A Visit from Slytherin (2)

Draco lifted his chin slightly. He knew he was not. He had known from the very beginning. He had not opened the Chamber of Secrets, he had not written the bloody words on the walls, and he had not petrified Mrs Norris. But he did not know who had done it. He only knew that all of this had been Madara's arrangement.

"So you will go," Madara continued. "Before they finish brewing that potion, before they find any useful clues, you will visit Potter. Say some things in front of him. Make him think he has found the right direction."

"Say what?" Draco asked.

"Tell him you admit he is the so-called heir."

Draco froze for a moment.

"You do not need to convince him." Madara's fingers tapped the tabletop again, and the dark red runes flickered once more. "You only need to make him think that you do not want him to be the heir. You only need to make him think you are afraid. Afraid that he really is the heir, afraid that he really heard something, afraid that he really is Slytherin's descendant."

He paused, his voice becoming softer, so soft it was like he was talking to himself. "Gryffindor brutes have a common flaw—they do not believe what their enemies say, but they believe what their enemies do not want them to know. The more you act as though you cannot believe he is the heir, the less he will be able to explain himself, even if he knows he is not."

Draco's lips slowly, slowly curled upward.

It was not the flashy, boastful smile he wore on the Quidditch pitch. It was colder, heavier—a smile like someone who had finally obtained a key he had always wanted but never known how to use.

"I understand,"