Fic: Shadowed Lives (27 of 29, HP)

[bookishwench]

When Draco reached his room, he threw himself on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Obviously, Goyle had tried answering Sprout’s false question by using his father’s ring, and somehow it had backfired spectacularly. Three different unfamiliar emotions were waging a war in Draco’s head, pulling him in wildly different directions. A gnawing sense of guilt set his teeth on edge as he realized one of his friends might be facing expulsion because of something Draco had indirectly but very clearly suggested he should do. At the same time, he was relieved that he hadn’t obeyed his father’s orders and used the ring himself. Otherwise, he would have done exactly the same as Goyle.

Then there was the third thing, and it gave him a chill down his spine. Lucius Malfoy was not stupid. If there were rumors at the school that professors were aware of potential cheating tools and had taken steps to outwit them, his father might be aware of that information, too. Was it possible that Sprout wasn’t the only one to set a trap? Could his father have intended to trick Draco into using the ring as a test to see if he was truly worthy of being a Malfoy? Had it been a trial of honor? And if so, had he passed it, or had he failed by giving the ring to Goyle in what he’d thought was an attempt to help him? Draco didn’t want to believe his father would do such a thing, but the more he thought about it, the more worried he became.

At that exact moment, Persephone flew through the window and landed at Draco’s feet and looked up at him expectantly. A piece of parchment was tied to her leg.

“Hello,” he said, undoing the cord. “Who sent you?”

But when he opened the letter, he knew from the handwriting exactly who it was.

Dear Draco,

I am afraid I must impose upon you. Kindly come up to see me in my office, please, as soon as you have sufficiently recovered from your last exam, which I believe is today. I have instructed the portraits to show you the way. The password is Fizzing Whizzbee.

The letter was signed with the initials APWBD.

“Wonderful,” Draco said, scowling. “Just what I need for my nerves: a conference with the headmaster. This must be the most fun week ever: possibly prophetic eerie dreams, oversleeping, exams, and now a summons to the old geezer’s office. Maybe I’ll be really lucky and get bitten by a Hippogriff on top of it.”

Fortunately, no such thing happened—at least not yet.

Draco dragged himself off his bed and managed not to attract attention as he passed through the common room. That was easy enough since the other students had finished their exams and were beginning a proper celebration, or commiseration in some cases, and it was simple to get lost in the hubbub. Once Draco had gone through the door and up out of the dungeons, he was at a loss until he saw a portrait of a very tall witch with a wart the size of a walnut on her nose subtly pointing to the left. Remembering Dumbledore’s instructions, he followed the portraits’ hints, though he was sure that a knight in one portrait sent him off in circles while a sickeningly twee little girl in a ruffled monstrosity of a dress nearly sent him to the forbidden corridor mentioned by the Headmaster on his first evening at Hogwarts.

Remembering the start-of-term feast brought back a slew of memories, and Draco was weary from thinking about how much had changed. It seemed like about sixteen years had passed since this whole thing had begun. On September 1, he had been nervous but looking forward starting to school, learning magic properly, and meeting witches and wizards his own age. He hadn’t known Hermione was Muggle-born or that so much of what his parents had told him was lies. He envied his younger self.

At length, he came to the third floor and stopped at a dead end in front of a gargoyle. He looked at it, then, since it was opening and closing one hand like a mouth, indicating he should speak, he said quietly, “Fizzing Whizzbee.”

At once the gargoyle slid to the side and a moving circular staircase appeared. Draco had to admit that it looked pretty cool. He stepped onto it and was swiftly (and rather dizzily) swirled upwards until he reached a large door. This had to be it. He took a deep breath, then knocked.

“You may come in, Draco,” Dumbledore’s voice said.

