'Father-' said Draco again.
'Veritas,' hissed the Dark Lord.
So for the second time in his life, the hooks sank into Draco's chest and split it open, and he choked with pain and with the horror of being so exposed. It was even worse this time, maybe because this time he was resisting. It was no use, though. Whatever he meant to say when he opened his mouth, he knew the truth would come out instead.
Voldemort started simple. 'What is your name, boy?'
'Draco Thomas Malfoy.'
'After me, Lucius?' said Voldemort, 'I had almost forgotten. How quaint.'
Lucius simpered.
'Where is Harry Potter?'
Draco bit his lip hard. But it was no use. 'I don't know,' he heard himself say.
That was a relief, at any rate. The cord that had bound him to Harry had snapped with the spell's dissolution; he no longer had any idea where Harry might be.
'Why did you take on his appearance and pretend to be him?'
'My father was going to kill Hermione,' said Draco. 'I couldn't let that happen.'
Lucius looked surprised. 'Was she really your girlfriend?'
'No,' said Draco. 'She wasn't. She's Harry's best friend. '
'And you felt the need to risk you own life for the life of someone else's best friend?' asked the Dark Lord. 'Why?'
'I love her,' said Draco, and felt himself go scarlet. He would have thought he would have been beyond humiliation, but apparently not.
'My, how embarrassing,' said Voldemort, but he looked faintly amused. 'Why don't you tell us, young Malfoy, how you came to be in this house, with Harry Potter's best friend, whom you… love, and Harry himself, presumably disguised as you?'
'No,' said Draco, fighting to get up on his hands and knees. There was something wet on his face; when he reached up to rub it off, his hand came away red. Blood.
He had bitten through his lip. 'No.'
But he couldn't get up. The pain in his chest was too intense, the feeling of being split open too strong. He fell back to the ground.
'Father,' he heard himself say, and winced at how childish he sounded, 'Father, please.'
Lucius stirred uneasily. 'Perhaps you should hit him with the spell again, Master?'
he said.
'Indeed,' said Voldemort, and did.
They were nearly at the base of the stairs that led up to the drawing-room when Harry gave an almighty yell and pitched forward onto the ground. Hermione whirled around in surprise.
'Harry!' she called. 'Are you all right…?'
His response was muffled. He seemed to be bent over as if in pain, an unhappy black lump huddled on the ground with his hands over his face. She went towards him and he raised his head. 'Hermione? Is that you?'
She was about to respond impatiently when the light from her wand fell on his face, and her retort turned into a half-scream. She clapped a hand over her mouth and stared. 'Harry….' she breathed. 'It's you.'
'Of course it's me,' he said irritably. 'Were you hoping it was Lucius? Never mind, don't answer that.'
'Shut up,' she said, 'I'm serious, Harry, it's really you…you're back, you understand?'
And he was. Untidy black hair, green eyes, lightning-shaped scar and all. He dropped his hands from his face and gave her a half-smile. 'I kind of figured that,' he said. 'On account of the horrible pain and the fact that I can't see anything.'
Hermione couldn't stop staring at him. It was so strange to see his face as his face again; his familiar features once again animated by the intelligence that lived there and belonged there. There was a moment of awkward silence as she gawked at him. Finally, she said, 'It doesn't still hurt, does it?'
He shook his head. 'No, but…' He trailed off. 'I wish I could see.'
She knelt down next to him. 'I can fix your eyes, Harry. Do you want me to?'
For a moment he was silent, biting his lip. Then, reluctantly, he said, 'I guess you'd better.'
She knew why Harry had never let her or anyone else fix his eyesight with magic before: his glasses had become something of a trademark Harry Potter symbol, whether he liked it or not, and if he'd ever gotten rid of them Witch Weekly would have had a field day. They'd already done stories on how he cut his hair (in the bathroom, by himself, with nail scissors) and where he got his clothes ('I just let Hagrid pick them out for me.') If he got rid of his glasses, it would have meant headlines like HARRY POTTER TOO VAIN FOR GLASSES; IS THE BOY WHO LIVED GETTING A BIG HEAD? and Harry hated that sort of thing.
'It'll just be temporary,' she said gently. 'A Correctivity Charm. Until we get your glasses.'
'It's all right,' he said, and closed his eyes.
Hermione took her wand out and touched the tip of it gently to each of his eyelids. Then she leaned forward and put her fingers against his temples. 'Stay still,' she advised, and he took hold of her wrists to steady himself. 'Oculus,' she said.
