What Shakes The Elephant

What Shakes The Elephant

Chapter 8 – Promise To Repeat

Harry was sitting inside of the Burrow, holding his head in his hands with his fingers buried deep into his black hair. His eyes were shut tight as he leaned against his knees and was only a few seconds away from curling into the foetal position.

He had sent a Patronus message directly to Ginny upon leaving the shop, forgetting his watch in his rush, and Apparated directly outside the Burrow, only to find the house empty.

It had been a half hour before anyone returned to explain to him what had happened.

Mrs. Weasley walked into the room and handed Harry a warm cup of tea laced with Brandy, to calm him down. He had appeared in a panic while they had been visiting one of Arthur’s coworkers for brunch.

“Harry, dear, are you alright?” she asked soothingly, pressing a hand to his shoulder. Ginny was sitting next to him and had her hand on his back, trying to calm him down but nothing was working.

He looked up with a weak smile and took the teacup from her. Taking a sip, he felt slightly better.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Weasley,” he told her quietly. “I didn’t mean to cause such chaos, but I was so worried when the repairman told me about the watch.”

Mrs. Weasley sat down next to her husband, who had been watching Harry intently from across the room. Ginny sighed softly and tried to comfort her own husband. Lily was happily playing outside in the field.

“What did this man tell you, precisely?” Arthur asked. Harry took a deep breath.

“He said that the watch is directly linked to the pureblood line for which it was made and so will keep on working as long as that line still exists,” he explained, feeling rather foolish. “I told him that Ginny and Ron and all are still alive, but he said that they were born with the name Weasley. They aren’t Prewetts and since your brothers were already dead,” he paused momentarily looking at Mrs. Weasley. “I came to the only logical conclusion I could. But clearly, it wasn’t logical at all because the watch has stopped but you are clearly living.”

“The man must have been wrong,” Ginny suggested simply. Her face looked even paler now than before but Harry worried that it was only because of his momentary insanity.

“No, he wasn’t,” Arthur said. “That watch was one of the few left of its kind. And I understand why you would assume what you did, Harry.” He looked thoughtful. “What I don’t understand was why it has stopped.” He turned to his wife. “To whom did that watch belong before Fabian?”

Mrs. Weasley replaced her teacup on the saucer and pursed her lips in thought for a moment.

“Well, Fabian received it from my father on his seventeenth birthday,” she began explaining, recounting the old family line. “He said it was an heirloom. He received it from his brother, Ignatius, who received it from his wife’s father.”

Harry perked up. If Ignatius had received it from his wife’s father, that meant that the watch had not initially been made for the Prewett family. But then… what family line did it tie into?

“Who was his wife?” Harry asked quickly, feeling a gnawing sensation in his stomach.

“Well, Lucretia,” Mrs. Weasley explained. “She was daughter of Arcturus Black. She wasn’t really the nicest woman, but well, she was my aunt.”

Harry felt his jaw drop slightly at the news. The watch must have been an heirloom from the Black family. He felt a hollow sensation grow in his chest as his mind raced back and forth from Sirius and across his whole family. But they were dead.

“Then the watch was made for the Black line?” Ginny asked for Harry. She looked as confused as he was but his mind was racing and tracing lineages back and forth throughout every possible wizard that he knew. “Then shouldn’t it have stopped when Sirius was killed?”

“No,” Harry said suddenly. “Sirius was not the last Black alive. After him, three of his cousins were left but they were all married. Bellatrix was a Black but she died in the war. Andromeda was a Black but she died a few months ago.”

“Then that leaves only…” Ginny began and Harry nodded.

“Narcissa Malfoy.”

*****

By the time that Harry had managed to get Ginny and Lily back home, go back to Diagon Alley and pick up the watch he had left behind and send an apology message to Hermione (whom he had contacted in his panic), assuring her that everything was alright, it was far too late to contact Malfoy.

He went to sleep that night with a heavy heart and a guilty soul, wishing that he could have avoided the insanity of the afternoon and, what’s more, contacted Malfoy to see if everything was ok.

He didn’t count himself particularly close to the man at the moment, but Narcissa had saved Harry’s life. She might have done it purely for her son’s sake, but she had still saved him. She had, possibly and very indirectly, brought about the downfall of Lord Voldemort.

So, on Sunday morning, despite that he knew he did not have to work, Harry flooed into the Ministry of Magic He stepped out into the vast atrium, past the golden statues and towards the lifts.