Draco pushed open the door, which squeaked loudly. He found himself in a room filled with books, little silver doohickeys he couldn’t identify, portraits of old Headmasters who were snoring away, and a large desk, behind which sat Dumbledore, who was currently feeding a cinnamon stick to a magnificent phoenix sitting on his forearm. The whole room smelled of old books and cinnamon, and sunlight was pouring through the windows. Draco was impressed, but he had the good breeding not to show it.

“I believe you sent for me, sir,” Draco said.

“I did,” Dumbledore said before shaking his arm slightly, sending the phoenix to a nearby perch where he inspected Draco quizzically. “Thank you for coming so promptly.”

Draco said nothing, but he did continue to look around.

“I realize my office does have some fascinating oddities, but would you mind terribly if we moved our meeting to another location?” Dumbledore asked.

“Where?”

“Diagon Alley,” Dumbledore said. “I have an errand there I need to run.”

Draco suspected whatever it was wouldn’t be anything interesting, but he shrugged as though it didn’t matter to him one way or the other.

“Good,” he said, then turned his attention to one of the portraits. “Armando? May I trouble you a moment?”

The man in the portrait was immediately awake.

“Yes, what is it, Albus?”

“Please tell Professor McGonagall that if anyone needs to speak with me, I am in London on Ministry business.”

Headmaster Dippet, if the label on his portrait was correct, nodded and left, walking through the other pictures and eventually disappearing from sight.

“Fine,” Dumbledore said, going over to a cheerful little pink vase on the mantle of his fireplace and shaking a handful of Floo powder into the flames, which turned green. He motioned for Draco to join him, and when he came close enough, Dumbledore put a hand firmly on his shoulder and said, “Flourish and Blotts.”

It wasn’t the spot Draco was expecting, but he allowed himself to be guided through the flames, and in a moment he was standing in the bookstore’s fireplace, a bit sooty. The Headmaster currently had a streak of the stuff on his crooked nose as well, but Dumbledore flicked his wand and the offending dirt disappeared from both of them.

“What are we doing here” Draco said, then sullenly added, “sir?”

Dumbledore chuckled, then said, “I had a few volumes on order that have come in. There’s really nothing like the slightly giddy anticipation of a new book to read, is there?”

Draco shrugged, but the truth was he did know that feeling. As he watched, Dumbledore went to the counter and picked up three large books, one tiny one, and a paperback.

“I’m really rather fond of this particular Muggle writer,” Dumbledore told him as he handed the tongue-tied employee behind the counter a few Galleons. “Are you at all familiar with the works of Mr. Dickens?”

“My parents wouldn’t let me read Muggle trash like that,” Draco said with a sneer.

“That’s a pity,” Dumbledore said, and the odd thing was he sounded like he meant it. “Come along, Draco.”

“Where to this time? Are we picking up your dry cleaning next?”

Dumbledore gave him a disapproving look that managed to make Draco feel a little uncomfortable.

“Would you be averse to an ice cream?” Dumbledore asked.

It was nearly summer, it was hot, and Draco was starving in spite of his earlier sandwiches.

“I suppose I can spare the time,” Draco said loftily, “but I haven’t any pocket money.”

The last thing he wanted was a repeat of the same situation from his first visit to Florian Fortescue’s ice cream parlor.

“That won’t be a problem. I believe I can afford two ice creams,” Dumbledore said.

Dumbledore opened a small bag Draco hadn’t even noticed that was hanging from his arm, fit all the books inside the impossibly tiny space, and closed it up again. It didn’t seem to have increased in weight as it hung limply from his elbow, not appearing even a bit fuller. That was a neat trick. He should learn to do that himself.

The pair of them crossed the road, and a few minutes later, Dumbledore was eating strawberry ice cream with chocolate sauce while Draco poked his double scoop of mint chocolate chip with his spoon. The shop was completely empty at midafternoon, and even Fortescue himself had stepped out, probably to have a late lunch.

“Tell me, Draco,” Dumbledore said. “Have you learned anything this year?”

“I get the feeling you’re not asking me if I’ve mastered the art of turning a squirrel into a teapot,” Draco said, trying to sneer but for some reason failing miserably.

