A/N: This is the third in a series of stories I have been writing about Draco's trials since the rise of the Dark Lord, the sequel to Tapestries Tear, the sequel to Death Eaters Don't Cry. I began this series in the long hiatus between the release of GoF and OotP, but have been updating it since the release of DH to more closely fit JKR's plot. The first two stories have now been rewritten entirely. I will be posting in the summary of this story how far I have gotten in updating it. A few things you should know before I set you loose to read: Because my plot came into being before I knew where JKR's was headed, there are some things I have been unable to reconcile. Bill is still in Egypt, Fleur is still and France, Umbridge never taught or came to Hogwarts, and because of my personal preference, I have set Malfoy Manor on a point in Northumbria. This story is set in the summer between OotP and HBP. Draco, unable to fulfill the Dark Lord's demands, fled his new headquarters at Durmstrang and returned to Hogwarts in March of 5th year, where he had to battle the Dark Lord's lingering hold on his mind, his cronies, and the distrust of students and staff at Hogwarts. Everything else of importance I think you might discover quickly in the story itself. I hope you enjoy! Let me know if there are points of confusion because I know this plot so well now, it's sometimes hard for me to tell.

Yours forever, Tsona

Dedication: I feel I must put in a new dedication for this updated version of And Then There Were None. TragicSlytherin came not too long ago upon my stories and has been encouraging me with her kind reviews since—not anything too detailed, not usually, but I have appreciated each one as fanfiction readers become less and less frequently, it seems, reviewers. Nothing cheers an author up so much as a review. I even appreciate the flames. So, I put in a plug for myself and for TragicSlytherin. She reviewed my works and, through her reviews, I found her own. I have read them all and they are brilliant! You can now find TragicSlytherin on my favorite authors list. Cheers!

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 had counted the days. Eleven days. It had been eleven days since he had gotten off the train in King's Cross, since he had climbed into a taxi and had spent three and a half hours in a backseat with Ginny pressed on one side, Mrs. Weasley on the other, and the other Weasleys surrounding him in the front and backseats. It had been a supremely uncomfortable trip, with Mrs. Weasley forcing conversation, everyone saying as little as possible. They had talked about classes. They had talked about Ron's O.W.L.s. Mrs. Weasley had pushed Draco till he had admitted that he too had taken the tests and that he, like Ron, couldn't say that he had enjoyed them. They had talked about the twins' N.E.W.T.s. They had talked about none of these things in detail.

After eleven days, the Weasleys had still spoken very little in front of Draco. And he knew why. The Weasleys didn't like him, and the Weasleys didn't trust him. And why should they? Draco himself didn't know how much the Dark Lord could access of his mind. The possibility hadn't seemed to worry Dumbledore, and Dumbledore was a genius, so Draco supposed this ought to have been enough for him, but...

Draco had spent his eleven days miserably. It had taken very few days after his arrival at the Burrow for the mist to creep in, a heavy fog that hung over everything, that made escaping outside of the Burrow walls, even for him, not entirely pleasant. Still, even the fog-ridden garden was more pleasant than the overcrowded house, which seemed all the more crowded as he was met at every corner with contempt.

"Draco!"

Draco pulled his cloak closer about himself. The fog had brought an unseasonable chill with it. It made him lethargic. He felt heavy with it wrapping around his ankles, closing him in its arms. Sometimes it felt as constricting, as deadly as he imagined a Lethifold's grasp to be. He didn't feel like walking far from the Burrow in the fog, as much as he wanted to escape—never mind that he wasn't allowed to go far away. He had given the Weasleys his word that he would stay in sight of the house, in shouting distance at least. He had once tried to wander farther, across the orchards. When Mrs. Weasley had found him, she had been furious, and Draco had stood silently before her, his blood boiling, as she had shouted herself hoarse and had finally extracted the promise that he would remain in sight of the house. And where would he go anyway?

The Dark Lord, the Death Eaters were still hunting him.

"Draco, come inside. Have some breakfast."

