A/N: Hey everyone! Welcome to And Then There Were Nine, a sequel to Now You’re Here, a sequel to Death Eaters Don’t Cry. I think I did pretty well with this one as far as including important background information from the preceding books. All the same, it seems time for a refresher. In the most basic terms I can invent, Draco was taken by his father to join the Death Eaters, but had second thoughts, and escaped. He returned to Hogwarts, where he met his new girlfriend, Alana O’Toule, and learned, much to his horror, that he is, in fact, destined to be the heir to Lord Voldemort. As I said, these are the very bare essentials of the plots, and you’ll have to read the books if you want more information. I would also like to remind you all that liberties are mine. These plots came into being before the printing of The Order of the Phoenix and so I have been forced to ignore some of the points of that story. Percy is not as much of an insufferable git, Bill’s still in Egypt poking around tombs, and Fleur is still in France. Anyway, let me delay you no longer. Read on!

Yours forever, Tsona

Special thanks is given to my lovely beta, wolfy 65, who has been a very loyal friend throughout all this. Her newest fic is called Perfect By Nature. I’d like to recommend to all of you, particularly those who may grow weary of these reformed Draco stories.

When the stars threw down their spears,

And water’d heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

--William Blake, “The Tyger”

“Draco! Draco, where are you!”

The exasperated voice of Mrs. Weasley washed over Draco Malfoy, igniting a small match inside him. He crawled deeper into the brush of the overgrown garden and curled up against that hated voice. He’d been up before dawn and had gone out into the garden to watch the sun rise, lessening from a deep blood red to the dull yellow everyone else knew. He was always up before dawn. It was a habit born of a keen adoration of unhampered silence.

“Draco!”

Draco rolled his eyes in vexation. Mrs. Weasley was coming nearer. She would spot him soon and here the bush was too thick for him to wiggle in any further. He’d been with the Weasleys for a little over two weeks now and every day it was the same. Every day he hid further away trying to escape them.

“Draco.” Mrs. Weasley’s rounded face peered down at him, her body masked by the stretch of verdant leaves that stood between them.

“Come on. Your breakfast is getting cold,” she told him in what she obviously believed to be a kindly, motherly sort of voice. Much as she tried, however, she couldn’t hide her hatred of him.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Draco spat, crawling out from amid the brambles.

“Because,” Mrs. Weasley returned, “we promised Dumbledore we’d--”

“Keep an eye on me,” Draco finished for her in a drone. This was always her response to that question. He wished she’d find a better answer or even just another way of wording it.

“That’s right,” she said approvingly. “Now, up to the house with you and wash up.” She chivvied him back toward the lopsided Burrow.

The house was built on what had once been an old, stone pigsty with floors added here and there till it stood at a height that Draco thought ought not to have been permitted. The many layers were quite distinguishable, each having been made with whatever materials were cheapest at the time of their purchase. Mrs. Weasley pushed him all the way to the flimsy back door, which she opened to release the tempting aromas of her cooking.

The conversation inside the tiny kitchen stopped abruptly as he entered. The rest of the family, all redheaded, wearing pajamas, and looking slightly uncomfortable, was grouped around a scrubbed, wooden table, laden with platters. It was obvious they had just been having another one of their debates about him. They frequently had these discussions and Draco knew it. All of the Weasley children detested him with good reason. He had often heard them trying to convince their parents of the opinion. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley both repeated firmly every time one of these arguments arose that Draco was staying and they had all best try and accept the circumstances.

“Hands,” Mrs. Weasley repeated, breaking through his train of thought and giving him a final push in the small of the back.

Draco gave the Weasley family a reproving glare before marching up the uneven stairs to the bathroom sink. How he hated them! Every last one of them! Would they never relent? And yet he knew he couldn’t complain about it. Perhaps it was that knowledge that made him all the more bitter. He would have to remain at the Burrow for however long Dumbledore decided to hold him there; he had no where else to go save Hell’s fiery caverns. If they were to turn him out, it would be his last defense gone.

Voldemort and his band of Death Eaters were after him and he had little more energy to avoid them. His spirit had finally broken down, despite desperate efforts to keep it intact. He didn’t much care now what happened to him or to anyone else. In fact, he would have welcomed the last breath. He could not even look at himself in the mirror hanging in that cramped bathroom anymore.

He twisted the knob of the sink, forcing the water to come gushing from the faucet’s end. He watched it a moment. It echoed his own pain: a rush of emotions battering against the walls of their porcelain confines.

He stuck his hands beneath the icy jet, shuddering slightly. At least he still knew how to feel. He had been beginning to wonder.

Hands numb and the earth rushing down the drain, Draco returned to the brightly lit kitchen. He sat down and grudgingly accepted the pancakes which Mrs. Weasley passed him. They were cold. He began to cut them apart, feeling as though the steel blade were cutting through him rather than his breakfast.

