you has some sense.' He continued to hold Draco off with one arm; with the other, he held out parchment and quill to Harry. 'Write,' he said.
Harry took the quill and paper and stepped back. The quill was one Draco recognized: Lucius? favorite raven feather, self-inking; the plume was dipped in gold. Harry, Draco thought furiously. Harry, this is stupid, listen to me. Tear up the parchment…
But Harry had blocked him out; his words struck against the walls Harry had thrown up against him like soap bubbles breaking against rocks.
Draco wanted to rush forward and push his father out of the way, but it would have been pointless — in the state he was in, he couldn?t have wrestled a Cornish pixie, and Lucius had always been very strong.
As if he sensed his sons thoughts, Lucius turned his glass-bright smile on Draco. Draco could sense his fathers delight: this was what Lucius liked best. Winning, dominating, controlling a situation. Controlling the people in it. His smile widening, Lucius reached into his pocket and took out a clear vial which Draco recognized immediately from Harrys description.
The antidote inside it was pale green. He set it down on the stones at his feet and looked at Harry. It was evident from his posture that he was making it clear that should Harry make a move towards him, he would crush the vial under his boot.
'What was it my old Potions professor used to say?' Lucius mused, his head tilted thoughtfully. '?Why don?t I hear the sound of quills scratching against parchment?? Although, I suppose in this case, it would be only one quill.'
Harry said nothing, but his fingers tightened on the quill until they were a bloodless white. And Draco remembered, without being able to help it, what Hermione had said to him at the Hogsmeade station, about Harry.
/They used me to get to him, Draco. They used me — they know how to hurt him the worst, and I can?t be part of that. I won?t be./
Abruptly, Harrys grip on the quill loosened, and he began to write, holding the parchment awkwardly against his forearm. The sound of the nib scratching against the parchment was loud in the still night. Lucius looked down at the antidote at his feet, and then over at Draco. 'Calm yourself, boy,' he said, as gently as Draco had ever heard him speak. 'Let your friend save you, if that is what he wants. Should he preserve you, perhaps you can do the same for him, later.'
The gentle tone in Lucius? voice was too much to bear; Draco looked away from his father and at Harry. His friends head was bent; he was writing; he did not look up. A queer dreamlike state had come over Draco: he could see everything very clearly, and yet at the same time it was as if the whole world was locked away on one side of a sheet of glass and he was on the other. This was, perhaps, the first thing that had happened to him in a year that he felt Harry could not possibly understand, and that he did not want him to understand. He was not Dumbledore, to regard death as the next great adventure, but he was a Malfoy. He would stare death down and never show that he was afraid. One day…
One day you will understand, he thought at Harry, not knowing whether Harry could hear him or not. I always thought I would follow you up to the gates of Hell if I had to. And that, once arriving there, I would beg the gatekeeper to take me instead of you. And if he must take you, I would ask to come with you. And if he would not let me come with you, I would wait for you on the shores of the river. I promised to watch over you and follow you always. I promised never to leave you. I never thought that death might prevent me. Not your death, but mine.
Harry did not look up.
So, he was not listening — but it did not matter. Dracos own mind was made up. He closed his eyes. If he could see, he couldn?t do what he had to do. He judged the distance to his father, and took a step forward, and another. He heard Lucius begin to speak. Then Draco lashed out with his foot, a hard swift kick. The toe of his boot connected with the vial; he opened his eyes and saw it fly into the air and shatter against the low parapet wall. Green fluid and glass splashed over the flagstones.
He saw Harry raise his head, his eyes uncomprehending at first: then he went white, and the quill fell out of his hand. The parchment followed, fluttering like a white feather, landing at Harrys feet. Draco saw that Harry had written no more on it than Dear Hermione; he was surprised, it had seemed as if so much time had passed…He glanced up at his friend, but Harrys expression had changed and then Draco couldn?t look at him anymore; he looked at his father instead, and saw something he had rarely seen before: Lucius looking shocked beyond reason. He had raised his hand as if he could hold Draco back; now he dropped it to his side, and looked at his son with a disbelieving bitterness…and something else underneath that, something that looked almost to Draco like a furious respect, although he knew that was impossible.
'You realize what you?ve done,' Lucius said to his son, his voice a fierce whisper. 'Thats all there was — there is no more.'
'I know,' Draco said. 'I realize what I?ve done.'
Lucius? mouth thinned into a razored line. 'You?re a fool,' he said, turned on his heel, and stalked though the door, slamming it hard behind him.
The exhaustion was so bad now that it was like pain, without quite being pain. Ron could not calculate how long he had gone now without sleep or food: probably no more than a day, but the hours and hours and hours of chess had taken such a toll on his concentration that it seemed like much more.
He had always enjoyed playing chess; now it was beginning to sicken him.
Every time a game ended, he hoped against hope it would be the last one.
Every time, the Dark Lord waved his hand and the board was magically renewed, and the deadly voice said, 'Again.'
He could no longer tell pawns from knights from bishops. The pieces were heavy as rocks in his numb fingers. He willed his mind to concentration, willed himself to formulate some kind of strategy. Nothing came to mind.
He had won several games and lost several games. It had not seemed to matter either way. Each time Voldemort had raised his hand; each time the voice came again with the single word: 'Again.' Ron had begun to think that this was not chess at all but merely some refined form of torture.
Slowly, Ron picked up his knight, and looked down. His exhausted mind struggled to make sense of the chess board, to decipher its patterns. It seemed to waver in front of him, rippling as if a cloud of heat were passing over it. His right hand spasmed, and the knight fell out of his limp fingers, striking the travertine board with a harsh, echoing click.
It was as if the click were the sound of a switch being flipped inside Rons mind. Without warning the world ripped down the center like a fruit being peeled in half. His ears roared, and agonizing pain shot through his knees and elbows. A moment later he realized this was because he had tumbled out of his chair, hit the floor and crumpled. He rolled over and stared up at a world of shifting shadows.
'Whats happening?' he whispered. 'It hurts. It hurts.'
'What do you see?' said the knifelike voice of the Dark Lord. 'Boy, tell me what you see.'
The shapes moved and coalesced. Now they were racing by him like scenery viewed from a train window. Images fluttered rapidly by, visible but inaudible, more real than dreams. It had never been like this before.
Nothing had ever been like this before.
'I see,' he said, and shut his eyes, but it made no difference. The future rushed towards him and swallowed him up; he was inside it now, staring out. He was the still center of the turning world: he could see everything at once and the power of it was too much to contain. Words spilled out of his mouth; he could not stop them. 'I see the Dark Mark over Hogwarts,' he said in a single rasping breath. 'I see the sky black with smoke — and the Mark again and again and again. I see all the wizarding houses in England and the sky over them is full of death. I see the dead. Some of them are children — '
'Very good,' said Voldemort. 'Tell me more. Do you see Harry Potter?'
'Harry — I see Harry. He has blood all over his hands. Hes crying. And now I see his bracelet. Its in broken