Mrs. Weasley was behind him, trying her best to sound kindly, to sound welcoming, but dislike and distrust tainted her tone.

"You don't want me," Draco pointed out. "Why do you bother?"

"We do want you," Mrs. Weasley lied, but even she must have felt it feeble because she added, "And we promised Dumbledore we'd—"

"Keep an eye on me," Draco finished for her, turning to meet her gaze then. She always said this whenever he asked. She didn't even vary her syntax. The phrase was as grey as the fog.

But his bored tone lit the fires in her eyes. Her full cheeks flushed red.

"I'm coming," he hurried before she could start again on the same argument, before she could tell him off, remind him of the position that he was in. She was only slightly less tetchy than the average Blast-Ended Skrewt. He led the way through the overgrown garden back to the house.

The Burrow 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. Draco hated the house.He pulled open the flimsy backdoor onto the tempting aromas of Mrs. Weasley's cooking—which even he had to admit was good—and a kitchen full of Weasleys, all seated around the scrubbed, wooden table.

Conversation stopped when he entered, and the Weasleys' redheads turned as one to watch him. The children's faces grew hard, their eyes narrowed. They'd been talking about him; Draco knew it, and he could not stop his eyes from returning their glare.

"Go wash up, Draco," Mrs. Weasley said, pushing past him to attend to the food still on the hob, trying to ignore the tension that had entered the room with them, but it was visible in the set of her shoulders, her grip on her wand.

Draco shot the table full of Weasleys a last venomous glare, then marched across the kitchen and up the crooked stairs to the toilet sink.

Subtlety was not a trait that any of the Weasleys had acquired, nor was tact. Did they have to be so obvious? He'd know, he'd guess that the children still hated him, that their parents weren't thrilled to have him there, even if he hadn't overheard snippets of their arguments, but hearing it destroyed any chance of delusion. It didn't make adjusting to the situation any easier for him; he didn't like them either. Bloody Gryffindors, Draco thought before catching himself. Since March, since he'd met Alana O'Toule, it had become harder for him to insult the Gryffindors as a whole. But this is true, he reminded himself. Even Alana—

But he didn't really want to compare Alana to the Weasleys. It only emphasized everything that he hated about the Weasleys. He twisted the knob of the sink, forcing the water to come gushing from the faucet's end. Avoiding the mirror, he watched the jet for a moment. He had to sympathize with the water as it battered against the sink walls, found itself trapped in a steel depression, sank hopelessly into the drain.

Ugh, get a grip, Malfoy. Stop anthropomorphizing the water. You can't be that lonely.

But Draco was lonely. Odd though he had found it at first after his years alone, he had grown used to being greeted by a smile, to finding a seat saved for him, to conversation always there when he wanted it, even to sympathy and concern.

Draco forced his hands under the jet of icy water and shivered. Eleven days with the Weasleys, surrounded by their hate had not robbed him of his ability to feel. He still had that to look forward to.

Hands numb and the earth rushing down the drain, Draco returned to the brightly lit kitchen. He sat down and accepted the scrambled eggs and fruit pudding that Mrs. Weasley passed him. They were both cold. Draco ate in silence, with his head down.

"Any sign of the giant yet?" Fred wondered, pointing to the Daily Prophet beside his father's plate.

Mr. Weasley shook his head. A town in Somerset had been torn apart the previous week, and the damage suggested, according to the Prophet, giant involvement, though the Weasleys all thought that Death Eaters were ultimately responsible. The town was near enough to the Burrow to pique the interest of all of them. "They're expanding the search."

"And is anyone else..."

There'd been two deaths the previous week, two women, one of them a high-ranking Ministry employee, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Amelia Bones. Both murders seemed to have shaken the Weasleys.

"No," Mr. Weasley said firmly. He hesitated before adding, "No one's heard of any others. No one else as of last night."

Draco looked up. He had heard the Weasleys slipping out late last night. The raised voices of the twins had called him to the door, had tempted him to open it onto the landing, just a crack.

"Let us come. We're of age!"

