A/N:
Okay, so this is a fic that is post DH, disregarding the epilogue. It is set about a year after the 'Great Battle' (aka the big battle in the last book. Obviously.). I've added some of my own OC characters, though the cannons will also play a key role, too.
Disclaimer: I, sadly, do not own any of the cannon characters. They are JK Rowling's. Unfortunately.
Claimer: John Slaughter, Dominic Steele, Esmerelda Roshiv, and Daniel Royce are all mine and may not be used in any way without explicit permission from the author. Aka—me. No stealing, please!
But enough of this—on with the good stuff! Or bad, either way you look at it. But I DO happen to prefer the first.
"How many?" McGonagall asked wearily. Her hair, which had always been in a tight bun, was flying out in all directions. She was not her usual rapt self—she was tired, covered in blood, and wanted desperately to go to sleep. However, after Dumbledore's death, she had duties to attend to. And, in his good, noble name, she would do what was expected of her, including the mournful chore of hearing the names of the dead or missing.
"Twenty-six." The young man answered. He was covered, also, in blood, though he stood admirably upright despite all the physical damage done to his body. For there was quite a bit, but he walked without a limp. That was hard, mind you, when it looked like his leg had been torn apart by a very hungry, bloodlust-y Swedish Horn Tail. He noticed her nervous glances and discreetly shifted his pant leg down to cover the gaping wound.
"Twenty-six." The Headmistress repeated, feeling as if she were going to be sick. She did manage to keep her lunch down by asking reluctantly, and desperately trying to not think about which students he would name, "How many dead? Who?"
"Nineteen dead." Mcgonogall proceeded to wince as he ticked off the names. "Rooney, Alpert, Brown, Johnson…" He trailed off when she had to lean against the nearest student for support. "Perhaps," The young man suggested quietly, "I should just send a owl with the names up to your desk."
McGonogall nodded, conceding. "The missing." She managed to say, as the young woman she was leaning on struggled to hold the thin woman up. "I can…I can stand the missing, Slaughter. Give me the names." There was still hope, she told herself. The missing weren't always dead. Just half of the time, blown to little pieces that were unable to be identified….McGonogall wobbled dangerously, and Patil had to pull the Headmistress's arm across her shoulder.
The young man, Slaughter, frowned but obliged obediently. "There are seven missing." He growled, scanning the battlefield with gray eyes. People were crying, holding each other, and scurrying around to heal the nearly-dead. "Royce. And Steele." He croaked. Yes, Steele and Royce were missing.
"Oh, John." Patil said. "I'm so sorry."
John Slaughter shook his head. "They're not dead. I'll find them." And then he ploughed on—he didn't want to think of his best friend, possibly dead, lying in some hidden area. Maybe the body was under the bushes, maybe sprawled somewhere in the trees…. "Samson. Norman. Wheeler." His eyes looked away from the sorry sight of the Hogwarts grounds to the Headmistress. The woman was sharp enough, tired though she was, to see through Slaughter's pretenses. He looked reluctant to say much else. She would never admit it, but he was scaring her. The suspense was painful.
"Out with it, Slaughter!" She demanded, some of her old self returning. "That is only five!"
John nodded solemnly, but said cautiously, "Professor, maybe you should sit down."
McGongall waved away his concern. "Tell me Slaughter, or I'll hex you. Tell me now."
"Potter. Roshiv and Potter."
"Of course." McGonogall said, closing her eyes. She looked much older than she actually was right then, and she put a hand to her head. "Of course."
"Harry?" Pavarti Patil said, astounded. "And Esmerelda?"
John looked coldly back at her, his grey eyes taking on the look of steel. There was no emotion—not even for Potter.
"Christ." Pavarti whispered, her throat dry.
"No," Slaughter said quietly as he turned to leave. "No, Patil. He won't help you now." And John Slaughter walked away, to go search for his lost friends.
Or, maybe, the pieces of his lost friends.
"Harry? Ohgod, no. Not Harry!" Hermione wailed, tears jumping to her eyes and already beginning to fall.
