Non Sequitur

Chapter 2: Matters of Death

february 10 1999

Draco stood before the imposing entrance to his father's study, hand hovering over the wooden panels. He had rarely been allowed in as a child, giving rise to the vague wariness and uncertainty that generally shrouds the unknown. Especially to a young child, restrictions were a source of both fear and intense curiosity. Draco would walk past the ebony doors and pause in their wake, hoping to catch a glimpse of what lay inside, or pick up some snatch of mysterious conversation.

Now that he had to go in, he was no longer curious.

He exhaled briefly. Clenched his fist an inch away from the wood. Hesitated a moment more, then knocked, the sound sharp and accusatory to his ears.

"Come in," said the high, cold voice.

The Dark Lord was seated behind his father's desk. A few of his right-hand Death Eaters were also in the room. He looked faintly approving when he saw Draco step in, but who could really tell? His twisted face could hardly be held to human standards.

"Ah, Draco. Have you done what I asked?"

"Yes, my lord."

The Dark Lord seemed to be waiting for him to elaborate, and raised his eyebrow when he didn't. Draco was reminded in a flash of Dumbledore. The similarities between the two men were suddenly clear and sickening: the poised, relaxed posture of a teacher, the patronising edge in their tone when speaking to Draco, the loftiness and air of dangerous wisdom. He shuddered slightly, hoping the Dark Lord wouldn't notice.

"Spit it out, Draco," Bellatrix leered from her stance beside her master. "Merlin, you're such a baby. Is Nott's snivelling son the traitor or not?"

"Bella," the Dark Lord warned. "Patience."

She drew back, reluctant but chastised.

"Don't be afraid, Draco. Speak." His words were sharp as swords, his tone inviting but dangerous.

Draco's cheeks burned. "I confronted Theodore, my lord. He told me—" His throat worked, but no sound came out. "I learned that—"

Why wouldn't his voice work? Why did his mouth suddenly taste ashy, why was he hesitating? He heard the snickering of the senior Death Eaters in the background, the derisive giggle of his aunt. He clenched his jaw in anger and humiliation.

Theo isn't your friend anymore, he reminded himself. He's a blood traitor. He's a disgrace to you and to the pureblood inheritance.

"Is he the spy or isn't he, Draco?"

Draco spun. It was his father's voice. In the agitation of the moment, he hadn't noticed him standing beside Yaxley, cloaked in Death Eater garb. He was glaring at his son, something blazing in his frigid grey eyes. There was an edge in his voice, the weight of meaning behind the way he said his name. Draco was eleven years old again, desperate to please his father, engrossed in his tales of pureblood doctrine and dancing on a set of strings in his childish hope of approval.

He found that he wasn't shivering anymore. "He's the spy," he said. "He told me so."

Although he knew it was coming, Draco still winced as the Dark Lord's presence pierced through his Occlumency walls to pry into his consciousness. His memories were suddenly on display in his mind's eye, and he saw him and Theo sitting down in the muted glow of the Three Broomsticks, the sheen of frost on the drinks as clear as the passion in Theo's eyes.

Facades, Draco. We all maintain one, anyway. What's an extra layer of it?

You're in with the Order.