passed and nobody came. For the first time in weeks Astoria has not had her potion. She keeps moving her hands over her body, tracing the ice flower pattern that coats her skin. There are icicles in her blood, too, and perhaps that is why her period stopped. But underneath her skin something hovers; a boy trapped like a ghostly body underneath the black ice of a frozen lake. There's a shifting and changing within Astoria that wants desperately to happen but can't. The ice flowers rustle. Oddly, their chilly voices remind Astoria of spring.

"He's up here! Come on, hurry!"

A clear voice rings through the corridor. There are people stomping up the stairs, with heavy boots and loud voices. Erlestoke's frozen stillness is shattered by the din and clamour. Astoria sits up and huddles closer against the sheets of ice. Wrapped in the frosty light nobody can hurt her.

A sea of red appears before the half-open door and threatens to flood the cell. Whatever is holding it at bay must be what's holding her inside. There's movement and the clear voice from before speaks up again.

"This is the cell. I am sure of it." It's a young man, a boy even, judging by the high-pitched excitement in his voice. Astoria knows him; his name is on her tongue. "They must have rendered the cell Unplottable for all those weeks. I was up here so often, looking for him. But I never saw the door."

A sandy-haired boy steps into the cell. His body is like fire, his breath like smoke. Astoria can feel its warmth from where she's sitting underneath the window. Elliot.

He takes a few slow steps. Her nakedness startles him, perhaps even her female shape. Astoria is pretty sure he's never seen a naked woman before. Under Elliot's bewildered gaze her body begins to tremble. Not much longer now, and the change will happen. It's pulling at her limbs and stretching her skin. She covers her breasts with her arms. Her chest expands with each breath she takes. The boy is about to burst through.

"He's not here," Elliot whispers. "There's a girl here. She's ... she's ..."

"I meant to thank you," she says, her voice scratchy and deepening like a man's, "for the pumpkin juice. But you were never around anymore in the library."

Elliot stares at her open-mouthed.

Harry Potter comes into the cell behind him. His robes are covered in snow. Even his eyebrows are thick with frost; they make him look like a much older man. From the boy comes a clear memory of him with sparks in his black hair, flying through a wall of blazing flames.

Potter says something to Elliot before he comes closer and crouches before Astoria. Slowly he extends his hand and helps her get up from the floor. She is taller than Astoria ever was. Potter takes one good look at her, pulls off his robes and hands them over to her. Her frozen fingers can barely hold the heavy cloth, much less close the clasps. Potter helps her and his hands are very warm. Astoria leans into them, because the boy's so desperate for heat, and Potter does not take them away.

"Who are you?" he asks softly, searching her face. Perhaps there is magic in Potter's voice, or perhaps it's simply that he asks. But his words more than even the warmth of his hands make the ice flowers on her skin crack and melt. It's the moment when the Polyjuice gives up its hold.

Reaching for memory, reaching for ... "What's with the glasses, Potter?" The drawling voice echoes a schoolboy's hatred that is insubstantial now. "Are you blind? It's me, Draco. Draco Malfoy."

Potter's mouth twitches into a smile. He turns to the Aurors, who are waiting with Elliot at the door. "It's him all right."

He's laughing, relieved and a bit shaky as if he cannot believe he's truly found Draco. He takes him by the shoulder and shakes him, very gently. "Git. We've been looking for you bloody everywhere. Your mother's pulled every string in and out of the book to keep the search going." Then worry creeps into his eyes. "You're Polyjuiced, aren't you?"

Draco nods. His skin is on fire; his whole body is heating up fast with the change coming over him. "I'm Draco," he says. He is shaking so hard his knees buckle, and he would have fallen had Potter not caught him. He pants against Potter's neck, whispering, "I'm Draco Malfoy."

Potter says, "I know you are. What's happening with you, Malfoy?"

Draco wants to explain, but he's too far into the change. Potter stiffens in surprise when Draco's body fills out at some places, flattens at others, but he does not let him go. The girl's long hair retreats into Draco's scalp, her face reshapes into his sharper and pointier features. His shoulders stretch into Potter's robes, which still hang loosely on him but fit his size.

When he's fully changed, Potter slowly loosens his hold on him, giving him space. More and more people are filling the corridor. Their voices are terribly loud. Draco's not ready to be seen with his body that feels awkward and gangly to him: an alien thing. He turns away and leans against the window. The ice flowers glow golden in the afternoon sun; under his fingertips they become soft and wet. Rivulets of water run down the glass where the ice has melted and given way to the view into the park. It's still all covered in snow, but the sun hits the trees in an unmistakable angle that spells spring. Draco thinks how very, very badly he wants to fly.

He turns to Potter, who's watching him with an expression Draco for a moment mistakes for pity. Then he realises that it's not. He cannot help but chuckle, noticing how crazy he must sound. But it is funny, really, that after all of this Draco's finally earned himself Harry Potter's respect.

His voice shakes just a bit when he says, "Fancy a game of Quidditch, Scarhead? I'm dying to get on a broom."

Potter blinks, then grins. "Anytime, Malfoy. Anytime you want."

fin


Epilogue

Jacob Fenwick was found dead in a cell at Erlestoke House of Corrections, having cast a Strangling Curse on himself. Nono Pepper was arrested and later committed to the Janus Thickney Ward at St. Mungo's. After a week-long Auror search, Thomas McKinnon was discovered hiding in a Muggle seaside town. He was brought to trial and received the death sentence. John Wilmot was removed as Governor of Erlestoke and sentenced to five years in Azkaban for aiding and abetting the crimes that were committed under his care. Both the Erlestoke librarian and the doctor were acquitted of all charges.

Elliot Miller left Erlestoke and now works for a bookstore in Hogsmeade.

The body of Barnabas Greengrass is buried in the family lot of his bereaved wife. The particular circumstances of his death were never revealed to the public.

After a two-month stay with the healers of the psychiatric ward at St. Mungo's, Draco Malfoy moved from Wiltshire to London where he studies for his N.E.W.T.s. He and Harry Potter have become friends.

Erlestoke lies peaceful and drowsy in the summer sun. It's quiet again after the storms and uproar of the winter. A gentle breeze shakes the fuzzy flowers of the dandelions in the park. Up in the attic a bell chimes, a wistful sound that carries all the way from the woods to the village. There's a new ghost haunting Erlestoke, and he loves to ring that bell. It disturbs only the crows that flutter off the gate piers and hide in the birches. A pale young wizard looks up to them. His parents accompany him as he is committed to the prison for his five-month sentence. At Christmas he will be home again.

*


Author's notes: HM Prison Erlestoke in Wiltshire shares with the fictional wizarding prison of this story only its name and its location. After an "astoundingly good" inspection report in 2003, the prison was declared one of the best in the country.