“And you would be right in that assumption,” Dumbledore said, his voice maddeningly calm. “I have never really understood the point of that particular skill, though perhaps, if I were in desperate enough need of a cup to tea in the middle of a forest, I might amend my opinion. But besides that, what else?”

Draco took a bite of the ice cream, wishing he could actually enjoy it.

“I’ve learned a few things, yes,” Draco admitted.

Dumbledore hummed pensively as he took another spoonful of ice cream.

“Such as?” he asked.

Draco sighed, then looked around to be certain they were alone. He wasn’t sure why he was telling Dumbledore this of all people, but he hadn’t been able to speak about it with anyone. It felt like he needed to say some of it out loud so someone else could hear it. Besides, the old man wasn’t likely to be shocked or tell his father on him.

“I don’t like being lied to,” Draco said quietly.

“Few people do,” Dumbledore said, then added, “unless, of course, they are being told lies that they want to hear.”

“I also don’t like being manipulated,” Draco said, looking at him pointedly. “If you want to ask something, out with it.”

“Fair enough,” Dumbledore replied with a sigh. “Have you given any further thought to the conversation we had last summer?”

“Oh, am I allowed to open my mouth again about that now?” Draco said, feigning surprise. “Of course I’ve thought of it.”

“And have you changed your mind at all?”

“No,” Draco said too quickly, and he looked up from his empty dish to see Dumbledore giving him a searching look, as though he were trying to see whether that was the truth. “I don’t want to betray my parents.”

He said nothing for a moment, but then Dumbledore prompted, “But?”

“But I don’t think they’re right about some things,” Draco admitted.

“What sort of things?”

He could get up and leave, and he knew it. Even if he’d needed to borrow Floo Powder from a shop, that was common enough with people getting a hole in their pocket and losing their own that it wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. A Malfoy’s word on sending the money for it later would be good for it. So why wasn’t he leaving?

The slightly terrifying answer was he wanted to stay.

“The Mudbloods aren’t nearly as stupid as they told me,” Draco said.

“Please do not use that deplorable term in my presence,” Dumbledore said, looking more sad than angry. “I would prefer you didn’t use it at any time, but I have no control over your thoughts or speech when I am not here.”

“It’s what I’ve been told they are my whole life,” Draco said. “I’ve been taught that to call them anything else would be wrong, that they’re an abomination, something filthy and subhuman. In a way, they’re supposed to be worse than Muggles because they pretend to be something they’re not.”

“Is that your opinion, or the opinion of your father and mother?” Dumbledore asked.

“Is there a difference?” Draco asked.

“Possibly,” Dumbledore said, and Draco was surprised to see the old man was looking at him with kindness. “You have already learned that blood does not determine someone’s talent or intellect simply from seeing your schoolmates. Neither does it determine one’s fate or their ability to empathize with others. Those choices are yours to make.”

Draco gave a humorless laugh.

“That feels impossible, doesn’t it,” Dumbledore said softly. “I assure you, it is not.”

“Choices have consequences.”

“They do,” Dumbledore agreed, putting his own spoon down. “Then again, not making a choice has consequences, too.”

Draco tapped the glass of water beside his bowl with his finger, trying to think.

“You’re a clever boy, Draco,” Dumbledore said. “Do you really think if Voldemort returns, all will be well?”

Draco shuddered instinctively at the name.

“Now who’s saying something they shouldn’t?” Draco said.

“As I told you at our first meeting, I find refusing to say his name ridiculous and potentially dangerous,” Dumbledore said. “What’s more, I think you agree with me.”

“Ridiculous, maybe, but I don’t see how it’s dangerous,” Draco said.

Dumbledore smiled at him, then said, “If people are afraid even to say his name, how much more frightened of him will they be when he returns?”

“Now when,” Draco said. “If.”

Dumbledore shook his head and said, “No, Draco. When.”