"You'll not come till I think you're old enough to join," Mrs. Weasley had snapped.

"Dumbledore would let us come."

"Dumbledore's not your mother!"

"You can't keep us out forever!"

Eleven days was long enough for Draco to guess where the older Weasleys had been going. Draco had heard about the Order of the Phoenix, the organization that Dumbledore headed devoted to defeating the Dark Lord. The Death Eaters had suspected that the Weasleys were members. Draco was almost ready now to confirm their suspicions.

"Arthur!" Mrs. Weasley snapped.

"They have a right to know that, Molly," he returned shortly.

What did the Order do exactly? Draco wondered.

Perhaps to avoid looking at his wife, Mr. Weasley looked around the table. "Also, Harry will be here Saturday morning. Dumbledore's bringing him."

"Harry's coming?" Ginerva, the Weasleys' only daughter, asked, sitting up straighter in her chair.

"This soon?" Ron beamed.

"Yes."

Draco's heart sank as the Weasleys' smiles grew. His stomach knotted. His moist pudding changed to cardboard in his mouth. Living with the Weasleys was torture enough, but Harry Potter was another monster entirely, and one that he wasn't sure that he could face just now—bolder, crueler, and with more right to hate him, to suspect him, to punish him—and more, Draco admitted grudgingly to himself, for him to admire. Potter's defeat of, his escapes from the Dark Lord were legendary. How many days, Draco wondered, would he have to live under Potter's eye? With no one to come between them?

He remembered Potter, his eyes smouldering, black and alive with fire, leaning across the table on fisted hands, snarling, "Maybe, I can prove you're his spy with three months without your girlfriend to meddle, without Snape, without Dumbledore." He remembered Potter sputtering, "I'll kill you, Malfoy. When I'm done with Voldemort—or if I get the chance at you first— If you hurt any one of them—so much as one scratch—"

"I have to get to work," Mr. Weasley said, checking his watch. Draco jumped, jerked away from the memory of a sneering Potter.

"When will you be home?"

"Late. Not in time for dinner, Molly." Mr. Weasley had only days earlier been promoted to Head of the new Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. Already the job had begun to take its toll on him. He came home late. The bags beneath his eyes had begun to deepen.

"Arthur," Mrs. Weasley sighed.

He stood and kissed his wife on the cheek. "Think about what I said last night, Molly," Draco heard him say.

Percy, who worked at the Ministry of Magic as well, as Junior Undersecretary to the Minister, followed. Percy was under a lot of strain recently; it showed in his frown as he hugged his mother and moved toward the back door after his father. Fudge had been shouted out of office and had been replaced by Minister Scrimgeour, the former Head of the Auror office. The new Minister was still deciding whom to keep on. Until things calmed down, Percy couldn't be sure of his job.

Mrs. Weasley stared out the back window until both of them had vanished. When she turned away, her expression was anxious and her voice wavered just a little as she said, "I have to go sort through the laundry," and hurried from the kitchen.

This left Draco alone with Ron, Ginny, Fred, and George. He looked up at the redheads. They were all watching him too.

"Maybe I should—" Draco started, setting down his fork, making to get up.

"Sure, Malfoy, run," Ron said. His eyes were icy blue and narrowed.

"Harry's coming," Ginny said.

"The least you could do is tell us what you know," Fred put in.

"I know nothing." Draco didn't. Three nights since the end of the O.W.L.s, since Potter had collapsed in the Great Hall, since he had disappeared, Draco had been kept awake, his arm on fire, the fire sinking into his bones till he had been sure that the heat would cause them to crack as he had ignored the pain, ignored the call. The most recent time, he had lain in a dark and unfamiliar room, in a bed that didn't feel like his. The pain had been blinding, sickening. He had bitten back shouts, moans, and worse as the pain had grown, till it roared in his ears, as it had lessened slowly to a dull ache, as it had finally faded, leaving him weak, shaking, and exhausted. He knew the Dark Lord was talking to his Death Eaters—and more frequently than he had ever done. He had no idea what he was saying to them.

