Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Return to Reality
A Slytherin To The Rescue
0 reviews(AU) Harry awakes as a prisoner at the ministry, soon learning he has been under the Imperius curse and life as he thought he knew it never really happened. Knowledge is capricious, reality is tilt...
3Insightful
... ... ... ...
Chapter Four: A Slytherin To The Rescue
... ... ... ...
Harry Potter did not stand a chance - the werewolf was angry.
It had taken a moment to dawn on Remus, for the comprehension to sink in and strike. Of course, given that it was then still very early morning and Harry did share a remarkable resemblance to his father, this was not phenomenal. But it did strike - hard and fast and brutal - and Remus wasted no more time in hurrying to his own defence; for, surely, Harry's stalling could not be more than another deceiving trap, another misleading flight to evil, another harsh, deluded form of betrayal.
He would put nothing past the capabilities of his one-time surrogate nephew.
Remus's wand came with a flick from his wrist, a spell flying from his tongue.
Harry Potter fell to the floor with a thump, surprise and desertion still clear in his eyes.
... ... ... ... ...
Draco Malfoy fell to the floor with a thump, surprise and desertion still clear in his eyes. The cold stone walls of his old home, the lavish extravagance and the blatant wealth exhibiting his ancient heredity, gave no comfort like they once had, only simple relief. Relief to be away from his Master and relief to be away from his fellow Death Eaters. He breathed hard, easing damp cloth from where it stuck to his chest and forcing clammy muscles to operate. He leant back on the wall, the stone echoing his hurried heartbeat, drumming his hammered breath.
There were three things that Draco most despised, rising high above all others. Muggles, simply because of their own idiocy. Gryffindors, simply because of their own idiocy. And his actions towards Harry Potter, simply because of his own idiocy, the thought of his one time friend making his skin crawl.
And as the consideration of such entered his mind, the latest mission triggered pure terror to burn in his throat, fighting to escape and ready to erupt at any given opportunity.
It had been a long two years back, when Draco had made the honourable decision, done the greatest thing for his family, and sold his best friend out to the Dark Lord. He had then, for a short time, felt a little guilty. Just a trifling. But Harry had come back, and they were allowed to be close again - only Harry wasn't exactly the same. And Draco knew deep down that it was his fault. His failing. His own miserable downfall to the road of self destruction he now lead.
No matter how many times Draco told himself otherwise, Harry would never be the same again, and as consequence neither would he.
But the illusions, the deceitful security of drugs and alcohol, had helped Draco retreat. For a short time he thought he might just be able to live with himself in the dream world. A fantasy land. A vain chimera. A futile mirage. So many words for the one ultimate deception, and only to oneself. His father was not pleased.
Anything to escape reality.
Now another task was before him, another great deed to accomplish set forth by his wondrous Master, and Draco wished nothing more than to die at the mere conception.
At least do it, and hopefully die trying.
Failure was not an option, a word unfamiliar to His ears.
Because Lord Voldemort always got what he wanted. And if he wanted Draco to find Harry Potter, then he would attempt it. He would capture Harry Potter and he would bring the dratted Harry Potter back. Back to what, though? To torture? To death? Or, worse still, to carry on -fixed- like he had been before. A robot. A slave. A killing machine. Just like Draco was set to become. Though, admittedly, Draco had had a choice in the matter, and what he became was from his own free-will. It had been his decision, and that was what made the difference.
Still, Harry's wellbeing wasn't Draco's problem. He had let his friend down once, and once too much, but the Harry he had known was long dead, only an empty shell of his former self living on.
It was in the past, there was nothing he could do. Harry wouldn't even remember. It would be a hard enough role in itself to get the stubborn brat to believe that they were once friends, and the best of such. There was no prospect of that friendship ever being rekindled again, not that Draco had any desire to make it so - not if Harry ever learnt how and who was responsible for his demise to murderer. But, Draco thought, his mind pouncing on any notion that may join and unite his misgivings, there may be a way to kill the owl with one spell, even if it was contradictory to his longing.