Draco remembered the words of the centaur, and a chill went through him. No. He didn’t want Voldemort to come back and begin a pureblood paradise. Most of the purebloods he’d met were stupid or annoying, and sadly, despite her being very pretty, that did include Pansy.

“I’m not joining forces with you. I won’t be your spy,” Draco said, then swallowed, “but I’m not on the Dark Lord’s side either.”

“I know that is no small thing for you to say, Draco,” Dumbledore said. “If you should at any point change your mind, you need only let me know.”

“That won’t happen,” Draco said, then frowned. “I do have a question, though.”

“Please ask.”

“It’s about a friend of mine, Gregory Goyle,” Draco said. He stopped, not wanting to accidentally convict him of cheating if it wasn’t already known.

“Go on.”

Draco took a deep breath and said very quickly, “My father sent me a ring that would get around the anti-cheating charms.”

“And you did not use it,” Dumbledore said with certainty.

“No, I didn’t,” Draco said. “I thought about it, though. How did you know?”

“You’re far too driven to prove yourself to want to use something like that,” Dumbledore said. “You would want to do it yourself, not be left wondering whether you would have done as well without cheating. That’s obvious. But you said this was about Mr. Goyle?”

Draco wasn’t sure how to take Dumbledore’s assessment of his character, but he went on.

“He wasn’t doing well in his classes, and he was worried he might be sent home if he failed, which looked likely,” Draco said.

“So you gave him the ring?”

“Not exactly,” Draco said. “I didn’t actually give it to him. I just told him what it was and then left it lying about.”

“Salazar Slytherin would be impressed,” Dumbledore said. “You haven’t done a thing wrong, even if it’s only in the most technical sense.”

“Goyle got caught, though,” Draco said. “There was a trick question and now I think he’s in bad trouble.”

“I imagine he would be,” Dumbledore said.

“Will he—” Draco hesitated.

“Will he be expelled? Contrary to popular rumors amongst the students, no first year has been expelled since 1725, and one can hardly blame the Headmaster for that decision since the witch in question, Wismelda Kennelworth, was actually a ninety-three-year-old goblin under the pay of Durmstrang to steal secrets from the school, so I don’t think that really counts, do you?” Dumbledore said.

“A goblin? And nobody noticed?”

“I believe she said she had a particularly nasty case of acne, though admittedly the ears should have been a giveaway,” Dumbledore said. “She was also remarkably good at walking on stilts undetected. Regardless, no, Draco, I will not be expelling Gregory Goyle for giving in to temptation. We are all human. He will need, however, to be tutored over the summer so that he isn’t completely lost next September. The Goyles are quite wealthy enough to shoulder the expense.”

“So they’ll be told he cheated?” Draco asked, knowing Goyle was frightened of his parents finding out.

Dumbledore seemed to consider this for a moment.

“I take it that would be problematic for him?”

“Yes,” Draco said. “It would.”

“And his father is known for being given to rather extreme bursts of temper,” Dumbledore said, more to himself than Draco. “Then no. They will simply be told he needs practice, but not the particulars. I believe he has probably learned not to do this again.”

“I’m certain he has, sir,” Draco said, feeling a surprising amount of relief. “May I tell him that?”

“You may put your friend’s mind at ease,” Dumbledore said, smiling. “Now, as we are both fully stuffed with Florian’s delectable ice cream, we should be returning to Hogwarts. Oh, and by the way, the spell that prevented you from speaking about our conversation has been lifted. I believe your candor has earned you that bit of trust.”

Draco wasn’t sure what to make of Dumbledore, but he was grateful Goyle would be spared. As for the rest, well, it wasn’t like Voldemort was going to just pop out of the woodwork anytime soon, so what was the use of worrying? He and the Headmaster went back to Flourish and Blott’s. Then, in another dizzying swirl of Floo-powder-induced travel, they returned to Dumbledore’s cozy office.

That was when all hell broke loose.