Ron cackled. "Was that a confession?"

"Shut up, Weasel. I'm not stupid. I know what your brother—"

Mrs. Weasley was back. They all dropped their heads again. Draco stuffed a forkful of rubbery egg into his mouth. Mrs. Weasley turned to pour herself a second mug of tea.

Ron leaned forward to whisper to Draco, before his mother turned back toward them, while she wouldn't see, while she was too distracted to hear, "I don't believe you."

The words closed around Draco's stomach like a fist.

Draco hurried to finish his breakfast and fled as soon as he thought that it wouldn't appear cowardly. He didn't want to be in the room with them anymore. He rarely could stand them for long. Around them, his muscles tensed, his hand was quick to jump to his pocket, looking for his wand. Sometimes Draco could convince himself that, if he stayed in a room too long with the Weasley children, the air would begin to taste of ozone, warning them all of an approaching storm. That much tension was just not good—for anyone.

Draco shut the door of his bedroom behind him, took a moment to be still, to listen to the quiet. This was a kinder quiet. Far enough away from the Weasleys, he could appreciate it. If he strained his ears, he could hear songbirds in the garden. They were quieter than the seagulls that flew past his bedroom window at Malfoy Manor, but they didn't have to compete with the crash of waves against the cliff-face.

Draco let out a breath and took a step into the bedroom, letting his eyes wander over the features that still looked strange. The bedroom almost seemed to go out of its way to remind Draco that it wasn't his. It was a horrid yellow color, one that Draco never would have allowed on his walls. A poster of an Egyptian pyramid was affixed to one of the otherwise blank walls. Draco had never been to Egypt. This room had once belonged to the eldest Weasley son, Bill, who was in Egypt now, working for Gringotts as a Curse-Breaker. Draco had 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 of his treasured items: a Gobstones set, several yellowed love-letters that Bill had hidden from his parents, and the letter from Hogwarts announcing Bill's appointment to Head Boy.

Draco wondered, as he crossed the room, as he sank onto the bed, laid his hand on the hand-stitched quilt, what Bill would say if he knew that a Malfoy was sleeping in his bed. He wondered if his parents had told him.

Draco looked once more at the poster. He found this tacky adornment rather useful. As an invisible sun rolled slowly across the sky, the pyramid'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.

The room was just above Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's and just below Percy's, the eldest son still living at home. Percy had been Head Boy in Draco's third year. He didn't like rules to be broken. Draco supposed that the Weasleys had given him Bill's room because it allowed them to keep him under the strictest watch. Draco tried not to resent it. He reminded himself that this room was about the farthest from Ron, who lived at the top of the house. He had to appreciate that. And it was much easier to tiptoe downstairs and outside past one bedroom than—how many were there in the Burrow? Draco hadn't been able to explore the house much. He was barred from any room but Bill's, the living room, loo, pantry, and kitchen. He had probed them for secrets. He hadn't found anything interesting.

Draco let his eyes roam the room again. They passed over the surface of the heavy desk that was pushed beneath the poster. A few letters lay sprawled across it. Letters from Alana. His eyes swung to the window. It was her turn. But the skies were owl-free. Only the fog tapped silently on the glass.

Draco hated to keep those letters out in the open, but he hated to hide them. He needed the reminder that somewhere there was someone who wanted to know that he was all right. Alana's letters were full of prying questions, though, too. "How are you?" was followed by, "How are the Weasleys?" "Are you having fun?" or "Have you played any Quidditich?" Draco had to dodge these questions when he wrote back to her. She had such hopes that he would return to Hogwarts in September having patched up a seven hundred-year-old blood feud. Impossible, he knew.

Draco sighed, reached for the book that he'd left on the bedside table, and lay down on his stomach. He opened to his marked page, but his eyes were drawn to the window, outside. He hated it here. But he couldn't leave. And he hated that more than he hated being here. He hated being trapped. Again.

A/N: A background chapter. The next one's more exciting. I'm already well into it. :)

Yours forever, Tsona