He did not know whether or not Malfoy would be in to work, though he knew that Heads of Department normally did work on weekends as well. In the event that he was absent, at least a secretary or receptionist of some kind might be able to inform him better. Harry was not eager to recreate a scene like he did the previous day, least of all with Draco Malfoy.

The distant voice told Harry that he had arrived at the right floor and he stepped off the lift and towards the Department of Magical Health and Wellness. This was the third largest department in the Ministry, right after the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Department of Mysteries.

Harry wound his way through cubicles and labyrinthine desks to follow the signs that pointed him to the office of the Head of Department. Once he arrived, he found himself with a rather obvious problem.

There was no one at the reception and Malfoy’s door was very slightly ajar. He heard something soft from inside the room but did not know if it was appropriate to enter or not.

Harry nervously stepped closer but could no better divine what was going on inside the room. At the very least, it seemed obvious that Malfoy was alone and indeed in there.

So, in true Harry Potter style, he pushed open the door with a soft greeting of “Malfoy?” when he stopped dead in his tracks and realized that the blond was sitting behind his desk, holding his head in his hands, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears and his cheeks red. His lips were parted and he had apparently bitten them so hard that they bled, for there was a stain of deep crimson along the inside of his mouth.

“Potter,” he said suddenly, looking up in horror. Harry saw the colour drain from Malfoy’s face and felt as though he had stolen it from him because his own cheeks suddenly burned red.

“Uh, sorry,” he stuttered, attempting to close the door quickly and escape. He was strongly reminded of the time he had walked in on Malfoy sobbing his heart out in the bathroom and knew precisely what had happened after that. Harry had no desire to relive the Sectumsempra scene, though he felt a strange pang in his chest when he realized that Severus Snape would not be there to save either of them.

“Wait, Potter,” Malfoy’s voice called out. Harry stopped and yet refused to look him in the face. “What did you want?”

Harry, unable to stop himself, looked back up into the man’s face and saw that he had, somehow, managed to suppress all those emotions within seconds and looked much the same as he always did. Harry wondered vaguely if he had imagined the whole thing.

“I, er,” he began, feeling wholly inadequate once more. In the past few days he felt as though he had regressed back to the nervous discomfort he had experienced throughout most of his teenaged life. He suspected it had something to do with being around Malfoy. “I just” he hesitated, knowing how insane it would sound. “I just wanted to know how your mother was doing.”

Malfoy’s surprised showed on his face for once, in an unadulterated movement of his eyebrows. His lips parted to reveal the little bloodstains there and he quickly let his eyes shift around, outside the office to assure himself they were alone.

Finally, deciding that having a conversation in the doorway was a bad idea, Malfoy pulled Harry back into his office and shut the door fully. He turned back to Harry and his eyes searched every detail of Harry’s appearance as though plundering him for some answer just below the surface.

“What do you know about my mother?” he asked rather harshly. Harry shifted and frowned.

“Nothing,” he said quietly, knowing that something must indeed be wrong. “I just want to know if she’s alright.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows furrowed and he shook his head. He leaned back against the door in a manner to say that he was in desperate need of support. Harry wanted to reach out a hand to help him but figured it would be inappropriate.

“No, she is obviously not alright,” he replied. “If you are asking then you must know something. Spit it out.”

Harry opened his mouth several times to try and force out an answer that made more sense than “the watch told me so”, but found nothing came to him. Finally, he sighed deeply and cast his eyes aside, hoping that it would not sound as mad as it truthfully was.

“I have a watch that belonged to the Black family,” he explained slowly. “And it stopped ticking yesterday night at around two in the morning.” Harry paused and studied the look on Malfoy’s face, hoping to find some understanding there but he supposed that he would have to elaborate. “The watch is one of those you give to your son when they come of age. This one was a family heirloom and its energy tied directly into the survival of the bloodline. Narcissa is the last living witch who was born a Black. If she dies, the watch stops.”

Malfoy’s eyes slid half-way shut and Harry watched as his chest heaved and let out every last bit of air within him. He looked depleted at the news.

“She is not dead, Potter,” he admitted in barely more than a whisper. Harry felt himself exhale as though he had been holding his breath. He did not know why this affected him so, but it did and now was not the time to question it. “But she might as well be.”

Harry coughed.

“What?” he asked in surprise. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Malfoy lifted himself from the door and walked towards one of the chairs in front of his desk. He looked more like the Draco Malfoy from near the end of sixth year now than the man who had been his company two nights ago in the pub.

“She is lying in St Mungo’s,” he explained carefully. “And they are trying to treat her, but nothing is working. She is unresponsive and cold. Still breathing,” he added hopelessly. “But I’m sure the magic is gone from within her. That’s probably why the watch stopped.”

