"Well, another year over." Draco sighed to himself as he stepped out of the carriage outside his house. He paused at the base of the steps and looked up at it. This house had been in his family forever. It looked exactly the same as it had the last time he'd seen it, not that that was a surprise. As long as he had lived here, all his life, it had never changed. The house was over 300 years old and it was huge; over two hundred rooms spread over three stories. Everything in it was old, old furniture, old paintings, old rooms, everything was…just old. How he hated the thought of spending another summer here, but what choice did he have?
He sighed again, louder this time and walked up the steps to the front door. The huge oak door opened as he reached it. Jenkins, the butler, gave him his customary nod as he entered, a gesture which Draco didn't return. 'Never acknowledge the servants, they exist to serve us. They don't deserve courtesy.' His father's voice echoed through Draco's head as he walked down the empty halls. He smiled, an echo was better than the real thing. This summer, he would be spared the usual rhetoric and endless dogma that seemed to dominate every conversation he and his father ever had. Lucius was not going to be lecturing him, what with him being in prison and all. Despite himself Draco couldn't help the little smirk that flashed across his face as he thought of Lucius in Azkaban. Even without the Dementors standing guard, the wizard prison had to be a far from a pleasant place to be.
Draco didn't feel the least bit sorry for his father's predicament. Lucius deserved everything he got. Attacking Harry Potter – well Draco couldn't fault him for that. He had lost count of the times he had wished he could jinx Potter into oblivion, but Lucius had attacked Potter in the headquarters of the Ministry of Magic of all places. How stupid could any man possibly be? Had he really thought that he could do that and not get caught? Draco shook his head, and then swallowed a curse as a wave of dizziness swept over him. 'Damn it,' he swore to himself, he still wasn't over the train ride home. Still, he thought himself lucky, Potter's pack of cronies had hit him with so many different hexes that he was lucky to be the right shape, let alone able to walk unassisted.
As he stalked up the staircase to his bedroom a question occurred to him: Why had he bothered attacking Potter at all? Past experience alone should have taught him that Potter was no pushover in a fight, and Potter's friends had demonstrated the annoying habit of rushing to his rescue at the worst possible times. The outcome was unavoidable from the outset, especially with Crabbe and Goyle for backup, he'd of been better off with a couple of doxies, at least they knew when to hide! Attacking Potter on the train had amounted to suicide, if not in the literal sense of the word. So why had he done it?
The answer came to him almost as quickly as the question – because it was what was expected of him. He was a Malfoy, and Potter was responsible for a yet another public disgrace to the Malfoy name. It was irrelevant that Lucius had been the cause of his own downfall, Draco had to be seen to be upholding the Malfoy name – his name was more important than he was, it was more important than the truth, it was more important than anything. That was another lesson Lucius had beaten into his head his whole life, so much so that it was second nature to him now.
He entered his bedroom and closed the door. As he got changed out of his school robes his mind turned to the summer that stretched out in front of him, and he wondered what he was going to do to occupy his time. It was a decision he had never had to make before. In the past, it had all been planned out for him. There would be the obligatory family trip to somewhere fashionable, arranged so as not to clash with the seemingly endless calendar of balls and banquets that his parents had insisted on attending, dragging him along for the ride. But this year would be different. There would be no family holiday this summer. What with Lucius' situation, and his mother playing the disgraced wife and hiding out in the summer house in Belgium, he doubted if he would even see either of them all summer. Without his parents around to drag him, there would be no balls or stuffy banquets to attend. In fact, it was likely that most of them wouldn't even be held, what with most of the guests being in prison or on the run from the aurors. No, the Malfoy social calendar for the summer was well and truly clear for once, and Draco didn't mind a bit. He would put the time to good use, or rather to no use. Endless days of doing literally nothing lay before him – it was going to be a good summer.
In a dark and dingy room above the Leaky Cauldron in London, a hooded figure stood silently watching the passing throng outside the window. He had been waiting there for hours, but that didn't bother him. Patience was one quality he had in abundance. Time passed by unheeded as he stood, and watched, and waited. He gave no reaction to the rustle of feathers as a large eagle flew in the open window and passed inches above his head to land on the floor behind him. He didn't move as with a slight muffled grunting noise the bird started to grow and change. He didn't even move when it straightened up and settled into the shape of a second, taller hooded figure, and stepped up to stand behind him. He simply stood there gazing out the window at the street below for a full thirty seconds before he spoke.
"Is it done?" His voice from within the hood was measured, confident and cold.
