Fic: Shadowed Lives (28 of 29, HP)

[bookishwench]

The moment that Draco and Dumbledore returned, every portrait began screaming different dire warnings. Draco couldn’t make out more than a word or two of it in all the din, but he did catch “stone” and “Potter.” For a brief moment, he wondered if the psychotic idiot had thrown a rock at someone and killed them.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please, one at a time!” Dumbledore said. “Armando, what is happening?”

“Potter and his friends are in the Gauntlet!” the old man’s portrait said. “So is Quirrell!”

“Quirrell?” Dumbledore repeated, his face going pale.

Without another word, he Disapparated from the room, leaving Draco alone. His eyes went back and forth, taking in the abrupt silence as the portraits of the previous Headmasters either looked at him with suspicion or traded glances with one another that plainly said they weren’t sure what to make of him. None of them spoke.

“Well,” Draco said quietly, “this is awkward.”

The phoenix he’d noticed before looked at him quizzically, tipping its head one way and the other. He really was remarkably pretty with his fiery plumage glistening in the candlelight. Draco crept a little closer, wondering if he would allow himself to be petted, but the bird gave an ear-splitting squawk and beat its wings furiously, the wind nearly knocking Draco off his feet.

“Fine, fine!” Draco said, holding up his hands. “No touching! I understand!”

He wasn’t sure whether he should wait for Dumbledore to return, but he had no idea how long he was going to be, and it seemed like their business was finished. A quill and paper were sitting on the desk, and Draco decided to write Dumbledore a note saying he had gone, but the second he reached for the quill, the phoenix gave another inhuman screech and tried to peck his hand with his very sharp beak.

“Okay, okay, I won’t touch anything else either!” Draco said, jumping back three feet. “You’re a better attack pet than a dragon. Uh, Headmaster Dippet?”

He wasn’t sure if the portrait would pay any attention to him, but the former Headmaster looked at him carefully.

“Yes?” he said.

“Can you tell the Headmaster I’ve left when he gets back?” Draco said.

“I suppose, though I would think that would be obvious what with you not being here,” he said, then went back to sleep.

“Well, I guess that’s sorted,” Draco said, then, abandoning any attempt at being graceful, he bolted out the door and let the spinning stairway return him to the corridor, then ran halfway across Hogwarts and outdoors into the sunlight.

Everything seemed almost aggressively normal. Students were relaxing around the lake, chatting about exams, looking exhausted or worried or relieved. Whatever was happening in the Gauntlet, whatever that was, didn’t seem to have brought the world to a standstill. Draco thought about what the portrait had said: “Potter and his friends.” That probably meant Hermione and the Weasel.

“And Quirrell, of all people,” Draco said to himself.

If anyone seemed unlikely to be involved in anything mysterious or dangerous, it was Quirrell. His lessons weren’t as bad as Binns’, but it was a near thing. Defense Against the Dark Arts seemed like it should involve more derring-do and less lecturing about safety precautions in a timid voice barely above a whisper. Maybe Hermione and the others were there to save him from something? It seemed like the sort of idiotic thing she’d do.

At that moment, Lee Jordan came racing outside. He scanned the people standing about and homed in on Fred Weasley (or was it George?) talking with Angelina Johnson a stone’s throw away.

“Hey, Fred!” he yelled. “Your kid brother’s in the hospital wing!”

“What?” he yelled back, jogging over. “Ickle Ronniekins? What’d he do? Pick a fight with a Flutterby Bush?”

“It’s no joke, Ron. He was out cold when I saw them bringing him in, and he didn’t look good,” Lee said.

Draco had always secretly rather liked the Weasley twins. They were usually good fun, though he would never admit it. But he’d never seen Fred look scared before, and it made his own blood run cold. If Ron had got hurt, what about Hermione?

“Anyone else?” Draco asked, his mouth running away from him before he had a chance to stop it.

Lee gave him a look like he’d gone mad to ask.

“Why would I tell you anything? Get lost, Malfoy.”

Draco sneered at him and went back into the castle, but the moment he was inside, he didn’t know which way to turn. He should go back to the common room, but he wanted to know what was going on in spite of himself. Surely, he could try to find out news so that he could update the Slytherins on what had happened? That didn’t seem odd, did it? No one would think he was unduly interested in Hermione, would they?

It was a mark of how frightened he was that he didn’t even bother trying to lie to himself about the fact he really was worried about her.

Draco stood debating in the corridor outside the Great Hall for all of one minute before he dashed off in the direction of the hospital wing. He hadn’t gone more than fifty steps before he literally collided with Hermione as she came around a corner, sending both of them sprawling on the floor.

