current Minister's most harped upon policy was to push for greater integration among the various members of the magical community, it seemed especially hypocritical for Arthur to render a potentially influential young man like Draco Malfoy alienated and subject to the whims of an unstable convict.
In the right hands, the boy was liable to be as valuable asset.
"This is taking too long," Draco muttered. They had in fact, been waiting for only seven minutes, for all that it felt like an hour.
"You do know what happened out there, don't you?" Draco asked quietly. He was used to Snape knowing about everything. Not that Snape usually divulged what he knew on request. Draco was no fool. He understood well enough that sometimes to be ignorant meant to be protected.
Snape said nothing, thought the slight narrowing of his eyes spoke volumes. Of course I know, you impudent whelp, but that doesn' t men always mean I' m going to tell you.
All the Slytherins were well aware of their Head of House's somewhat dubious reputation in the community. While he might have lacked the squeaky-clean image of, say, Minerva McGonagall or Filius Flitwick, he more than made up for it with dark influence and force of personality. His methods were unorthodox, granted, but when a student had a serious enough problem to approach Snape, he usually managed to solve it.
"Then can you at least explain to me how, in the name of all that is magical, did Mosmorde change into the blasted Malfoy dragon?" Draco persisted.
Unfortunately, he was left to wonder if his godfather was privy to that bit information as well, due to Ron and Hermione finally emerging from the entrance of Dumbledore's office. Lupin came down the steps behind them, supporting a shaky-looking Millicent.
Millicent took one look at Draco before bursting into noisy tears.
"Mill" Draco chided. The girl had lost an aunt, uncle and two female cousins the previous year in a botched Death Eater capture attempt and had never quite regained her usual, iron-hulled composure.
"I' ll take Millicent downstairs, Severus," Lupin said quietly. "You follow Draco in, they're asking for him now."
Granger, meanwhile, seemed entirely ignorant of the fact that it was rude to stare. Draco made a point of looking right through her bushy head.
I'm not one of your lost, little ducklings. Go play mother to Wealsey.
She kept on looking at him, the tiny frown line on the smooth patch of skin between her eyebrows became more pronounced. Draco glanced down at her injured hand, noting that someone had given her a hanky to wrap around it. Lupin, probably. Or Dumbledore. It was unlikely to have been Weasley, who tended to oblivious to life in general.
Weasley took hold of her arm then, and dragged her along. He was obviously eager to get going. Draco could hardly blame him.
"Come on, Hermione," he said, tugging with renewed urgency. Draco thought that Granger might have taken issue to being treated like a slow-to-respond pack mule, but she allowed herself to be led away.
It might have been his imagination again, but Draco thought he saw something different, something new in Wealsey's eyes when the Gryffindor twat had looked at him. There was loathing and suspicion, of course. That was nothing new. Weasley always looked at him as if he thought wealth and good table manners was a catching, lethal disease.
But today, there was also fear.
Draco was startled to discover he didn't care for that all.
Chapter Twelve
The large circular room that was Dumbledore's Office remained mostly unchanged since Draco had last been there. It was cluttered as usual, but Draco had always found it to be a pleasant clutter.
The decor spoke of a man who had experienced much in his many years; one who had accumulated a vast repository of memories that he chose to remind himself of, through the many possessions that he kept for display and tinkering.
Fawkes the Phoenix was conspicuously absent, likely on a personal errand somewhere for Dumbledore. The Sorting Hat sat on the shelf behind Dumbledore's claw-footed desk was looking rather faded and woebegone. To Draco's left, the portrait of Phineas Black was staring beadily at him.
"Looking more and more like your father every day, boy," commented the portrait of the former Headmaster.
"Thanks," muttered Draco, who was by now quite used to hearing the comment.
There were five people looking at him rather seriously. Dumbledore was noticeably less jovial but gave him a reassuring smile, nonetheless. Alastor Moody and Horatio Coon looked to be in the middle of