He would do as his Master asked, there was no question on that. But perhaps he may restore himself somewhat towards the injured friendship, give Harry a leg up with the knowledge to lead his own life and make his own decisions - to be free once more.
Or, perhaps not precisely free, but to understand what had happened to him, and leave Draco of the weighty guilt he had begrudgingly been carrying. Though, of course, after he had been safely delivered to the Dark Lord. Mayhap Harry would be killed by Lord Voldemort's hand then - but he wouldn't get his hopes up just yet.
Because, really, Draco told himself again - and again he almost believed it - he hadn't had a choice in turning Harry in. So it wasn't his solecism. Not really. Not exactly. And, Draco brightened, any way of even slightly helping Harry would be of great effort and complication on his part, and therefore a very great deed. Harry should be thanking him, really.
Such a task was very daunting, he would readily confess, and it was fortunate that Draco was his fathers son; spies, leaks, leeches and all. The crumpled paper in his hand was damp with sweat, the untidy scrawl blurred, but the blond could not bring himself to look at the words. Because then he would know, and there would be no going back, not if he wanted to stay true to his new resolution. And, if he were to be honest, he was high sick of lying to himself - because it only worked if you had faith in your own words.
In a dash of courage, foolery and stupidity, his eyes snatched a look, darting quickly down and up again. He jaw clenched. His gut twisted. His stomach wrenched. The burning terror took flight from his throat and consumed him, mind, body and soul.
12 Grimmald Place.
Draco Malfoy could not believe his ill luck.
... ... ... ... ...
Sirius Black could not believe his ill luck. He had survived it all in his lifetime, all the efforts of the Seven Deadly Sins in countless evil ploughed against him, and he had remained standing tall and determined, for that matter (if he did say so himself) very handsomely so. But for once, for the first time in years, something good had triumphed over the All Hell world they lived in. His Godson had been delivered to him again.
And Sirius couldn't keep his eyes off the boy.
Remus was on his fifth cup of coffee, pacing back and forth, his disjointed rambling the only thing keeping Sirius from screaming in titillation, jumping up and down and dancing, naked, around his parents old bedroom.
What a funny picture they would look anyhow, Sirius mused, the two of them dressed in their pyjamas, hair wild and frazzled, eyes a constant fix on Harry, who lay unconscious in Sirius' bed. Upon close inspection, and Sirius did indeed have his nose pressed up right near, perched on the edge of the enormous bed and practically lying on top of Harry, his Godson looked dreadful.
Dark circles around his closed eyes were almost purple, his skin a harshly contrasting pale, and cheek bones far more prominent than they had been before. Dirty, messy black hair was getting longer and the once lean had diminished to too thin. But he was still Harry. Sirius' eyes darted to his left arm, to where he knew a Mark would be hidden under the over-large trench coat, but he didn't venture to look. Sincerely, he didn't want to know. He didn't want to remember.
For a moment he pretended that it was a scene out of their lives before Harry had left, and a bubbling, queasy longing spread through his chest. He busied himself tucking warm covers over his Godson, spreading an array of blankets over the dirty figure.
Sirius should have spent the moment getting prepared, knowing that it couldn't last, and Remus' words of reason would eventually take president on the situation.
"We should tell Dumbledore - Someone, anyone ... James. We owe it to him, he deserves to know first. And we'll have to hand Harry in to the Ministry, eventually. Yes. You don't think they'll track him here, do you? And why, Sirius? Why did he show up on my doorstep? Was he there to kill me - or, faced in the position he now sits, did he actually believe I could possibly help redeem him?"
"Still, you need not have stunned him so hard," Sirius glared half-heartedly at his friend, grey eyes twitching, itching, towards his wand. "He'll be out cold for hours, unless we intervene."
"No, Sirius, don't even think of it."
Sirius pouted.
"You're being ridiculous."
"Me?" Sirius snorted indignantly. "I just want to help the boy!"
