The Disappearances of Draco Malfoy

Chapter 22: The Resistance Rising

"Enlighten me, then, Potter," Draco said, closing the door of the reading room. "How do you think this would work, exactly?"

Potter's head rose slowly. "What?"

"Don't get excited. I'm not saying I'll do it. I'm saying I want to know how, in the name of Merlin's droopy wandtip—" Though Draco already heard the tell-tale hum of Muffliato, he lowered his voice to finish— "you think I could possibly get away with playing both sides."

"Fair question." Potter closed the biography on Helga Hufflepuff that he'd been reading all day, and Draco sat down in the armchair opposite. They were alone in a sun-drenched mid-afternoon. Hermione was in the kitchen with Luna and Ginny, but Draco had spoken about all this with her the previous night, anyway.

"I've been thinking about it," Potter went on, "and Hermione's right. You're good at Occlumency for our age, but—"

"I'm not Snape," Draco finished.

Potter nodded. "So, our plan can't hinge on having you physically in a room with a Legilimens like Voldemort, Bellatrix, or Snape. They could force the truth out of you, and it'd be too dangerous, anyway." Potter tugged at a tuft of his messy hair. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, as though he'd slept poorly.

Draco arched one brow. "Potter. Could you possibly be concerned for my safety?"

He expected Potter to give one of those smart retorts he sometimes turned back, but the black-haired boy looked back at Draco with a seriousness that gave Draco unexpected discomfort.

"Yeah," Potter said. "I'm not asking anyone in the Order to take on a suicide mission. Although you already gave it a good enough go at the Ministry and the Manor."

Draco shifted in his chair. "God, you're right," he said, trying for a light tone. "Maybe that martyr complex of yours is contagious, Potter. Maybe I fancy going out in a blaze of glory for the cause now."

After a long moment, Potter's expression eased, and he let out a snort. "I suppose you'd want us to call it Draco Malfoy Day and celebrate it every year?"

"Oh, at a minimum," Draco said, leaning back in the armchair. "Fireworks, banners... make it an international occasion, Potter."

Potter shook his head with a somewhat reluctant smile.

"Anyway," Draco said, "if we're avoiding the Dark Lord, my aunt, and Snape, how do we get to the snake?" He shook his head. "Besides, it's like I told my parents. There's no way the Death Eaters will want to take us back after we've faked our deaths."

"They will if you hand me over to them."

Draco just looked at Potter, feeling a mixture of resignation and amusement. Trust him to come out with this mere seconds after Draco had explicitly said the phrase "martyr complex."

"All right," Draco said, dripping irony. "Shall we go out to the street and I'll press my Mark? We can have them here right away."

Potter sat forward on the edge of the sofa, looking intent. "Don't be an idiot. I mean I'll be the lure for a Death Eater ambush that you'd set up from a distance. Then the Order would be waiting to ambush the ambush."

Draco considered it. Fragments of a plan began to eddy in his mind. "If we want to get at the snake," he said slowly, "the Dark Lord will have to go to the ambush site himself. It'd need to happen somewhere that the Death Eaters can't grab you and Disapparate off to him."

Potter nodded. "We'll need to control everything about it. And we should wait to make contact until after we find and destroy the Cup. Then this will be our final attack. We lure Voldemort and the snake out, making him think he's caught me unprepared. We kill the snake. Then—" Potter was sitting ramrod straight now. "Then I face him."