A/N: This story is not DH compliant. But it does happen in 7th year... I hope you enjoy it – it's a new one...
-DARK AGE-
"We called the four of you down here," began Mr Weasley hesitantly, "because we think you should still go back to school."
"WHAT!"
"ARE YOU FREAKING MENTAL!"
"No."
"I already see problems in this one..."
"Ginny, keep your voice down!" yelled Mrs Weasley. "And Ron, that is no way to talk to your father. Apologise at once." Her voice softened a bit as she looked at Harry. "I know, Harry, it was a bit surprising when we first heard the idea, but we thought it through, and we do not think it is wise missing school for who knows how long."
"And Hermione," Mr Weasley said, "we will have countless members of the Order stationed at points in and around the school."
"But—" Ron began heatedly.
"Enough, Ron!" Mrs Weasley shouted. "Now go to your rooms and pack." She levelled a look at all of them. "All of you!" she added.
Harry licked his lips, hating to add to Mrs Weasley's anger. "Um, Mrs Weasley?"
"Yes, Harry, dear?"
Harry looked at his friends quickly (avoiding Ginny completely), and then said quietly, "I cannot go to school this year."
"And by 'we', he means us," Hermione interjected, glaring at Harry.
Before Harry could even argue, Mrs Weasley raised her eyebrows. "Oh? And why not?"
Harry bit his lip. "We have a...task to do for Professor Dumbledore."
Both Ron's parents registered expression of surprise. Mr Weasley hid his more easily. Mrs Weasley placed her hands on her hips. "Well, seeing that we're the adults in this situation, we have decided to send you lot back to Hogwarts."
"But Mum! We're all already of age now! I'm sure we can—"
"No is no, Ronald. The decision is final! I think it is quite enough for me to worry about you all at Hogwarts, let alone scattered across the country as well!"
"Well, if you're so worried, don't send us," Ron muttered, looking at the floor.
"ROOMS! NOW!" Mrs Weasley shouted, her face beetroot red.
Hermione sat on the bed, staring intently at the designs that sighed out fluffy wisps of cloud into the sky. If there are no boundaries in the sky, she thought, why should there be boundaries down here? She fiddled with the fabric of the duvet, wondering how her life would change in a matter of hours. For the first time in her life, she had willingly, deliberately disobeyed the orders of an adult. The orders of Molly Weasley, no less. The three of them had packed their trunks. But they hadn't included school textbooks in their trunks. They hadn't included parchment, quills...anything school-related in their trunks. Their trunks were filled to the brim with a bunch of voluminous books on Dark Magic, Horcruxes, medicine, and the like.
Merlin help Molly Weasley when she found the stacks of school stationery (bought by Harry, Ron and Hermione in Diagon Alley) at the bottom of Ron's cupboards. But by that time, the three of them would have Apparated from Platform nine and three quarters, and no one would be the wiser.
Hopefully.
She heard a knock on the door. She turned and seeing who was there, smiled. Her smile seemed a bit forced, and she couldn't feel the skin around her eyes stretch as it usually did when she smiled. The tall, muscular boy entered her room cautiously. "Hermione," he said simply, plopping down next to her on the bed.
Even after all these years, her body still hadn't gotten used to Ron Weasley. She would still feel her heart beat just a little bit faster. She would still feel her body tingle. Every fibre of her being continued to yearn for his touch, no matter how casual it was. But, being the idiot Ron Weasley was, he couldn't see any of it. So, every time her body would react like this, she would count to three, and by that time, she would have calmed down.
They lived in a realistic world; not a fantasy world.
"How are you holding up?" he asked, staring at his feet.
"Alright, considering," she replied softly.
They stayed like that for five minutes in comfortable silence. They could hear Mrs Weasley telling Ginny to hurry up or they'd all be late. They could hear Mr Weasley letting loose a string of profanities when the car refused to start. It all seemed so normal. As if nothing was out of place.
Hermione turned to look at Ron. "Do you think that things would ever be normal?" she asked, hoping for the right answer.
He turned to face her, his bright blue eyes missing their sparkle. "Define normal," he stated.
Hermione considered. "Not this," she said after a while.
"Then no," Ron said, giving her the wrong answer.