"Waking him now while we're still in indecision is not a good idea," Remus growled, sitting opposite Sirius on the bed and burying his face into his hands. "Besides," he carried on, his voice tight and angry, "he strayed far beyond our help when he sided with the Dark."
Sirius was dumbfounded. "You can't just give up!"
Amber eyes flashed. "Yes, I can. And Sirius, Padfoot," Remus stopped, pleading in his voice. "Please, try to be realistic. The things he has done are inexcusable. There is a reason the unforgivable's are named so."
"I don't deny it!"
"Then what? What can possibly be done for him now?! Harry has got himself into slightly more than a 'pickle' this time. There's nothing much we can do - just say our own farewells and ..."
"And what?"
"Let the inevitable take place."
"That attitude certainly wont do anyone any favours," Sirius spat, his gaze flocking back to the comatose Potter.
"Nor will your denial! What can you possibly wish for?" Remus asked, his voice rising. "That he'll miraculously awake to be his old self? That he wont break your heart, stomp on it and shove it up your arse? Do you want an /apology/? For Harry to admit he was wrong and be sorry for it!?"
"That might help, yes."
Remus sighed, his anger subsiding in a jolt to gloom. "It's very unlikely, I just want you to realise that."
"I do," Sirius replied, still snappish.
"And what the Healer said ... what Kingsley said ..."
"They could be wrong."
"Hmph."
"You doubt it? Why?"
Remus frowned, looking too at Harry's worn face. He looked older, much older then he should have. "I don't know. I never know what to believe any more."
Harry stirred, shifting in his dreams, and they both fell silent.
"Send word to Lily and James," Sirius said with a nod. "It's their right to decide what to do anyway ... and when to do it."
"I just," Remus frowned. "I don't want him to hurt them. Again. They're too fragile, just being with Harry again might well destroy everything they've built since ..." Remus stopped, looking sheepish and rolling his shoulders, rising from the bed just as Harry shifted again. His wand was out, ready at hand, without him even thinking.
Sirius glared. Remus huffed. Harry shuffled.
Sirius' fingers began to tremble uncontrollably, and he couldn't help but laugh - loudly. Far too loudly. Two years of praying for this day, when Harry would come back to them, yet never in his wildest dreams had he predicted their reunion to be quite like this. For one, Harry hadn't exactly returned willingly, and for another there was the sorry absence of tears, tantrums, hugs and tissues.
Harry moaned, his arms slowly moving upwards to rub at tired eyes. "Finally," Sirius whispered, as if speaking softly could compensate for his earlier barking cackle, "we'll know everything."
Remus let a small grin escape him.
Slowly, a bright green eye opened. Then another. And Harry blinked once, twice, his stare moving slowly from Remus, to Sirius, to Remus, then back to Sirius. Then they widened, horrified. It couldn't be ...
Sirius Black was thrilled, petrified and distraught. Dare he hope?
... ... ... ... ...
Lily Potter was thrilled, petrified and distraught. Dare she hope?
When the owl had fluttered through the open bedroom window she had been hesitant, no /unwilling/, to open the attached letter at all. James had turned to fire-whisky as recent events had come to pass, but Lily just wanted to be left alone. And never in her life had she imagined three short sentences could mean so much, could bring such delight, and turn her life around so instantly.
The 'Most Wanted' Prongslet enjoys his containment at the Noble House, just awoken. Professor Dumbass is not informed. Any Potheads are very welcome, but bring you're own biscuits.
Padfoot.
She got up from her seat, quite calmly, and ran -hysterical- as fast as she could, searching her mind frantically for a sobering charm. "James!"
Lily hopped the steps three at a time, raced down the hallway, through the lounge and out a side door, coming to a skidded halt where her husband drowned his sorrows on the porch.
"JAMES!!"
... ... ... ... ...
"James? As in James Potter?" his voice rose and fell softly, stricken.
"The one and only."
