FORTY-EIGHT: Goodbye

“All right,” she said, furling the map and turning to face her people – thirty or so witches and wizards of varying age, the bulk of whom were quite young and very terrified. “Follow me.” Ginny grinned as she noted Hogwarts aiding her purpose – corralling the other group until she could reach them.

When they got close, Ginny raised her wand and pitched her voice low. “They’re expecting Death Eaters,” she said calmly, not looking back to see if they were listening; she knew that they were. “Raise your best shield charm and hold until I say to drop it.”

Ginny cast her own, silently thanking Harry, and turned the corner that would bring her face-to-face with the others.

Sure enough, a hex hit her raised shield before she could blink, but the barrier held. “Ron!” she exclaimed, knowing her brother would hear her voice most clearly.

“…Ginny?” Ron’s voice echoed oddly in the sudden silence.

Ginny found herself with an armful of panicked brother. “Glad to see you too,” she murmured, her voice muffled in his robes. “Where are you all headed?”

Hermione stood with Ron on one side and Yolande on the other, her lips pressed together and her expression grim, holding the hand of a small redheaded girl who looked even more determined. She tilted her head back and explained where they were going, her tone confident.

“You’re certain there’s enough Floo for all of us?” Yolande pressed, eyeing Ginny’s people.

“We’ve found enough,” Hermione said.

Ginny grinned viciously. “I think I might have a better idea,” she said, and couldn’t help but be a bit startled when everyone leaned in to listen. She supposed she was still a bit too used to being the littlest sister, the one whom everyone did their best to protect. “If worst comes to worst, we’ll rescue the stragglers after we’re through,” Ginny finished, her tone even, even as her eyes promised an ugly death to anyone who tried to hurt Harry or anybody in her charge.

Hogwarts, as though it had finally sensed their purpose, led them unerringly to the girls’ third-floor bathroom.

Hell, who was he fooling – it made it hard to stay upright. Concepts, images and ideas that didn’t really belong there kept invading his thoughts. I wonder what Quidditch will be like without him? He always was a challenge. It’ll be weird to watch Weasley and Granger sitting at Gryffindor Table without him, too. And from there to wild disassociation – I wonder if I’ll have a new broom this year. Why is it so bright? I thought Voldemort liked the darkness. The color scheme in the Great Hall is atrocious. A flash of memory – his mother’s rose garden in the summer. I’d like to have one, a garden. They’re soothing. Another flash – sitting in Snape’s class over a particularly temperamental potion, adding the red rose petals one by one – His mind jerked viciously away from the image, but it was too late. Visions of blood and the sound of screaming assaulted him, blending with Potter’s.

When they finally stopped using the Cruciatus curse, it was as though he had awoken from a dream, been shoved back into reality. He felt as though he’d been drenched in ice-cold water.

But it wasn’t over. Voldemort cast a new sort of curse he’d never heard before tonight, which was followed by a long, ominous silence on Potter’s part. Again. And again. And once more. The light from the Great Hall’s gigantic fireplace shone redly, illuminating the sweat on the features of the Boy Who Wouldn’t Live Much Longer.

Murder and torture are all too natural. They’re mere outgrowths of those urges to be on top, to be the one in control, the one in charge.

A lie. A particularly venomous one, engineered more to unsettle Potter than because it was anything he truly believed. He’d known just how to say it, too, imitating his father’s expression and intonation. It had been too easy.

Lying hadn’t been so simple after that, but it was both startling and confusing how little he’d had to. It had all come so naturally, naturally enough that, moments after Harry had made him laugh, or smile, he would instinctively reel. Finding Potter amusing in his own right wasn’t in his plans, nor was desiring the other boy’s company.

He had almost fooled himself into thinking he would switch sides, when his father was killed and he’d been initiated. Then he’d called for Harry with all that he was, and Harry hadn’t come.

Couldn’t come.

As he’d been telling Harry all along, he was just a simple kid who’d had some luck avoiding Dark curses. How had either of them been fooled into thinking any differently? Harry couldn’t save him, or his mother. Harry couldn’t even save himself, it seemed.