They had made it through the barrier. Hermione found it difficult to focus on the task at hand with so many Aurors surrounding them. They huddled together, trying to make their physical closeness look normal. Now was not a time to be separated. They called out to friends whom they hadn't seen in three months. They went through the clichéd formalities. "How was your holiday?" "How are you?" "Wow, I haven't seen you in ages!"
Yet, on many of their friends' faces, Harry, Ron and Hermione recognised something that they faced in the mirror every day. Those lines that seemed to be a permanent crease across their foreheads. A slight frown that tugged at the corners of their mouths. A spot of emptiness in their eyes.
The symptoms of the Dark Age were hard not to miss.
Hermione turned to face her two best friends. They looked at her with grim expressions. "You know what to do," she whispered quickly, darting a nervous glance around them. "Please," she asked, looking them in their eyes. "Be careful." She wrapped her arms tightly around them, afraid that something could go wrong, and they could be held captive by the enemy. She withdrew a moment later, feeling tears sting her eyes. "Go," she urged, before she ran off to the ladies' bathroom.
Once in, she entered a cubicle, and was about Apparate to Grimmauld Place, when she heard a voice. "Don't do it, Hermione," the woman said.
Hermione's eyes widened. She had been followed!
"Tonks?" she whispered, clutching her robes tightly. She squeezed her eyes shut. Say it isn't so. Say it isn't so. Say it isn't so...
"Yip! The one and only!" came her cheery voice. A second later, Hermione saw the latch pull away, and her cubicle door slowly fell open. Before her, a woman in her mid-twenties, with sleek black hair that reached her waist, stood grinning at her. "Molly told me to keep an eye on you lot. Shacklebolt has Harry and Ron, don't worry," she added.
Hermione gritted her teeth. She should have predicted this.
"Oh, and here," Tonks said, reaching behind her to get a trunk. "Here's a trunk with all your school books, parchment, et cetera." Hermione slowly counted to ten. She closed her eyes, clutching her wand behind her back at the same time. She had never tried it, but if she could get the flick of her wand right behind her back, maybe she could Apparate out of there.
"Oh no you don't," Tonks said, grabbing her arm. "Come on. I am going to be your train buddy."
Hermione balled her hands into fists. There was no way out. And she was bloody stupid not to have a Plan B.
'I think—' began a balding man hesitantly, his hands fisting his robes nervously.
'Nobody cares what you think, Zabini,' hissed Lord Voldemort, his eyes glinting dangerously in the feeble firelight. He leaned forward, a slender pale finger tracing patterns around Nagini's head. Nagini hissed with pleasure. 'If you dare to even speak again,' Lord Voldemort said softly, eyeing the cowering man before him, 'consider yourself a mere ghost of the past. Understand?' He paused, watching with mild amusement as the pathetic man bobbed his head up and down.
'Y-y-yes, my lord,' he stuttered, his body visibly shaking. His head was bowed so low, that it almost touched the cool granite table that stretched from one side of the room to the other. The man next to him quietly slid his chair further away from Zabini, his brow crinkling.
Voldemort's lips lifted up sardonically. 'Sadly,' he said, sounding anything but sad, 'I do not believe you do understand me, Zabini. This is the third time. I do not forget.'
Zabini dragged his head up to meet his master's eyes. He tried to meet those eyes, but he could not. Those eyes...seemed to have the image of death reflected in them. His gaze settled on his master's thin lips instead. His breathing stilled as he saw them open slightly – a thin slit – and he silently sent a prayer up to the one he never believed in until now. Before he had even finished thinking Dear God, the words everybody in that room knew as well as their own name fell like a caress from their master's lips-
'Avada kedavra.'
The man named Ricardo Zabini slumped forward, his head hitting the table with a dull thud, his glassy eyes unmoving.
No one moved. No one said anything. They knew that if they did, they would go the same way. Not even the tall boy at the back said anything. He clenched his jaw tightly, drawing on all of his strength to keep his tears at bay. The fact that his father had just died – no, had been murdered – drilled into his head like a merciless knife. He closed his eyes briefly, thinking of an image of pure white. No colour. No signs of blacks, greys. Just white.
'It was necessary, young Blaise,' Voldemort said thinly, tilting his head to look at Blaise Zabini.