Avery shuddered. Snape grinned - if you could call the feral barring of his teeth such.
"When?" he asked.
"Soon." Snape's grin widened. "As soon as you can."
"G..good." Avery stuttered. "I mean ... I'll do it. Give me three days."
"Good."
... ... ... ... ...
"Good," Bellatrix snapped. "He certainly took his time about it!"
"Bella," her sister caressed. "Don't be rash. You may well not like what you find - the poor boy has lost his mind."
"All the more reason for me to pick him up!" Bella spat furiously.
"Draco is fetching him," was Narcissa's cold reply-like command.
Her smile was cruel. "He'd better."
Narcissa simpered. "He /will/."
... ... ... ... ...
"He will," Albus stated to the empty room, his voice barely a whisper. "He has to be. He will be caught."
... ... ... ... ...
"He will be caught, wont he?" There was a quiver of fear in Ron's voice, and he didn't even notice the dribble of jam slide off his toast, landing with a splat on his old, worn pants.
"Who knows," Bill replied, shrugging. "He's escaped us before."
"Bill!" Molly cried, eyeing Ginny, who sat bent over the scrubbed wooden table, a saucepan acting as a substitute for her pillow, her elbow haphazardly squashing the butter dish. Ginny ignored her with a roll of sleepy eyes, intent on the conversation.
"Let's just hope he is caught soon," said George. "I won't be able to sleep in this house again till he is!"
"Whatever he was thinking - " Fred started.
" - coming here in the first place - " continued George.
" - And how he got past the wards? Who knows - " Fred spluttered indignantly.
" - What the boy is capable of." George finished.
... ... ... ... ...
"What the boy is capable of has been proven time and time again ..."
Fudge yawned, eyeing the hefty length of parchment in resentment. He need not read it all, really. No, he'd already spent long enough on the dratted Potter brat - not to mention the bad name he was giving the Ministry, escaping from their clutches with such obvious ease - the Daily Prophet was having a field day.
Another gulp of coffee and the immediate death warrant was signed - five thousand galleons for his head, detached.
Fudge snickered. "And good riddance, if I do say so!"
...pppqqq...
Chapter Four: A Slytherin To The Rescue
... ... ... ...
Harry Potter did not stand a chance - the werewolf was angry.
It had taken a moment to dawn on Remus, for the comprehension to sink in and strike. Of course, given that it was then still very early morning and Harry did share a remarkable resemblance to his father, this was not phenomenal. But it did strike - hard and fast and brutal - and Remus wasted no more time in hurrying to his own defence; for, surely, Harry's stalling could not be more than another deceiving trap, another misleading flight to evil, another harsh, deluded form of betrayal.
He would put nothing past the capabilities of his one-time surrogate nephew.
Remus's wand came with a flick from his wrist, a spell flying from his tongue.
Harry Potter fell to the floor with a thump, surprise and desertion still clear in his eyes.
... ... ... ... ...
Draco Malfoy fell to the floor with a thump, surprise and desertion still clear in his eyes. The cold stone walls of his old home, the lavish extravagance and the blatant wealth exhibiting his ancient heredity, gave no comfort like they once had, only simple relief. Relief to be away from his Master and relief to be away from his fellow Death Eaters. He breathed hard, easing damp cloth from where it stuck to his chest and forcing clammy muscles to operate. He leant back on the wall, the stone echoing his hurried heartbeat, drumming his hammered breath.
There were three things that Draco most despised, rising high above all others. Muggles, simply because of their own idiocy. Gryffindors, simply because of their own idiocy. And his actions towards Harry Potter, simply because of his own idiocy, the thought of his one time friend making his skin crawl.
And as the consideration of such entered his mind, the latest mission triggered pure terror to burn in his throat, fighting to escape and ready to erupt at any given opportunity.