And then Voldemort said it: the word ‘goodbye’.

“Wait,” Harry rasped. “Don’t you want to know the secret?”

Voldemort smiled slowly. “Slytherin’s, you mean? I know it already. Why do you think I attacked? I have no more use for you now.”

His ember-coloured eyes tracked to Draco’s. “Malfoy.”

Draco’s awareness crashed once more to earth. He could have sworn someone had said his name. His fellow Death Eaters were murmuring to themselves, as if at an upset of some kind. Perhaps that hadn’t been his imagination after all…?

He stepped uncertainly towards the dais.

Voldemort smiled at him. “As this is your first meeting, and as I was so very fond of your father,” he said, “I would like you to be able to claim the great Harry Potter as your first kill.”

The silence in the room was absolute.

What? Draco wondered, wildly. What?! His Slytherin mind was moving on ahead of him. This was not about a gift, it was not about admiring Lucius. The bastard had him offed, after all. This was about cementing his ties to Voldemort. This was about destroying Draco as much as it was about destroying Harry, about making him unfit for the side of the Light. Voldemort must have understood his ambivalence to the cause; murdering the figurehead of the Light would leave him with no possibility of defection.

He could almost admire the man if he didn’t harbor the vicious desire to kill him.

Harry did not look angry, or resigned, or broken, or the half-dozen other predictable emotions Draco had subconsciously expected to see. Instead, Harry looked – stubborn. His jaw was fixed, his eyes were steely behind his cracked lenses, and his hands were clenched into fists. The look held no accusation nor hope nor fear. It was Harry at his most elemental.

Draco raised his wand, his arm moving almost of its own accord. We are all Slytherin, in a way, he heard himself saying; it seemed incredibly long ago, at such an impenetrable distance. We all want what’s best for ourselves. We all use subterfuge to gain the higher ground… jostling for position isn’t just Slytherin, it’s natural. Subterfuge is sometimes the best way…

Harry quirked an odd smile, an oh-well-then sort of grin, the determined spark never leaving his eyes. Well I suppose I’d rather it be you than him. Not much of a choice, is there?

He definitely wasn’t meant to be hearing that. He hadn’t. It was just that he was going mad, that was all.

We are all Slytherin, in a way.

Draco’s wand hand tremored. He had forgotten about his father, about Voldemort, about the Death Eaters. There was the wand and himself and Potter and oh sweet Merlin he wasn’t certain he could do this.

No. No, he knew he could not.

He’d never thought that he would ever feel so grateful for his own cowardice. Relief swam through his veins, made him dizzy. His wand quivered, a small, barely noticeable twitch, before rising to point at Voldemort. “No,” he said, his voice quavering a bit towards the end.

Voldemort’s lips quirked almost as Harry’s had, in that I-suppose-I-can’t-stop-you-then, rueful sort of way. “I feared as much,” he admitted. “Better to find out sooner rather than later, however.”

“There’s always a choice,” Draco muttered, wearied, responding to Harry. “The other choice was die, but that’s all right. I’ll take it.”

Harry sighed. “Ass.”

Voldemort raised his wand in turn.

“I would not do that, Tom, if I were you.” Dumbledore stood unassumingly in the doorway, his body relaxed, his features mild.

Draco let out a choked sob. He’d never been happier to see the old man in his life. Then, reality reasserted itself as he took in the numerous Death Eaters populating the room.

This most definitely meant that three wizards would be dying today.

“Ah, just the wizard I was waiting for,” Voldemort murmured, his interest in Harry and Draco momentarily lost. “I have been expecting you for some time, as a matter of fact. I rather expected you to have arrived far earlier, perhaps early enough to attempt some foolhardy rescue attempt before your prize pupil was subjected to torture.”

“I had some pressing matters to attend to,” Albus informed him, characteristic twinkle quite absent, now.

