Chapter 216 - I Don't Know

Draco kept his head down, silent.

His Occlumency was excellent, because he was used to running away. When he encountered something frightening, he fled. When danger appeared, he hid behind Praeris. When faced with something he couldn't resolve, he invoked his father's name. When forced to do something he had to do but couldn't, he suppressed his feelings and walled them off entirely.

By all logic, a bastard would never admit he's a bastard. But Draco was no longer that malicious, willful version of himself. His world had turned upside down, gradually becoming something he could never have imagined.

These days, Draco was still struggling to maintain his precarious pride. But who could blame him, when the other person in this compartment was Praeris?

Draco couldn't bring himself to kill Dumbledore. Even after his father was released from prison, nothing improved. Their family was still looked down upon by the other Death Eaters.

Voldemort killed without a second thought. They had followed the wrong leader, and at any moment they could die a sloppy, insignificant death, just like Professor Burbage, just like those Death Eaters who had made mistakes.

And now Dumbledore was dead too.

Anyone who opposed Voldemort had to die. Even if that person was Dumbledore.

He looked up. There had never been any good choices in this world. Every path was lined with thorns.

Praeris didn't sit down. She stood beside the table, gave him a long look, and reached back to slide the compartment door open.

2 seconds later, the trolley witch stopped at their doorway. She smiled warmly and said, "Anything off the cart, dears?"

"Cake and pasties, please," Praeris said. "Thank you."

Praeris handed over the coins, then closed the compartment door, turned, and set everything down beside Draco.

Draco slowly raised his head. His pale eyes tracked her hand. He heard Praeris say, "Eat something."

Then: "You've grown thin."

Physical labor drained a person just as much as mental labor, and the weight of dread consumed something deeper still. Over the past year, Draco had borne all three at once.

Aside from his mother, only Praeris cared about what he had been through. The defenses Draco had spent days building crumbled in a single moment. He wasn't hungry, but he picked up the pumpkin pasty anyway and began to chew, slowly.

Praeris used magic to divide the cauldron cake into 8 pieces and set one in front of Draco.

Draco stared at it. Then he said, "Charity Burbage is dead."

Praeris stopped what she was doing. She blinked, and said quietly, "You saw it."

"I saw it." He repeated her words back. His jaw kept moving, mechanically working through the pasty.

Professor Burbage had been the Muggle Studies teacher. Praeris had taken her class once.

But Praeris had lived in the Muggle world. She understood Muggles far better than Burbage did. So she dropped the course.

Burbage had been fascinated by Praeris's knowledge and kept up a correspondence with her for a long time after. Later, when Burbage wrote a paper on the magical modification of Muggle technological objects, she wanted to include Praeris's name. Praeris declined.

Now Draco was saying Professor Burbage was dead.

She had died quietly, without a sound.

Every year at this season, robins fly south. They return the following spring. But few people know that some robins never come back.

Draco had never met Burbage. But he had seen her name, on Praeris's parchment.

Fifteen-year-old Draco had said, dismissive: "What's even worth studying about Muggles?"

"The Hogwarts Express was taken from Muggles," fifteen-year-old Praeris had replied, perfectly composed. "Stella told me the Ministry has lifts. Those are a Muggle invention too."

"You're taking Care of Magical Creatures, aren't you? There are so many magical creatures in this world, and we spend time studying them. We protect them, and we make use of them."

"Muggles are the same. There are so many of them in this world. Why not study them, learn from them, and find where the profit lies?"

Draco had scoffed. He couldn't find a way to argue back, so he went back to tinkering with his gadgets.

As he worked, it occurred to him, without really meaning to think it, that his violin was Muggle-made.

Why did their family's storage room have Muggle things in it? Had his ancestors studied Muggles, the way Burbage and Praeris did? Had they gone further, even, actually collaborated with them?

He didn't even need to reach back to his ancestors. He had already used what he'd learned to repair a magical device converted from a Muggle object. He had just never realized it until that moment.

The thought unsettled him. It ran against everything his family stood for. But nothing bad came of it, and eventually the whole thing faded from his mind.

After that, Draco remembered the name Burbage. The Muggle Studies professor. A subject he had never taken.

At the Dark Lord's meeting, Draco saw Professor Burbage in person for the first time.

It was also the last.

In the moment she was tortured, in the moment she died, the violin that wasn't even in the room played "The Murder" somewhere inside his chest, frantic and urgent, and his heart hammered against his ribs.

He couldn't explain what it felt like. He only knew he was quick and practiced at burying it, so he let himself look startled, nothing more than a boy unsettled by watching someone die in front of him.

This was the fate of anyone who opposed the Dark Lord.

Blood status made no difference. It didn't matter whether you were as powerful as Dumbledore or as powerless as Professor Burbage. If you stood in his way, you died.

Praeris was doing dangerous things. She was secretly working against Voldemort, quietly supporting the other side. If things went wrong, she could drag Draco down with her. She could put his parents at risk.

His rational mind had been circling this for a long time. He had told himself he should distance himself from her, let her believe he was a bastard who wasn't worth the trouble. But every time Praeris opened her mouth, he fell apart. Even the instinct to survive took a quiet step back.

"You—" Draco's gaze shifted. He spoke very low. "Dumbledore is already dead. Harry Potter has no chance. The Dark Lord won't spare anyone who opposes him!"

His voice trembled. "Praeris. Stay away from them. Please."

"No, Draco." Praeris reached out her left hand and gently cupped the left side of his jaw. "If I say that — will you leave me?"

The end of the train car was very quiet. Only the rhythm of wheels against the rails.

Draco said nothing. His reason and his heart were fighting, and his heart was beating reason bloody, yet somewhere in the wreckage reason still managed to scream: Do you want to get yourself killed?!