Ron put his arm consolingly over his girlfriend's shoulders and took a deep breath. "He's missing, 'ermoine." He said, his voice strained and scratchy from unshed tears. "We'll find him."
Patil nodded, rubbing a hand over her tearstained cheeks. "Slaughter told McGonogall early this morning." She sniffled.
"Where is he now?" Weasley asked her. He wanted to see if his fellow Eighth Year had more information for him. Ron was already making his mind up to search for Harry as soon as his job at Hogwarts castle was done.
"I don't know." Patil conceded. "He went off to look for Royce and Steele—they're missing, too."
Ron nodded soberly. "Hermione, go maybe you oughta go to the hospital wing and help Madam Pomfrey."
Ganger rose from her position against the wall in the hallway that Patil had met them in by chance and bade Patil farewell before turning to go. Ron and Pavarti watched her go sadly, Weasley's eyes lingering where her back finally disappeared.
"Who else is missing, Pavarti?" Ron asked quietly. It had been the whole reason he suggested Hermione go to Miss Pomfrey, and Hermione knew it was, too. He knew he couldn't ask the question in front of his girlfriend—it would only make thing worse for her. And Hermione had known Ron's motives and had left of her own goodwill—she didn't want to hear the names, would rather be ignorant for once than knowledgeable.
Pavarti struggled to remember all the names that she had heard. "Um, Wheeler." She said, rubbing her eyes. "Norman. Oh, Steele. And…Ron?"
Ron swallowed hard. "Who else? Pavarti, who else is missing?"
Patil patted his arm and she said, through tight lips, "Roshiv is gone, too. We can't find her anywhere."
Ron's eyes widened. "Bitch." He spat venomously. "Roshiv—I should have known."
And Pavarti had nodded sadly, too heavy-hearted to say much else.
"Malfoy!"
Draco was panting, lying on his back. He had to keep moving. If he showed his face at Hogwarts…If he showed his face anywhere, he would be murdered. He would have to go to jail just for safety—it would be much safer than showing his face anywhere in the wizarding community.
"Malfoy! We know you're here!"
The wandlights passed over the bushes he was hiding in—his heart stopped altogether—but they kept moving steadily. There were moving quickly, their footsteps able to be heard. All were on feet—there was no room to fly in the dense forestry. The only way was to walk.
As soon as the sounds of their passage had faded, he scrambled to his feet. Twigs and leaves and all sorts of underbrush were sticking to his tattered robes, but he realized he had to keep moving. He had been associated with the Death Eaters for much too long to stick around. He and Roshiv—oh yes, Roshiv would be paying just as dearly as he was at the moment. That is, if she was not already dead.
"Snarilosia!"
Draco yelped pitifully, and then cursed profusely as he battled with the Devil's Snare that was wrapping around his wrists and ankles, pinning down his legs and circling his arms. He ground his teeth—it wasn't working. The more he struggled, the more it seemed the inescapable plant held him harder. Draco pulled his wand out of his sleeve—he had managed not to lose it during the battle—and then realized that was useless, too. If he missed the fine vine, then he would blow his own leg off. He cussed again, rather colorfully, and tried to get himself under control. Lie still, he told himself, lie still and think of an escape plan.
"Malfoy."
"Slaughter." Draco replied coolly, secretly pleased with how calm his voice sounded.
John Slaughter was crouched against a large oak tree, his arms folded over his knees that were pulled up against his chest. His dark hair was unkempt, flopping over his eyes. His head was bent, too, but his stormy eyes were looking over Draco evenly, his tanned face not showing any emotion. His jeans, Malfoy noticed sullenly, were in much better condition than Draco's own. Slaughter's were only ripped in a few places—across the knees, over one thigh, a gap in the fabric at the shin…That was stained a very ugly red. His shirt was worse for wear, though, Malfoy noticed with a small amount of satisfaction. The red rag was torn in numerous places across his chest, back, and shoulders.