Draco was doing his best to avoid breakdown, but it was taking all of his energy. His mind was surprisingly blank of plans, terror comprising all he was. Focusing on the Headmaster’s words was the only thing keeping him in the here-and-now. He wanted to view Potter’s injuries, felt the almost pathological desire to do so, but refrained. That would not help, now. No way to break for it, so why bother?

“It makes me think,” Harry said quietly, “of the Triwizard Tournament.”

Draco could understand why. Cedric Diggory had died; Harry had faced Voldemort. If this was an allusion as to his own future prospects for survival, he didn’t really appreciate it.

“You remember those dragons? Everyone kept telling me to try a simple spell, you know, and to play to my strengths, but I really couldn’t understand it until the last minute,” Harry said. He sighed.

Bellatrix kicked at him, and Harry shut up, but Draco swallowed past the lump in his throat. They hadn’t taken his wand; of course they hadn’t. They’d wanted him to kill Harry mere moments ago; and now they were too lazy, too certain in their own power, too contemptuous of his. Harry was trying to tell him something. Something important.

Triwizard Tournament. Dragons. What had Harry done? He hadn’t been there for that task. Couldn’t Harry just tell him what to do? In his thoughts…?

Maybe Harry was getting weak, and couldn’t maintain the connection. Maybe Harry didn’t know how he’d projected the thought in the first place; typically it was Draco who initiated that sort of interaction, the few times it had occurred.

He’d heard things about the Task, of course, from the gushing student body, but it hadn’t been important at the time, just another one of Potter’s exploits. Dragons. A simple thing. Harry’s strengths were…?

It came to Draco rapidly. Sweet Merlin, the gushing Hufflepuff in question had been lauding Harry’s flying skills. A simple spell…

Could it really be that simple? Draco surreptitiously waved his wand. “Accio Firebolt. Accio Nimbus 2001.”

If they couldn’t kill Voldemort, perhaps they could at least escape, as the rest of the students had…

Voldemort had advanced until he was facing Dumbledore, his wand drawn. “No statues now, Dumbledore,” he informed the older wizard with a red gleam in his eye. “No phoenixes, nor hats, nor even your Harry Potter to save you.”

“You have always seen dependence on others as a weakness, Tom,” Dumbledore replied, sending out a single, wordless curse, which Voldemort repelled. “It may be; but it also can be a great strength.”

Voldemort snorted. “It puzzles me, this insistence on tutoring during a battle. Perhaps you suppose you shall say the right phrase, make the proper gesture, and I shall be converted back to the boy you knew. I don’t see a Time-Turner in your possession, old man.”

Harry and Draco exchanged a wary glance. It was more than Draco had ever heard the man say, and indubitably more revealing than he intended it to be.

Dumbledore saw it, too, as he dodged the other man’s furious barrage of curses. “You are the boy I knew, Tom. You have a touch more power, but other than that I am afraid I fail to see very much in the way of differences.”

Voldemort’s reply was not verbal so much as it was a growl, low and deep in his throat. “Stupid. Old. Man!” he finally returned. “I have gained and lost more than you ever could have dreamed! I have risen from the very dust and reached the greatest heights, greater than any could have imagined! I have -!”

“No man is born to dust,” Dumbledore chided, almost gently, as he sent a leg-locker – the first spell Draco had recognized in the entire business – at Voldemort. “You were born to a magical heritage; you were born with a sharp, strategic mind. You could have been so very much, Tom. If I engage you in conversation, it is not so much for Voldemort as for Tom Riddle. For the clever, resourceful boy, whose mind was twisted to madness.”

Voldemort’s curses were now going awry, slamming home into the walls behind Dumbledore, into the enchanted ceiling, into the grate of the fireplaces.

That drew Draco’s attention to the fireplace, where someone was… was standing. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? He rubbed at his eyes, because it certainly looked like… Granger.

His eyes darted to the other fireplaces, where innumerable people were standing, jostling one another.

Sweet Merlin. And here he’d thought she was Ravenclaw.

“…was born to nothing! But you… you and others like you… could never comprehend…”

Dumbledore now looked rueful, and shook his head. “I am sorry, Tom. I am sorry for how you have lived. But, most of all, I am sorry for the spark of self-pity which grew to swallow you. You could have been born on the rack, or in the gutter, and none of it would justify what you have become.”

