I know Harrys all right, and if hes all right then Draco is too. Lucius would have to walk over Harrys dead body if he wanted to hurt Draco. I know that. I know it, but I don?t feel it.'
'You?d feel it if there was something wrong,' Lupin assured him. He took a step forward and put his hand on his friends shoulder; it was tense as an iron bar. 'Breathe, Sirius. You?ll feel better once we?re doing something.'
Sirius nodded, and put his hand up to cover Lupins with his own. For a moment they stood there motionless; Sirius looking at his feet, Lupin looking out over the grounds. He?d spent his childhood comforting Sirius like this: Sirius, who had never had anyone else. James was too happy a person to really understand unhappiness in others, and Peter was not the consoling type. When Snape and his Slytherin cronies had dusted one of Lupins sandwiches with silver powder at supper, and Lupin had spent all night throwing up messes of silver and blood in the infirmary, Sirius had been the one who cried, and Lupin had consoled him then, as well. He remembered how startled and impressed he?d been by this odd prickly boy who always hurt more for other people than he did for himself.
His was startled out of his reverie by the sound of footsteps on snow: he turned and glanced behind him. The red-headed girl was following her parents down the steps towards a waiting carriage, and had glanced back over her shoulder to look at him. He recognized her then, belatedly; he had not had her in a class since she was thirteen, but he had seen her often enough among the Slytherin students: Blaise Zabini, Dracos girlfriend.
It had begun to snow, lightly, like flour sifting from the sky. Draco, standing alone on the tower, spread his arms wide and leaned his head back and let the flakes fall into his open eyes and mouth. The moonlight stung his eyes like concentrated white fire: it held him where he stood as surely as a silver spike driven down through his body and into the stones at his feet.
It is no easy thing to be seventeen years old and dying: to be so young and to be in love and to be told that abruptly, all this will be ending.
Draco had never been a particularly spiritual person: he had always been too attached to the material plane and what it could give him. If he could not touch a thing, it did not exist; if he could not see it, it did not matter.
But then there was Harry, who believed in what could not be seen: in people who were better than they seemed to be, in the invisible world of good and evil and hope and redemption.
All your life, you lived in a windowless room. And now you can look up and see the stars. So Dumbledore had said to him, months ago, and Draco heard it again in his head as he looked up at the black winter sky fretted with icy fires. It was the sort of night that might have made him believe in angels; it was the sort of night that might have made him think that he could be one, himself.
Something was scratched into the mantel above the fireplace in Luciusstudy; Harry squinted, but could not read the words.
It was warm in the room, despite the fact that the fire had died down in the grate. It was also very silent; the Death Eaters had led Harry into the room and departed noiselessly as cats. Harry wondered absently if they wore roller skates under their robes or if Voldemort had simply trained them rigorously to glide instead of walking. They moved like Dementors, which was probably on purpose.
Harry moved away from the fire. He would have appreciated the warmth under other circumstances, but it felt wrong, somehow, when there was no fire up on the tower. He felt Dracos cold down in his own bones, and shivered.
Are you all right? he asked, sending out a tendril of thought.
The reply came immediately. Dracos inner voice sounded light, unconcerned, and quite flat. He might have been commenting on the weather at a garden party: I?m fine. Is my father there yet?
No, Harry said. I?m alone in the study. What should I do?
You could steal stuff, Draco suggested. Theres some valuable antiques in there. Check out the grandfather clock.
Harry hesitated a moment before replying. I have a feeling your dad would notice if I tried to walk out of here with a grandfather clock shoved down my trousers.
Dracos mental laughter sounded like the faint rustle of leaves. Harry was amazed he could laugh at all. Thats a such a setup for so many jokes at your expense, I don?t even know which one to pick.
Well, don?t strain yourself. So, what else is in here?
Nothing important. Look at the desk — he always empties his things out on the desk when he comes home. Anything there that looks — like anything?
Harry edged over to the desk and looked it over. If he?d hoped to find some kind of evidence of Lucius? recent evildoing, like a bloodied knife or a handy-dandy parchment with 'Muggles To Be Killed' written across the top, he was disappointed. Theres not much here. Some blank papers, a pipe, some coins and things. It looks as if he was travelling fairly light.
Hmm. Draco sounded thoughtful. What kind of coins?
Harry blinked at the gold on the desk. They looked like ordinary Galleons to him, but then what did he know? He picked one up, feeling its cool heaviness against his fingers, then closed his hand around it spasmodically as the door to the study opened, and several more robed and hooded figured entered. Harry spun around, dropping the coin into the sleeve of his cloak.
The tallest of the Death Eaters drew his hood back; it was Lucius. 'Harry,' he said. 'How kind of you to agree to talk with me.'
Harry said nothing.
With a wave of his hand, Lucius dismissed his entourage. They left quietly, and Lucius and Harry were alone. Lucius drew off the cloak he had been wearing and held it up; the mahogany coat rack in the corner bent itself sideways and plucked the cloak out of Lucius? hand.
Underneath it, he wore an expensive gray suit and a dark tie. He looked, to Harry, like a Muggle businessman. He squashed the urge to ask Lucius if the suit was Armani.
Harry felt quite cold now, despite the fire. He watched as Lucius sauntered across the room and sat himself neatly in the chair behind the desk. He did not offer a seat to Harry, and Harry made no move to take one. They stared at each other for a long moment in silence, the tall blond man and the slight boy with his torn cloak and cuffed right hand.
'Would you,' said Lucius finally, 'like a drink?'
He raised his hand again, and the decanter on the sideboard rose into the air and came to hover by his side. Harry shook his head. Lucius, seeming indifferent, allowed the decanter to pour him a glass of port, then took a long and thoughtful sip.
Harry, near screaming point with impatience, dug his nails into his palms and spoke evenly. 'If hes really ill,' he said, 'you shouldn?t leave him up there like that. Its too cold. He might die too soon, and then where would you be?'
'Doubtless you?re right,' Lucius replied, with an affected sigh. 'Very shortsighted of me. One of my many faults.'
Harry again said nothing. One of the useful things he had learned from Draco was how effective silence could be when utilized as a weapon. If he waited, Lucius would get impatient and speak.
He did. 'It is very interesting,' Lucius said, 'how much you have changed, Harry Potter. How much of you has bled away through this connection you share with my son — and yes, I know all about it — how much has bled away, and how much has been replaced. Do you even know who you are any more?'
'I know exactly who I am,' Harry said coolly. 'I?m sorry if its confusing for you. Wait, actually, no I?m not sorry at all. You know why? Because I hate you.'
'How sad for me,' Lucius said, taking a slender enameled pipe out of the wooden drawer on his left, and tapping it against the side of the desk.
'And here I had so hoped we would become close.'
'Do you always want to become close with people you?re planning to kill?' Harry asked.
Lucius laughed and reached for a small gilded box that Harry had thought was a paperweight. He opened it,