No, it was not, Blaise thought. At this distance, he could not see Voldemort too clearly. He was too far away. He could not see, but he could well imagine. At this moment, the corners of Voldemort's lips had probably lifted up. At this moment, Voldemort would be holding his wand as if it was light as a feather, not as if it carried the weight of hundreds of deaths. At this moment, his breathing would be completely normal, not erratic as if he had cold-heartedly murdered someone for fun.
At this moment, he would be reading Blaise's mind.
Blaise nodded stiffly, knowing already that Voldemort knew he was lying. Blaise childishly crossed his fingers behind his back, hoping that he wouldn't be at the receiving end of the Killing Curse.
Voldemort abruptly ignored him, instead looking at the man sitting dangerously close to Nagini. Blaise breathed out slowly, relieved.
'As I was saying, Lucius,' Voldemort said, carrying on as if nothing unusual had happened, 'we need to find the Order's new location immediately.'
'My lord, I have been trying—' began Lucius Malfoy. For a man that was under the intense scrutiny of the Darkest wizard of all time, his voice betrayed no fear, just a very prominent edge of sheer respect.
'Trying is not good enough,' Voldemort said crisply, eyeing his wand thoughtfully.
'My Lord,' Lucius began, licking his lips, 'My son, Draco—' here, he gestured to the far end of the table at Draco Malfoy, who sat ramrod straight. He stared blankly back at his father, his hands crossed over one another. Neither Draco nor his father heard Blaise's quite scoff. '—has been following Potter, as per your orders, my Lord, but—'
'Are you telling me that your son is incapable of simply following a mere boy around, Lucius?'
'I...' began Lucius, pressing his lips together, not wasting time to glare at his son. 'We are still working on that, my Lord.'
The air was thick with suspense, each person waiting to see the Dark Lord's reaction.
'I see,' Voldemort said after a lengthy pause. His eyes swivelled to land on Draco. 'Do you need any help, boy?' he asked mockingly.
'I don't mind helping him, my Lord!' cried Bellatrix Lestrange.
'The boy has a mouth of his own, Bellatrix,' Voldemort said. 'Let's see what he has to say.'
All members in the room focused their gaze on the young Malfoy. Only those nearest to him would be able to see the muscle jumping in his jaw.'I don't need anyone's help, my Lord. I can do this by myself,' he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. His grey eyes rested on Voldemort's shoulder.
'Is that so?' Voldemort asked. Without waiting for a reply, he carried on, 'Because if you are having any difficulties, Draco, you can ask your friend, Blaise Zabini, over there to helpyou.'
Even though he knew that their master was just mocking Malfoy, Blaise stiffened. As of late, he loathed the very ground Draco Malfoy walked on. To even place their names in the same sentence irked him. And Voldemort knew this.
'He is no friend of mine,' Draco replied tonelessly. Despite the simplicity of these words, the order in which they were said tore a fine layer off Blaise's skin. Yes, Blaise hated him. But there was a time, three or four months ago, when the two had been close. Yet circumstances changed people, and that is at where they stand today: changed people.
If Voldemort had eyebrows, Blaise could have betted that he would have lifted one up now. 'Ah. Refusing to associate with those of the Outer Circle, are you?'
That was the thing about Voldemort. He did not care to insult others. He did not see it wrong to further create a mini-hierarchy in his society of followers. Blaise flexed his fingers. So what if Draco and his bloody family belonged to the Inner Circle. So what if only fif-bloody-teen people belonged to this Circle? The rest (a good one-hundred-and-seventy-five - Blaise stilled, thinking of his father...one-hundred-and-seventy-four followers) belonged to the Outer Circle. The Inferior Circle.
'We all believe in the same cause, my Lord,' was Draco's non-yes/non-no, reply.
The boy angered Blaise. It wasn't the fact that the Draco Malfoy that Blaise knew died and was replaced by some cold git. It wasn't the fact that after Dumbledore's death Draco shunned everyone whom he used to be close to. It wasn't the fact that Draco really hated it here, but was acting as if he, what was it? Oh, right. Believed in the same cause. Bloody hypocrite.