The spell hit Voldemort full in the chest, and he stumbled, unable to breathe.

That seemed to be the signal the students were waiting for. With battle cries, they spilled out into the Great Hall. Draco had pictured a handful of students, and only Gryffindors, but they were of all Houses, and he stopped counting at one-hundred. They fanned out rapidly to enclose the Death Eaters, their wand hands extended, many tremoring slightly.

Bellatrix and the others immediately hustled Draco and Harry to the centre, unwilling to give up their hostages, but there were many more students than Death Eaters; he thought he saw Ginny give Harry a reluctant grin, the blood on her forehead trailing into her hair. She looked pale but determined. Draco tore off his mask and robes; he didn’t want the Slytherins’ loyalty to be clouded unnecessarily. He saw Hermione through the press of Death Eaters, and Ron, who smiled grimly and cracked his knuckles. Neville was there, and though he trembled head to foot, his features were the most determined. Draco caught sight of Yolande, and Ewan, and Rae, who stood with hate flashing in her features – a face too young for such an expression, but Draco was not about to deny her the revenge she wanted. All of this was expected, in some corner of Draco’s mind…

…but there was also Morag MacDougall, who’d gone on to Draco at length about how the Death Eaters surely had the right idea, and Blaise Zabini, who was an inch away from his Mark, as far as Draco had been aware.

And, of course, he himself was here, finally feeling safe enough to check on Harry Potter, because everyone’s attention was now quite firmly elsewhere. And that was something he hadn’t been daring to hope for.

Draco barely had time for a once-over before their brooms finally appeared, crashing down through the enchanted ceiling. He leapt astride his, watching Harry awkwardly mount, then rose high above the Death Eaters. He reached the ceiling’s limit before pausing, looking down.

It was havoc. Curses were flying across the Great Hall, striking pillars and the staff table and Death Eaters and students. It was a melee, although every now and again, Granger or Weasley or Yolande would shout something, some sort of phrase which caused unhurt students to flock to them. Oddly, the small camps seemed not to have very much to do with House; when Yolande called, a flurry of red and green and gold and blue surrounded her.

Draco realized he had a great advantage in that he had his broom and his wand, and he could probably get to his rooms, pack some essentials and flee the castle.

We are all Slytherin, in a way.

I guess we’re all Gryffindor, too, he decided, shaking his head in amazement at the chaos below. Then he dove.

It did not take long before fellow Quidditch players caught on to Draco’s idea; soon, Quidditch members were dive-bombing Death Eaters, making short work of them.

Voldemort himself scarcely seemed dismayed at how badly it had all gone; he was far too wrapped up in his battle with Dumbledore to be perfectly aware of his surroundings, snarling at the older man as he attempted to pin the Headmaster to the ground. Voldemort slammed the white head into the marble tile of the floor, and Dumbledore was still.

Luckily, Hermione had caught wind of what was going on, and led her small band to swarm the Dark Lord, whose expression of panic actually made Draco laugh for a moment. It looked like Hermione had this well in hand –

No.

The man was holding Hermione by her short hair, tugging until she toppled backwards. Rae cast a Leg-locker on him, but he broke it with what seemed to be very little thought.

Draco swept down and cast a tripping jinx, hoping to slow the man down, but Voldemort merely halted as though he sensed the magic waiting to pounce. He raised his wand. “Avada–”

“Avada Kedavra!” Draco shouted, his wand pointed at Voldemort’s back.

The man made an odd noise and crumpled, pinning Hermione beneath him. She rapidly skittered away, looking up at Draco and giving him a grateful smile that nonetheless revealed her horror. Draco darted away, but the Death Eaters were breaking, running to the flames with Floo powder, dashing for the doors. A cry of victory rose amoung the students.

Draco watched Harry slump on his broom and moved to his side to support the other boy, to slowly sink down by Hermione.

His Wizard’s Debt had been repaid.