The second figure bowed his head before he responded, "It is my lord," his voice was, like the other, flat and toneless, "All preparations have been made." The second figure hesitated slightly before continuing. "Forgive me, my lord, but I must question your choice on this matter. The boy was a mess getting off the train, I don't believe that he is up to the challenge."
"Yes…I am told he had quite the little hexing contest. He picked a fight with half the students on the train by all accounts." A slight chuckle, one completely bereft of any real warmth escaped from beneath the hood. "However I have reconciled myself with the choice. He will prove himself in the end."
"Yes," the taller man paused for contemplation, "but, if he is so impulsive and short sighted as to start a fight he can't win, surely he cannot be ready for what awaits him."
"No," the first man straightened, "he is most certainly not ready. I will have my work cut out for me to be sure. Success is by no means guaranteed," he inclined his head slightly in thought, "Were time not such a factor, I would have pushed harder for another but at this point we have no choice. There is nobody else that even comes close to being eligible so he will have to do…What of the other?"
The tall man shifted his position, his bearing stiffened, "We located her, my lord. She remains exactly where she is supposed to be. Thus far, all signs point to perfect containment. It should remain so for the foreseeable future, long enough to serve our purposes at least."
Another chuckle, a louder one this time filled the space beneath the smaller figures hood, "An interesting assessment, Captain," he said, "Especially given that you have no idea what our purposes are in that matter."
"Forgive me my lord. I was merely speculating based on the available options and their consequences. The girl should not be in a position to interfere with our operations"
"And supposing we want her to interfere?" He raised a hand to cut off the response. "In future it would be best if you kept your speculations to a minimum. Certainly keep them to yourself, unless you are asked for them. Trust that you will be told all that you need to know, as you need to know it."
The taller man bowed, "Yes, my lord."
That ended the conversation, both figures returned to their silent vigil at the window. An hour later when Tom, the innkeeper, came in, he found the room deserted. A small stack of coins beside the bed more than covered the cost of renting the room. Tom scooped up the gold and shrugged, they came, they went, and they paid their bill, that ended Tom's interest in his customers.
Sarah Granger was sad. She was always sad on this day. Every year this day came and went, bringing back the memories she had tried so very hard to bury. She swallowed against the lump in her throat as she took out the candle, the same candle every year, and set it on the mantle. Igniting a taper, she lit it, and then said her silent prayer as she watched the dancing flame. Despite her best efforts, her mind wandered once more down the dark and painful corridors of the past. Silent tears flowed from her eyes as she remembered the life she had had, the things she had lost…the secrets that still ate at her heart. She jumped slightly when she heard the front door slam, she hadn't even heard the car pull up in the driveway. Sarah wiped hard at her eyes as the door to the hall burst open and in she ran,
"Hi Mum!" Hermione shrieked as she threw herself into Sarah's arms.
"Hello darling," Sarah answered, wrapping her arms round her daughter and giving her a squeeze. "Did you have a good term?"
Hermione broke the hug, for an instant her smile wavered before she remembered herself. There was no use in telling them she had decided, it would only scare them, "Yeah it was OK," she said cheerily, "You know, the usual stuff. I'm glad to be home, I missed you."
Sarah smiled, "I missed you too darling." If Sarah had seen the momentary hesitation on her daughters face, she didn't let on. "It's good to have you home. How was the trip? You're late getting here! I was expecting you over an hour ago."
Hermione rolled her eyes, "Yeah the motorway was murder!"
A muffled swearword came from the door, both girls turned to see a pile of books stagger in the door. Based on the language, someone wasn't happy.
"Frank!" Sarah barked at her husband who was somewhere beneath the mountain of literature. "Watch your mouth in front of your daughter."
The muffled voice grew louder and more impolite. The pile of literature started to sway in time with the swearing. Hermione screeched again as she ran toward the tumbling stack and desperately tried to catch her books, but to no avail. There was a great clatter of falling books and tearing paper. Frank Granger appeared from the chaos looking none too pleased.
"Sorry dear," he said, rather sheepishly, "Erm, Hermione," he added, surveying the chaos before him, "did you have to bring the whole bloody library with you?"
"Dad!" Hermione retorted harshly, "I didn't bring the whole library, just what I needed to do my homework for next term." Hermione stood and surveyed the carnage, books and scrolls lay scattered over the floor. This was a disaster, she mulled, all her hours of organising and preparing those books wasted in a moment, she was ready to cry. "Aw," she said, chewing her lip, "Did you have to drop them, Dad? They were all in order you know. I'll never get them sorted out again." She dropped to her knees in the rubble and started trying to sort them out.
"Sorry pet," Frank soothed, "I didn't mean to drop them, but they were just too heavy. Here," he bent down, "let me help you."