No, it wasn't any of these. Well, maybe it was, but to top it off, Blaise's father had actually believed in this had been a strong follower of Voldemort. He had even modified a lot of the Mudblood-principles. Ricardo Zabini had genuinely made an effort to help Lord Voldemort. Which was why he tried to answer Voldemort's questions. Unfortunately, Ricardo had been partly blind, so he could not see the direction of Voldemort's gaze when he posed questions.
It was human to make a mistake.
Even if it was made three times consecutively.
The point is that the Malfoys were given preferential treatment over the Zabinis. Both families had been around for centuries. Both were as pureblooded as the devil himself was.
Yet.
What made them different really? The two Circles? What made them different? Voldemort could not –
'Out, Blaise,' Voldemort said, his voice hardly qualifying as a murmur.
Blaise snapped to attention, and inwardly cringed. Blaise was a thinker, he couldn't help it. He did not know how to control his thoughts anywhere...and that needed to be done especially when he kept company like this.
Blaise quickly made his way out of the room, ignoring the looks used-to-be-friends gave him. Merlin, everyone had changed, it seems. He only looked up when he saw her. Yet the look she gave him held the same warmth Draco's did: none. The coldness in her eyes squeezed his heart so tightly, he felt nauseous. Best friends, first loves...no relationship or bond created an exception.
The door slid closed softly behind him, and the cold hair slapped his face. He Apparated home as quickly as he could. He raced up the stairs, not caring as his tears drew tracks down his cheeks. He wanted to go back and carry his father's lifeless form out. He wanted to yell at the lot of them, telling them how ridiculous they were being. He wanted to punch Voldemort in the face. He wanted a lot of things.
But in this game he called life, there could be only one winner. The rest didn't reach the finish line. And it was quite obvious that Voldemort was going to win. The Order could never be strong enough to fight the Dark Side. Never.
So Blaise did what he had been taught. He pushed his pain down. He pushed his sadness down. He pushed his heartache down. He pushed his regret down. He called upon the only emotion that seemed common to every person in the room he had just vacated.
Revenge.
Draco knew how to mask emotion. He knew how to mask emotion well. So when the Dark Lord told Blaise Zabini to get out, Draco hid his shock. In this world, that translated into the Dark Lord giving Blaise a second chance – and Merlin knows that that in itself was a miracle. The Dark Lord gave no one a second chance. He hadn't given Lucius a second chance last year when he threatened his son's life. He hadn't given Ricardo a second chance when he killed him for interrupting.
So why had he given Blaise a second chance?
Draco dismissed the thought as the Dark Lord once again turned his attention toward Draco. Draco was scared of him. He knew it. The Dark Lord knew it. But Draco knew how to mask emotion. Draco had mastered Occlumecy. Aunt Bellatrix had tutored him thoroughly last year. It is because of this excellent skill that the Dark Lord did not know – could not know – that Draco posed no concern for the Dark Arts. He hated it, in fact. It made him sick. Sick to the core.
Do I even have a core? he wondered. Surely, to have a core, the person himself must have a personality, too. A person was made up of two, equal parts. The first was the most obvious: the outer part; what a spectator might see. Yet the second, although obvious, was more complicated than the first: it was the being. The thing that couldn't be seen. The soul, the personality, whatever you wanted to call it.
And the reason why it was so complicated, was because people could not see it, could not hold it. Therefore, how do you believe in something you cannot see or touch? It must be your trust in that person that whatever he does – his actions or words – are a reflection of his true character. And you, the spectator, will just have to live with that.
But Draco didn't have a soul. He didn't have a personality. That all had been washed away forcefully by a very strong tide – a tide that wasn't controlled by the moon, but by the Dark Lord himself.
And Draco resented him for this very reason. Sure, the person he used to be wasn't a much loved figure in society, but he was still there, right? But the person he was now...he was an even more hated figure in society, but now he wasn't there at all. He was teetering on the borderline of There. And he felt that given the slightest push, he would land in Nowhere.
His mind was on alert when the Dark Lord addressed him. His body was on alert when the Dark Lord issued more instructions to follow goddamned Potter. His ears and tongue were on alert to verbally respond appropriately. His heart was on alert that any moment now he would wake up from this throbbing nightmare, and the pain that beat in his heart would disappear.
He needed to be on alert. Because he knew that if he wasn't, he would be as good as a ghost.
-to be continued-
A/N: Tell me, should I continue? Or should I just...y'know...chuck it?