It had been a long two years back, when Draco had made the honourable decision, done the greatest thing for his family, and sold his best friend out to the Dark Lord. He had then, for a short time, felt a little guilty. Just a trifling. But Harry had come back, and they were allowed to be close again - only Harry wasn't exactly the same. And Draco knew deep down that it was his fault. His failing. His own miserable downfall to the road of self destruction he now lead.
No matter how many times Draco told himself otherwise, Harry would never be the same again, and as consequence neither would he.
But the illusions, the deceitful security of drugs and alcohol, had helped Draco retreat. For a short time he thought he might just be able to live with himself in the dream world. A fantasy land. A vain chimera. A futile mirage. So many words for the one ultimate deception, and only to oneself. His father was not pleased.
Anything to escape reality.
Now another task was before him, another great deed to accomplish set forth by his wondrous Master, and Draco wished nothing more than to die at the mere conception.
At least do it, and hopefully die trying.
Failure was not an option, a word unfamiliar to His ears.
Because Lord Voldemort always got what he wanted. And if he wanted Draco to find Harry Potter, then he would attempt it. He would capture Harry Potter and he would bring the dratted Harry Potter back. Back to what, though? To torture? To death? Or, worse still, to carry on -fixed- like he had been before. A robot. A slave. A killing machine. Just like Draco was set to become. Though, admittedly, Draco had had a choice in the matter, and what he became was from his own free-will. It had been his decision, and that was what made the difference.
Still, Harry's wellbeing wasn't Draco's problem. He had let his friend down once, and once too much, but the Harry he had known was long dead, only an empty shell of his former self living on.
It was in the past, there was nothing he could do. Harry wouldn't even remember. It would be a hard enough role in itself to get the stubborn brat to believe that they were once friends, and the best of such. There was no prospect of that friendship ever being rekindled again, not that Draco had any desire to make it so - not if Harry ever learnt how and who was responsible for his demise to murderer. But, Draco thought, his mind pouncing on any notion that may join and unite his misgivings, there may be a way to kill the owl with one spell, even if it was contradictory to his longing.
He would do as his Master asked, there was no question on that. But perhaps he may restore himself somewhat towards the injured friendship, give Harry a leg up with the knowledge to lead his own life and make his own decisions - to be free once more.
Or, perhaps not precisely free, but to understand what had happened to him, and leave Draco of the weighty guilt he had begrudgingly been carrying. Though, of course, after he had been safely delivered to the Dark Lord. Mayhap Harry would be killed by Lord Voldemort's hand then - but he wouldn't get his hopes up just yet.
Because, really, Draco told himself again - and again he almost believed it - he hadn't had a choice in turning Harry in. So it wasn't his solecism. Not really. Not exactly. And, Draco brightened, any way of even slightly helping Harry would be of great effort and complication on his part, and therefore a very great deed. Harry should be thanking him, really.
Such a task was very daunting, he would readily confess, and it was fortunate that Draco was his fathers son; spies, leaks, leeches and all. The crumpled paper in his hand was damp with sweat, the untidy scrawl blurred, but the blond could not bring himself to look at the words. Because then he would know, and there would be no going back, not if he wanted to stay true to his new resolution. And, if he were to be honest, he was high sick of lying to himself - because it only worked if you had faith in your own words.
In a dash of courage, foolery and stupidity, his eyes snatched a look, darting quickly down and up again. He jaw clenched. His gut twisted. His stomach wrenched. The burning terror took flight from his throat and consumed him, mind, body and soul.
12 Grimmald Place.
Draco Malfoy could not believe his ill luck.
... ... ... ... ...
Sirius Black could not believe his ill luck. He had survived it all in his lifetime, all the efforts of the Seven Deadly Sins in countless evil ploughed against him, and he had remained standing tall and determined, for that matter (if he did say so himself) very handsomely so. But for once, for the first time in years, something good had triumphed over the All Hell world they lived in. His Godson had been delivered to him again.
And Sirius couldn't keep his eyes off the boy.
Remus was on his fifth cup of coffee, pacing back and forth, his disjointed rambling the only thing keeping Sirius from screaming in titillation, jumping up and down and dancing, naked, around his parents old bedroom.