Praeris lowered her hand. Draco's head moved forward on instinct, just slightly, then he caught himself, realized what he was doing, and pulled back, a flicker of awkwardness crossing his face.

Praeris gave a soft laugh.

"It's alright," she said gently. "I understand you. If you want to end things—"

"I don't agree!" The words were out before he could stop them.

CRACK. Reason went down and didn't get up.

Praeris was genuinely surprised. She had been about to warn him, actually, to tell him not to let her catch him getting close with other girls while she was still breathing.

But Draco's instinctive answer had outpaced her. It moved faster than even Praeris's extraordinary ability to read a situation, fast enough to catch her off guard.

"Aren't you afraid?" she asked.

Draco said nothing.

He was afraid. He just didn't want to admit it.

He was afraid. He just didn't want to leave Praeris.

If Praeris had no one, she would have said yes to what he was asking. But she still had Winnie. She had Ms. Prewett. She had Professor Snape.

"I can't promise you what you're asking," Praeris said. Her dark eyes stayed fixed on him. "Do you still want to be with me? Don't answer on impulse. This isn't something you can decide lightly. And whatever you choose — I won't resent you for it."

Draco put his head in his hands and exhaled, slow and pained.

Praeris couldn't bear to see him like this. But she had to. This was the path she had chosen, her path, not his. Draco had no reason to carry grief that wasn't his to carry.

If he had to suffer, she wanted it to be now. Better this than the possibility of something far worse, later.

Draco looked at her, almost pleading. "Praeris. You're so clever. Tell me, is the path you've chosen certain to succeed?"

"I don't know." Praeris's voice was very calm. "Draco, I don't know. Some paths aren't chosen because they're certain to succeed. They're chosen because they have to be taken."

If it had been her from a few years ago, she would have said it differently. She would have said: Because I chose this path, it will succeed.

But this was Draco. She owed him more than that. She couldn't allow herself to be careless with his life, not even through pride.

No matter how cowardly a person is, they can become a little braver for the one they love. No matter how confident a person is, they can become careful for the one they love.

Praeris dared to walk into Malfoy Manor in the dark and destroy Voldemort's Horcrux and his beloved pet in the heart of his own stronghold. But she couldn't say a single certain word to Draco.

A long time seemed to pass. Finally, Draco spoke.

"Praeris. I don't know either."

It had been this way since Voldemort came back. Draco was contradictory. Gray. Not righteous, but not a thorough villain either. He was an overcast day, unclear and dim, the kind that couldn't quite decide what it was.

"Then we don't know," Praeris said, easy and unhurried. "Draco, most of the time I don't have a clear answer either. I'm just always doing what I believe I should do."

---

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

After Yaxley spotted them, Harry and Hermione's first instinct was to grab Ron and Disapparate to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

But Yaxley's hand caught Hermione, and she couldn't shake him. So all 4 of them arrived at the old house together.

The old house's Secret-Keeper was Sirius. Yaxley hadn't been given the secret, and the Fidelius Charm held him out.

"We have a problem." Winnie came downstairs, her expression grave. "Those Death Eaters are watching the house from around Numbers Eleven and Thirteen."

Moody turned on Harry and the others immediately. "What were you doing at the Ministry? Why didn't you tell us?"

"This was a task Dumbledore gave me before he died," Harry said, without hesitating. "I can't tell anyone else."

"If something had gone wrong at the Ministry!" Moody bellowed. "Everything we've done would have been for nothing!"

"But we came back—"

"Except for Ron's arm!" Moody cut him off. "Be grateful it was an arm and not a life!"

Kingsley thought it was time to lower the temperature. "It's lucky Stewart didn't realize something was wrong with them right away."

Moody's magical eye made a full rotation. He stumped back and forth across the room. "Stewart is a clever woman. There's no chance she didn't notice something was off with Harry and the others!"

"So she went to find Umbridge, and couldn't," Kingsley said, grinning. "Ease up, Mad-Eye. She's always deferring to Umbridge, and Harry used Umbridge's orders as his excuse, why would she go against that?"

Moody still had his doubts. But he couldn't find the flaw in it either. What mattered now wasn't figuring out what game Stewart was playing, it was reinforcing the house's protections. The matter was set aside.

Harry wanted to say something. He looked at Hermione.

Hermione shook her head. Harry closed his mouth.

He remembered, from the lower years, that during every Quidditch match that witch was always sitting with Praeris, talking and laughing, the two of them clearly close.

Stewart didn't look much different from her school days. Just harder, somehow. More severe. Harry had almost not recognized her.

That night, the 3 of them put their heads together over the locket.

"I destroyed the diary with a Basilisk fang!" Harry slapped his knee. "That's it, Basilisk venom! Praeris still had some left after she treated Bill!"

Ron let out a low whistle. "Brilliant idea. If you can find her."

Silence.

The last they'd heard from Praeris was the letter she'd sent warning them about the locket's location. They had no way to reach her on their own.

"When she was here, we should have asked her for some venom," Harry said, frustrated.

He wasn't wrong to think it. But Praeris wouldn't have given it to him. Because by that point, she had none left.

To kill Nagini, Praeris had used every last drop of the venom she had. She'd also destroyed a magical dagger in the process.

"When term starts, Praeris will go to Hogwarts," Harry said, still working through it. "Snape is headmaster now, so she, "

"And where exactly would we find her?" Hermione said. "King's Cross Station?"

That was as good as walking into a trap.

"Can Basilisk venom actually destroy Horcruxes?" Ron suddenly lifted his head. "Ginny said you killed the Basilisk with the Sword of Gryffindor!"

➤ Next: Seventh Year Begins