"No! Don't!" Hermione batted his hand away, "Really…I'll do it. It's the only way I'll know where everything is."
Frank was in no mood to argue, he dropped the book he had picked up and turned to face his wife, "I'm shattered," he breathed, genuinely exhausted, "I swear, London is getting farther away every year."
"Oh well," Sarah said brightly, "You're home now, and that's the important thing. Sit yourself down. I know you won't say no to a nice cup of tea."
Frank's face lit with a smile of gratitude, "That would be lovely dear, thank you."
Sarah clapped her hands together smartly, "Coming right up," she looked down at her daughter, who was still just about visible beneath the piles of books, "How about you Hermione? Would you like some tea?" Sarah paused and waited for her daughter to answer, but all she got was a general grunt which she took to mean 'Yes, thank you mother, that would be lovely'. Sarah shook her head. She wasn't surprised that Hermione was pre-occupied. Books, especially unorganised books, were always more important to her than anything else. Taking one last glance at the candle, she paused for a moment before heading out into the kitchen to make the tea.
Frank stretched and stood, watching his daughter as she shuffled and sorted the mass of paper into some mysterious order that he knew would made no sense to anyone except her. 'How does she do it?' he asked himself for the hundredth time. It positively baffled him sometimes how complicated her mind could get. He closed his eyes and yawned, then stretched again and turned to sit down in his favourite chair. His eyes fixed on the candle over the fire and he froze. 'Not again!' Stifling a much more severe swearword he headed into the kitchen after his wife. Sarah was busy with the tea when he entered and closed the door behind him.
"Damn it, Sarah, what are you playing at?" It was a real effort to keep his voice down but he managed it.
"Playing at?" Sarah seemed genuinely confused as she turned to face him, "What do you mean? I'm making the tea."
Frank advanced toward her, "Not that, I mean, what are you doing with that blasted candle!" He hissed through clenched teeth. "We discussed this, and you told me you weren't going to light that damned thing again."
Sarah cast her eyes down to stare at the floor before answering, "I know what I said," she said quietly, "but I couldn't help it." She looked up at her husband with a pleading expression, "Really there's no harm in it. It's such a little thing, it can't hurt."
Frank shook his head, "I don't know why I have to keep telling you this, but little or big, it's too much. Hermione's a smart girl, Sarah. Trust me on this, one of these days that little thing will lead to questions. Hermione will ask us, and we won't be able to answer her, and then where will we be?"
Sarah shook her head and turned back to the tea, "She won't ask anything, it's just a candle for God's sake, its nothing."
"It's not 'nothing'," Frank hissed, "It's a piece of the world we left behind, a place she can't know about, no matter what it costs. You know that, Sarah," he took hold of his wife's shoulders, "you above all people. Maybe before…" he paused as he found his voice rising and looked over his shoulder at the closed door to make sure it was still closed. Satisfied that his daughter couldn't hear, he went on. "…maybe before it didn't matter as much, but not now, not with…with things as they are."
"Frank…"
"We can't risk it, Sarah. That life, and everyone in it is gone, and we have to let it go."
Sarah's eyes locked with her husbands, "Maybe you can just let it go," she all but shouted, "but its not that easy for me. I…" her voice faltered, "I won't forget her, Frank, I can't. That candle in there is all I have left of her and, clue or not, dangerous or not, it's all I can do for her memory, and I'll do it Frank. I…" Tears welled up in her eyes and her voice failed her.
Frank stepped forward and put his arms round his wife, "Who said it's easy for me?" he asked in a whisper, "But this is Hermione's life we're talking about and, the more we cling, the more we hold on to the past, the more it hurts us, and the more danger we put her in."
Sarah drew back from him. She raised her head and looked him in the eye through her tears, "The candle stays Frank," her tone left no room for argument, "You let it all go if you want, but that candle stays. It's just a little thing, just for today, can't I have that much?"
Frank opened his mouth to argue the point some more but Hermione's voice cut him off. She called out from under her books to wonder where her tea had gone to.
"It's coming in a minute honey," he answered. He looked at his wife. This was an argument he was not going to win quietly or quickly, so he gave in. "Fine, it stays, but, for her sake, you had better have a hell of a good lie ready if she does ask." He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, he handed it to her. "Dry your eyes before you come in." With that he turned and left.
Sarah took a minute to catch her breath before a second shout from her daughter spurred her into action. 'Organising that mess must be thirsty work' she thought to herself as she picked up the tray. She hesitated at the door, 'It's just a candle, she won't ask…she can't'.