What a funny picture they would look anyhow, Sirius mused, the two of them dressed in their pyjamas, hair wild and frazzled, eyes a constant fix on Harry, who lay unconscious in Sirius' bed. Upon close inspection, and Sirius did indeed have his nose pressed up right near, perched on the edge of the enormous bed and practically lying on top of Harry, his Godson looked dreadful.
Dark circles around his closed eyes were almost purple, his skin a harshly contrasting pale, and cheek bones far more prominent than they had been before. Dirty, messy black hair was getting longer and the once lean had diminished to too thin. But he was still Harry. Sirius' eyes darted to his left arm, to where he knew a Mark would be hidden under the over-large trench coat, but he didn't venture to look. Sincerely, he didn't want to know. He didn't want to remember.
For a moment he pretended that it was a scene out of their lives before Harry had left, and a bubbling, queasy longing spread through his chest. He busied himself tucking warm covers over his Godson, spreading an array of blankets over the dirty figure.
Sirius should have spent the moment getting prepared, knowing that it couldn't last, and Remus' words of reason would eventually take president on the situation.
"We should tell Dumbledore - Someone, anyone ... James. We owe it to him, he deserves to know first. And we'll have to hand Harry in to the Ministry, eventually. Yes. You don't think they'll track him here, do you? And why, Sirius? Why did he show up on my doorstep? Was he there to kill me - or, faced in the position he now sits, did he actually believe I could possibly help redeem him?"
"Still, you need not have stunned him so hard," Sirius glared half-heartedly at his friend, grey eyes twitching, itching, towards his wand. "He'll be out cold for hours, unless we intervene."
"No, Sirius, don't even think of it."
Sirius pouted.
"You're being ridiculous."
"Me?" Sirius snorted indignantly. "I just want to help the boy!"
"Waking him now while we're still in indecision is not a good idea," Remus growled, sitting opposite Sirius on the bed and burying his face into his hands. "Besides," he carried on, his voice tight and angry, "he strayed far beyond our help when he sided with the Dark."
Sirius was dumbfounded. "You can't just give up!"
Amber eyes flashed. "Yes, I can. And Sirius, Padfoot," Remus stopped, pleading in his voice. "Please, try to be realistic. The things he has done are inexcusable. There is a reason the unforgivable's are named so."
"I don't deny it!"
"Then what? What can possibly be done for him now?! Harry has got himself into slightly more than a 'pickle' this time. There's nothing much we can do - just say our own farewells and ..."
"And what?"
"Let the inevitable take place."
"That attitude certainly wont do anyone any favours," Sirius spat, his gaze flocking back to the comatose Potter.
"Nor will your denial! What can you possibly wish for?" Remus asked, his voice rising. "That he'll miraculously awake to be his old self? That he wont break your heart, stomp on it and shove it up your arse? Do you want an /apology/? For Harry to admit he was wrong and be sorry for it!?"
"That might help, yes."
Remus sighed, his anger subsiding in a jolt to gloom. "It's very unlikely, I just want you to realise that."
"I do," Sirius replied, still snappish.
"And what the Healer said ... what Kingsley said ..."
"They could be wrong."
"Hmph."
"You doubt it? Why?"
Remus frowned, looking too at Harry's worn face. He looked older, much older then he should have. "I don't know. I never know what to believe any more."
Harry stirred, shifting in his dreams, and they both fell silent.
"Send word to Lily and James," Sirius said with a nod. "It's their right to decide what to do anyway ... and when to do it."
"I just," Remus frowned. "I don't want him to hurt them. Again. They're too fragile, just being with Harry again might well destroy everything they've built since ..." Remus stopped, looking sheepish and rolling his shoulders, rising from the bed just as Harry shifted again. His wand was out, ready at hand, without him even thinking.
Sirius glared. Remus huffed. Harry shuffled.