Mr. Weasley cleared his throat, cutting into the deafening silence which beat upon Draco’s eardrums. “We got another letter from Harry today. And Dumbledore said last night it’d be safe for you to invite him back, Ron.”

Draco’s stomach plummeted. Having to live with the Weasleys was one thing, throw Potter into the mix and he may as well dig himself a grave right now.

“Has Dumbledore said anything else to us?” Fred asked eagerly. He and his twin brother, George, had just this year graduated from Hogwarts’ School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and now expected to be included in everything that went on. Draco knew that the Weasleys were all members of the Order of the Phoenix, an organization established by Hogwarts’ headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, to fight against the rise of the Dark Lord Voldemort. He assumed this was what Fred was referring to. He listened in with an aroused interest.

“Never you mind what Dumbledore’s said,” Mrs. Weasley reprimanded her son sharply. She was not at all ready to let her boys grow up and was clinging desperately to every last authority given her.

“He hasn’t said anything about any of you,” Mr. Weasley told Fred quickly, casting at meaningful glance toward his wife. Obviously, he’d been trying to persuade her that it was time to let go.

Nibbling gingerly on the pancake, Draco listened to the conversation, his piqued regard waning again. The Weasleys were all ignoring him, which was as he liked it. There was little ever said that was of any interest to him.

Mr. Weasley said something about having to go to work (“There was another report of a set of disappearing eyeglasses in Hookset and I promised Perkins I’d go have a look this morning.”) and he, Mrs. Weasley, and the third eldest son, Percy, who also had a job at the Ministry of Magic as Junior Undersecretary to the Minister, left the room.

It was then that Ron spoke to Draco, his voice harsh and demanding. “I don’t suppose you know what they’re not telling us?”

Draco looked up, surveying the boy coldly. Ron was tall and gangly, so that even when he was sitting, he towered over Draco. He had the same brilliant red hair as the rest of his family and a long, freckly nose which was often a little red itself. He, his brothers, and sister were watching him expectantly.

“Of course not,” Draco muttered as Mrs. Weasley returned.

Draco hurried through the rest of the meal in order to avoid further questioning, and was soon climbing the crooked stair to his room. The bedroom the Weasleys allowed him wasn’t far up. It was on the second story, right above Mrs. and Mr. Weasley’s and below Percy’s. Draco assumed they had put him there so as to keep the closest watch possible on him. He didn’t mind though. It was easy to sneak downstairs in the early hours of the morning and Ron, whose bedroom was at the very top of the house, was as far from him as he could have been.

Draco pushed through the door, shutting it firmly behind him. This room had once belonged to the eldest Weasley child, Bill, whom Draco had yet to meet. He was now in Egypt working for the Wizarding bank, Gringotts, as a Curse-Breaker. Draco wondered often what he would say if he knew that a Malfoy was sleeping in his bed.

The room still held Bill’s signatures: The walls were a bright and cheerful yellow, certainly not a color Draco would have agreed to. A poster of an Egyptian pyramid was affixed to one of the otherwise blank walls. Draco found this somewhat tacky adornment rather useful. As an invisible sun rolled slowly across the sky, the structure’s shadow shifted position. The pyramid worked almost like a sundial, correctly revealing the time in Egypt. Though this was, of course, quite the wrong time in Britain, it was still an accurate measure of the passage of time, and Draco had often counted hours by it. Draco had also found some old schoolwork of Bill’s on a shelf in the closet, all bearing near perfect grades, and under a loose floorboard, he had discovered a few treasured items: a Gobstones set, several yellowed love-letters Bill had hidden from his parents, and the letter from Hogwarts announcing Bill’s appointment to Head Boy.

Draco collapsed on the bed, leaned back, sliding his arms beneath his head, and stared up blankly at the ceiling. Anyone looking in would not have seen a troubled soul, but a lounging teenager, a facade he had long ago perfected. This was life at the Burrow. Really, Draco thought as his eyes slid over the rough plaster, searching out its contours, not much different from life at Malfoy Manor. Worse actually. The Manor had been huge and, with a little luck, he could find an undiscovered room to explore. Here he was barred from all rooms save his own, the kitchen, and the living room, and they held no secrets. He had checked.

Draco sighed heavily and rolled over onto his stomach, reaching for an adventure novel Blaise Zabini had lent him for the duration of summer. He carefully slid his fingers along the pages to the spare bit of parchment he was employing as a bookmark and opened it. At this rate, he thought miserably, I’ll be done before the end of July!

A/N: -heavy sigh- I know this is impossibly short and I can almost guarantee the length of the chapters will gradually increase from here on out. However, I accidentally deleted the working copy of this chapter and so had to work instead with the second version, which I had integrated into the first. All in all, though, it’s not so bad. It flows better this way. But, I ramble. My pardons. I’ll leave you to your date with the ‘Go’ button. Thank you for reading, dear reader!

Yours forever, Tsona