“Watch where you’re going!” she yelled, picking herself up.

“Me? What about you!” Draco yelled back. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing here? You’re supposed to be dead or in a coma or something!”

“I—what?” Hermione said, stopping in the middle of whatever she was about to say and looking stunned. “How do you know that?”

“The portraits in this place can’t keep their gobs shut,” Draco said. “I was in Dumbledore’s office and—"

“Where is he?” Hermione cried desperately. “I have to find him! Harry and Ron’s lives might depend on it!”

“Dumbledore’s already there,” Draco said. “He knew there was trouble, so he went to whatever the Gauntlet is. Supposedly you three and Quirrell were there.”

“Quirrell?” Hermione said, baffled. “No, you mean Snape.”

“No, definitely Quirrell,” Draco said. “What the hell is the Gauntlet?”

“Oh, go look in a dictionary!” she said.

“I know what a gauntlet is, but not the Gauntlet!” Draco said. “So where the bloody hell were you lot!”

“It’s none of your business!” she yelled over her shoulder, sprinting towards the stairs. “I should go alert Madam Pomfrey. Ron is very badly hurt. Maybe she can do something to get ready for when Dumbledore brings him back.”

“The weasel is already up there.”

She was halfway up the stairs before Draco realized he was following her on instinct.

“Hermione!” he called after her.

She stopped, an annoyed look on her face.

“What about you? Are you hurt?” he blurted out without thinking.

He hated himself. That shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter if she were standing in front of him with her head about to fall off like Nearly Headless Nick. She was a Mudblood and a freak of nature and a liar and a cheat and the only one in this place with more than half a brain other than himself and he didn’t want to ask why the thought of her being hurt gutted him.

Hermione’s face looked puzzled, as though she couldn’t figure him out, but she finally said in a much quieter tone, “I’m fine. I was lucky.”

He sniffed and gave one nod before throwing after her, “More’s the pity,” and running in the opposite direction, away from here and back to Slytherin, the common room, his friends, and what he knew.

Draco was sure whatever had happened would be all over the school within a couple hours. That was the way rumors worked at Hogwarts, though they weren’t always to be believed. He slowed his steps to a casual saunter as he reached the common room, then eased into a chair by the fire and waited, watching the general mayhem that greeted the end of exams. Mostly, he kept his ears open, and news began to trickle in.

By dinner, Draco had heard that Potter had very nearly died going through some kind of magical obstacle course along with Ron and Hermione. The weasel was in fairly rough shape as well, and the most bizarre part was Quirrell had been behind the whole thing. Millicent was going on about a giant enchanted chess set being brought out of the cellar, and Crabbe swore he saw a concussed troll being carried to Hagrid’s hut. But the strangest information came from Marcus Flint, who was babbling that the Dark Lord had been living on the back of Quirrell’s head under his ridiculous turban.

Personally, Draco thought Flint needed to drink a Calming Draught and go to bed early if he really believed that kind of rot, but obviously something had happened down there.

As the common room slowly emptied that night, Draco found himself sitting mostly alone by the fire. His gaze went to the words “TRUST NO ONE” carved into the mantle, and he sighed. It was sound advice, but it made things rather lonely.

“Draco?”

He looked up to see Goyle inching into the room, looking miserable. With a creeping sense of guilt, Draco realized he probably still thought he was on the edge of expulsion.

“You don’t need to worry, Goyle,” Draco said. “You won’t be expelled. Dumbledore told me so himself.”

“What?” Goyle said, looking like it just wasn’t possible for him to have that kind of luck.

“It’s true. He said first years never get expelled. And he said he won’t tell your parents, but you’ll need tutoring to catch up over the summer,” Draco said.

To Draco’s horror, Goyle literally collapsed on the floor, sobbing.

“For pity’s sake,” Draco said, looking around uncomfortably, “pull yourself together, man. England hasn’t fallen.”

Draco had wanted to leave the room, but as Goyle was lying prostrate in the doorway to the dormitories, it seemed bad form to just step over him. It was a few minutes before the relieved Goyle could get to his feet. When he did stand up again, he grasped Draco’s hand firmly.

“I’ll never forget you for this,” he promised.

“I didn’t actually do anything,” Draco said.

Goyle shook his head, obviously not believing him, then turned around and went back into the dormitory looking much happier.

“Oh, and destroy the damn ring! Tossing it in a fire should do,” Draco called after him.

“Okay,” Goyle said. “Whatever you say, mate.”

“This has been a really long day,” Draco mumbled to himself, then followed after Goyle, desperate for sleep.