"Get that damned smirk off your face, Malfoy." Slaughter growled, leaning his head wearily against the gigantic tree trunk behind him, and closing his eyes. "It's not helping your situation."
Malfoy's smirk became more prominent.
Slaughter sighed, and opened his eyes again. He looked at Malfoy levelly, who gazed calmly back.
"You don't look afraid." Remarked Slaughter.
"That would be because I'm not, Slaughter."
"Didn't sound like it earlier—you were rummaging around in that bush like you were some sort of rat." Then, as an after thought, he added, "Or ferret."
Malfoy's smile tightened to hide the growing pain in his chest—the constricting ivy was making it harder and harder to breathe. "Hypocrite—instead of hexing me, you used devil's snare. You were the one who was scared."
Slaughter smiled—the expression looked painful on his face, too foreign. A smile was barely ever seen on John Slaughter's face, and, to be quite frank, it looked rather intimidating. "Technically, Malfoy," He said, rising, "I used both."
Malfoy smiled too. John jumped just in time. "Impendimentia!" He said, and John dove to one side, rolling on his shoulder, onto Malfoy's blind side. Malfoy, unlike John, could not move because of the Devil's Snare and was left utterly vulnerable.
"Stupid move," Commented John as he picked himself up. "Desperate. Reckless."
Draco was reminded painfully of Severus Snape—he had died exactly a year ago, and had said that same word 'reckless' several times. 'You are too reckless', he would say, 'You will expose us all!'. Draco sneered reproachfully. There had never been an 'us'. Snape had always been with Them. A spy, trying to get insider information and, untouchably, succeeding.
"A necessity." He said, managing to make himself arrogant and refined even when he was currently covered in dirt, laying embarrassingly on the ground with Devil's Snare curling around all of him, with John Slaughter standing, looking amused in his own strange way, as he looked on.
"Yes," John agreed unexpectedly. "You had to show you would not give quietly." He nodded as if he understood completely, was not at all offended that the man before him had unsuccessfully tried to slam him back and probably knocking him out against a hundred-year old oak.
Malfoy was starting to get irritated. Why didn't he just turn him in already? It had been here for quite a while and the sky, or the bits you could see through the tree's canopy (and if Draco craned his head way back to look from his uncomfortable position on the ground), the clouds had slowly given way to dusk. It was getting darker, and the Forbidden Forest was getting ominously quieter. The shouts that Draco had heard earlier had disappeared completely, or were either muffled to the point of silence by the ever-imposing dark.
"What are we still doing here?" He asked, allowing his aggravation to show in his voice as his eyes watched Slaughter look into the encroaching forest, unmoving.
Slaughter spared Malfoy a glance before he turned back to glare around him. "What do you mean?" He asked, annoyingly collected.
"Why are you, Slaughter, still standing there and not hauling me back to McGonagall?"
"Professor McGonagall, as you will be surprised to know, is not interested in you."
This came as a slight shock, but Draco decided he wouldn't be bothered with it right now. Slaughter was avoiding his question, and both the young men knew it.
"You didn't answer the question, Slaughter."
John finally turned back to look at him. He approached, and Malfoy, who had to refrain from trying to wriggle away—he knew it was impossible with the Devil's Snare still wrapped—very tightly—around him. Slaughter looked down at him, his gaze very intense. There was silence for a few moments before Slaughter said quietly, unexpectedly, "Get up, you look ridiculous."
"Well, I would, but—
And Slaughter hexed the accursed vine off of him. It gave a protesting sort of plant-scream before withering from the light of Slaughter's 'lumos' spell. Malfoy mentally cursed himself for not thinking of that.
Draco got to his feet, as slowly and nonchalantly as a man on the run can. Slaughter was a bit taller, but Malfoy had cursed bigger, heavier men than him. Of course, none of those men had had the last name 'Slaughter', either.
Then, righting his robe as best as the tattered thing could be, he asked in a dispassionate sort of tone, "What do you want, Slaughter?"