Harry felt his heart sink at the note of despair in the other man’s voice. He never dealt well with death, in his life, but he had known it very well from an early age. Malfoy had not come to know death until his later teen years and Harry knew that it must not be an easy thing to accept: the possibility of your own mother dying.

“Do they know what’s wrong with her?” he asked, trying to sound as compassionate as possible without giving himself over too much. Harry knew he became involved far too quickly with everyone and anyone. He had managed for years to stay away from Malfoy but now that they were standing in a room together and Harry was sharing this important moment with the man, he didn’t think he could manage anymore.

Malfoy looked up at him with distant silver eyes and paused before speaking.

“No,” he said. “They don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

Harry thought on that for a moment and wondered what could possibly baffle the Healers, but something about the way Malfoy had said it struck him as odd. Harry let his eyes wander the room as he thought about this and gave the other man some time to collect himself more fully. He saw a bookshelf with numerous volumes on pureblood power, the importance of “clean blood”, the effects on mixing descent, along with several dedicated specifically to pureblood lineages. Harry fought a grimace and realized that, in some ways perhaps, Malfoy might never change at all.

He turned back to Malfoy who was watching him like a hawk. Yet as he did, his eyes were not predatory or demanding, but questioning and empty.

“There is nothing at all that can help?” he asked, knowing the answer already.

“Nothing they’ve found as of yet,” he replied exasperated. “But they keep searching.”

Harry found himself at a loss for words. He had nothing to say. He didn’t know what he could say.

“Is there anything I can do?” Harry suggested, knowing that Malfoy was unlikely to seek him out for help, but these were the kinds of situations where one had to offer it regardless.

“Yes,” Malfoy replied, much to Harry’s surprise. What could he accomplish that the Healers of St Mungo’s could not? Surely Malfoy didn’t think of him as some mystical saviour because he defeated Voldemort… not like the rest of the world. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Harry had not been expecting that, though he should have been, knowing Malfoy pride. Something urged him to ask, anyway.

“Why?” Harry inquired rather foolishly. Malfoy gave him an even look.

“Because of my position,” he said rather predictably. “There are many people, as I’ve told you, that don’t think I belong where I am and many of them would do anything to hit me where it hurts. My family has many enemies still, even after the end of the war.” He paused and his face grew stern. “I’m not willing to give any one of them the chance to murder my mother. I can’t trust anyone, anymore.”

Harry stared for a moment or two, taken aback. He had been so caught up in his own life and how things were working out for once to remember that there was still evil in the world. People still killed people and there was always rampant hatred and violence. Cruelty would not simply die and Harry could not forget that.

“Then why did you tell me?” Harry asked, realizing that the more he got to know Malfoy, got to see under his layers of facades and carefully designed masks, the more lost he got in the labyrinth of his personality.

“Because you’re Harry Potter,” he replied with a humourless chuckle. “If anyone can find a cure for death, it’s you, I loathe to admit.”

Harry said nothing but squirmed under the intense gaze he was met with. He didn’t know how to react to that. He didn’t know what to say or do or what to think, even. They just stood there, for an unknown length of time, in silence and simply questioning each other’s company. Then they both made move to leave.

“I’ve got to get home,” they both said at once. Harry shut his mouth quickly and let Malfoy speak. He had never had this urge before but something about the blond’s family situation suggested he needed to make his excuses first.

“Hydra expects me for lunch,” Malfoy explained quietly. Harry nodded and they both left the room, walking in different directions.

Malfoy went towards the archives of the Department, though Harry did not know why. Harry instead went towards the lifts to head back to the atrium. Once he got back home, he realized, much to his own displeasure, that he had forgotten about his own work assignment.

He had meant to ask Malfoy about the pureblood patients and then, without warning, things started pulling together.

Narcissa Malfoy was a pureblood and inexplicably sick.

“Maybe that’ll make him more willing to help me,” he muttered to himself.

And immediately Harry grimaced in disgust at his own selfishness. Narcissa was not a test subject and he should not treat her as leverage either.

That was the kind of thing Malfoy used to do…

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A/N: That was rather mean of me wasn't it? I enjoyed it, anyway. I hope you did! I'm having issues with my muse tonight... not cooperating properly. But anyway, things are getting rather messed up, are they not? I think so. It's going to get more messed up. I promise you. I did say 'dastardly' plots did I not? :D

Reviews = love and my undying worship. Yep. Hee.