Sirius' fingers began to tremble uncontrollably, and he couldn't help but laugh - loudly. Far too loudly. Two years of praying for this day, when Harry would come back to them, yet never in his wildest dreams had he predicted their reunion to be quite like this. For one, Harry hadn't exactly returned willingly, and for another there was the sorry absence of tears, tantrums, hugs and tissues.
Harry moaned, his arms slowly moving upwards to rub at tired eyes. "Finally," Sirius whispered, as if speaking softly could compensate for his earlier barking cackle, "we'll know everything."
Remus let a small grin escape him.
Slowly, a bright green eye opened. Then another. And Harry blinked once, twice, his stare moving slowly from Remus, to Sirius, to Remus, then back to Sirius. Then they widened, horrified. It couldn't be ...
Sirius Black was thrilled, petrified and distraught. Dare he hope?
... ... ... ... ...
Lily Potter was thrilled, petrified and distraught. Dare she hope?
When the owl had fluttered through the open bedroom window she had been hesitant, no /unwilling/, to open the attached letter at all. James had turned to fire-whisky as recent events had come to pass, but Lily just wanted to be left alone. And never in her life had she imagined three short sentences could mean so much, could bring such delight, and turn her life around so instantly.
The 'Most Wanted' Prongslet enjoys his containment at the Noble House, just awoken. Professor Dumbass is not informed. Any Potheads are very welcome, but bring you're own biscuits.
Padfoot.
She got up from her seat, quite calmly, and ran -hysterical- as fast as she could, searching her mind frantically for a sobering charm. "James!"
Lily hopped the steps three at a time, raced down the hallway, through the lounge and out a side door, coming to a skidded halt where her husband drowned his sorrows on the porch.
"JAMES!!"
... ... ... ... ...
"James? As in James Potter?" his voice rose and fell softly, stricken.
"The one and only."
Avery shuddered. Snape grinned - if you could call the feral barring of his teeth such.
"When?" he asked.
"Soon." Snape's grin widened. "As soon as you can."
"G..good." Avery stuttered. "I mean ... I'll do it. Give me three days."
"Good."
... ... ... ... ...
"Good," Bellatrix snapped. "He certainly took his time about it!"
"Bella," her sister caressed. "Don't be rash. You may well not like what you find - the poor boy has lost his mind."
"All the more reason for me to pick him up!" Bella spat furiously.
"Draco is fetching him," was Narcissa's cold reply-like command.
Her smile was cruel. "He'd better."
Narcissa simpered. "He /will/."
... ... ... ... ...
"He will," Albus stated to the empty room, his voice barely a whisper. "He has to be. He will be caught."
... ... ... ... ...
"He will be caught, wont he?" There was a quiver of fear in Ron's voice, and he didn't even notice the dribble of jam slide off his toast, landing with a splat on his old, worn pants.
"Who knows," Bill replied, shrugging. "He's escaped us before."
"Bill!" Molly cried, eyeing Ginny, who sat bent over the scrubbed wooden table, a saucepan acting as a substitute for her pillow, her elbow haphazardly squashing the butter dish. Ginny ignored her with a roll of sleepy eyes, intent on the conversation.
"Let's just hope he is caught soon," said George. "I won't be able to sleep in this house again till he is!"
"Whatever he was thinking - " Fred started.
" - coming here in the first place - " continued George.
" - And how he got past the wards? Who knows - " Fred spluttered indignantly.
" - What the boy is capable of." George finished.
... ... ... ... ...
"What the boy is capable of has been proven time and time again ..."
Fudge yawned, eyeing the hefty length of parchment in resentment. He need not read it all, really. No, he'd already spent long enough on the dratted Potter brat - not to mention the bad name he was giving the Ministry, escaping from their clutches with such obvious ease - the Daily Prophet was having a field day.
Another gulp of coffee and the immediate death warrant was signed - five thousand galleons for his head, detached.
Fudge snickered. "And good riddance, if I do say so!"
...pppqqq...
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