"You know where Roshiv is, and I don't. You probably know where Royce and Steele are, and I don't." He was scowling heavily as he said their names.
Malfoy raised his eyebrows as he slicked back his disgustingly unruly hair. "Roshiv?" He asked, playing dumb, "What the hell does she have anything to do with this?"
Slaughter sighed wearily and was about to tell him off for playing stupid, but he decided to play along. Telling him off would be much more trouble than it was worth, and that would break his so-far-formal appearance to the Hogwart's student body. "She's the one that told the Death Eaters how to get in to Hogwarts," He explained slowly, watching for Draco's reaction, "And she's missing. Taken off."
Draco Malfoy looked at Slaughter for a long time and then burst into laughter. He wasn't worried about being heard anymore. "And the Gryffindors are supposed to be the just ones," He chortled, smiling wickedly to himself. "And here is John Slaughter, all around good guy that never tells off anyone, insults anyone, or sullies himself by hanging around other—well, not normal—but other Gryffindors." He laughed again, and had to put a hand to his chest because he could hardly breathe. "And here he is, offering me, a top-rated felon, my freedom for information on the rest of the pussies that hang out with him and Roshiv, the Bolivian exchange student from Durmstrang, who is suspected of handing the good school of Hogwarts over to the few remaining Death Eaters."
John looked at Malfoy, disgust written clearly across his face. "Hilarious," He growled.
After Draco had gotten over his uncharacteristic fit of laughter, he said, "I don't know where your friends or Roshiv are, Slaughter." His ever-present smirk was back.
"Don't give me bullshit, Malfoy." John grunted. "I don't have time for it."
"Oh, excuse me." Malfoy said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Since you don't have the time to stick around, I'll hand over all I know."
"Thank you."
"I was joking, Slaughter."
"I don't care."
Malfoy sighed. "So, let me get this straight—you think I, a hardcore Slytherin, know where the other imbeciles you call friends are and that wench Roshiv are, all loyal Gryffindor drunks are."
He had a good argument, Slaughter had to admit. But he wasn't buying it. "Men don't disappear on their own, Malfoy. Not unless they're Roshiv, who is, consequently, a woman, and suspected of—
"You don't have to tell me what she's done," Malfoy said stubbornly, "I already know."
"Then why don't you enlighten me by telling me where she is so I can wring her pretty neck?"
Malfoy smirked. "Violent, Gyffindor." He rolled his shoulders in a display of leisure—he was enjoying toying with John Slaughter. It was something not everyone got to do. After all, none of the Slytherins had gotten a shot at him through Quidditch—Slaughter, although an experienced flyer, had not tried out for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Neither had they gotten him in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Slaughter was also infamously fast with a wand. He looked untouchable.
But appearances, as Malfoy was now discovering, were quite deceiving.
It all came to him, hit him like a train wreck. His mouth fell open, his eyes going wide. "You're not serious," He said quietly, astonished.
John didn't answer—he just gazed back at Malfoy, curiously quiet.
"Slaughter—you're not trying to find Roshiv to kill her, are you? You're trying to warn her, to get her out, away from Hogwarts. Aren't you?" Malfoy demanded, delighted by the turn of events.
"Yes."
Malfoy was not at all startled by this apt confession—John knew Malfoy couldn't go to Hogwarts to tell anyone. And if he could, who would believe him? The plan was laid out perfectly. "And Steele and Royce—they aren't missing. Hiding, aren't they? But something went wrong, and now you can't find them."
And then, John Slaughter proceeded to stun Draco Malfoy—and execute a memory charm on him.
No one could know.
Otherwise, John Slaughter, Esmerelda Roshiv, Dominic Steele, and Daniel Royce would be sent to Azkaban.
And God knows, they couldn't take down the Ministry from there.
A/N:
Ahahahaha! Evil plan! Or not so evil? You'll have to wait and see!
Don't you love cliff hangers? No? Oh. Well. You'll survive, then.
Reviews are greatly appreciated! Pweeze? –puppy eyes-