Disclaimer: Just another fanfic to add to the pile...
Author's Notes - The following two chapters are posted more for my benefit than anything else. The chapters are actually near the climax of this story, with it actually starting in August 1996. The third chapter will bring the fic back to the start, as it were. Why would I do such a thing? This is like the act of signing a contract, a guarantee that I will reach the end, even if I have to drag my keyboard kicking and screaming. Read the first two if you want, or skip right to the third. It's your choice. You never know, it might wet your appetite... or make you want to rip out your eyes. Either way, Gilderoy will oblige...
Shamo9
This isn't a slash fic...
Harry Potter - Unite or Fall
A Glimpse of What's to Come
Part One
Chapter 1 - A New Plan
Date: March 31st, 1997 5:00 PM
Three men of differing importance, in a room that one immediately thought of as meticulously clean, played a game which only one of them knew the rules to. The polished dark wooden walls that echoed heat were covered in trinkets and family portraits, strangely none of the men were present in them. There was a faint outline in the central area of the wall that indicated that a large bookcase, or something similar, had been situated there. In contrast to the clouted walls, the room was otherwise bare. Only a chair, which one of the men was tied to, and a bench - which looked like it'd been lifted from some park - with one occupant who seemed to have perfected the art of invisibility.
"Will Harry Potter be on that train?"
A towering bolder of a man, Abe, with a calloused face that looked like it had been carved out of graphite asked, or rather demanded. He was shaking now; jacket draped over a chair forgotten, shirt sleeves rolled up, giving the impression that he meant business. The target of his ire was an equally calloused man, although his position was quite different. Tied down to a chair, which wasn't necessarily surprising until one considered that these were not mere normal men, but wizards. It was a woefully unsophisticated way of doing things, but as Abe reflected, his master had odd tastes.
"..." was all the answer Abe received from his captive, who appeared nonplussed with the whole affair. Indeed, if one ignored the ropes binding him, the 'captive' wouldn't resemble a captive at all. His appearance was well kept, clothes clean and body washed. His dark brown hair was short and practical, combed down nicely. His wand sat invitingly just a few feet away from him, as if the man had simply put it down, and could reclaim it at his leisure. Even the chair he was sitting in was one of his master's finest: black leather with a well polished holly outline. His master was a man of odd tastes, Abe reaffirmed, as he leaned in suggestively, towering over the tied up captive, draping him in darkness.
"We know you worked for him in America?"
"..."
"Where is he!?"
"..."
"What is he planning!?"
His answer was the same: silence. What infuriated Abe more than anything else was the man's eyes. The blue eyes, unfocussed and unperturbed, weren't even looking at Abe, but past him, at his master. Impertinent ass! He oughta beat the crap out of him!
"I'm talking to you-" Abe was interrupted by something he'd been trying to instigate all along, well, the captive was certainly speaking now, but not to him, and not in the way he had intended.
"Getting some lackey to do your work for you, eh, Earl of whatever! At least Potter had balls!"
Gilderoy's lips finally stopped moving silently. He looked around as if confused as in to why he was there. His eyes focused on the captive. The name 'Potter' seemed to energize him, he was now alive, the centre of attention where he belonged. All eyes drawn towards him. The applause, no, the encore, the cry for more was loud and triumphant, and Gilderoy would oblige.
"Leave us! No, not you, I'm sorry." His sentence dumbfounded everyone in the room. He was staring intently at Abe, so who else did he mean? For one brief bizarre moment, the captive and Abe looked at each other, united in their confusion.
"Eh, sir-"
"I said leave!"
There was no doubt as to who that was directed to as Abe ran like a scalded dog. Gilderoy's eyes panned around the room nervously, as if he were making sure that some invisible object didn't disappear.
The captive snorted at this pathetic man, in lilac robes that looked more feminine than any dress he had seen. The display was incongruous to his position as captive, but he didn't care. Looks like he's blind and crazy. Laughing at his own wit, the captive was startled to discover Lockhart almost nose to nose with him. How had he moved that fast? Apparition? But he hadn't heard a pop...
"What... do you know... of Harry?" Lockhart said slowly, deliberately. Whether to make sure he heard or simply because Lockhart couldn't string two words together, the captive wasn't sure. He sounded high, but on what?
The captive jerked away, creating separation despite being tied down. "I know the kid would eat you alive."
He wasn't sure why, but he had suddenly become nervous. While this gay pretty boy had none of the physical prowess of his previous interrogator, the captive could honestly say that he'd never been confronted by something quite like this. It was different... unknown... and that made this Earl... it made him dangerous. The victim now finally believed that the man in front of him might actually be capable of manipulating a society.
Gilderoy did not look surprised by the sudden reaction. He seemed to revel in the effect he had over him. Gilderoy straightened, flicking his hair with vivacious abandonment. "Eat me?" Gilderoy mouthed to himself. He seemed both humoured and horrified by the notion, his lips forming a smile, his eyes knotting crossly.
"You shouldn't... say such hurtful lies... what a vulgar thing to say. Harry would never... never do something like that - to me. We are... one... the same."
"You are one fuc-"
Gilderoy didn't appear to be listening now, enveloped in his own world. The victim had seen similar scenes in St Mungo's ward reserved for the permanently insane.
"I know, isn't it? Yes. We are celebrities. A higher being. The thrill of the spotlight, it can do both wonderful and terrible things to people. We are different for we are the same. We share the thrill of it, the responsibility that comes with fame, the adoration. Only a fellow celebrity, a fellow leader can empathise." Gilderoy seemed to be delivering some sort of speech, leaning on an imaginary podium, weaving his words with subtle nuances of his hands.
The victim's façade slipped at this... display. "He doesn't want that! He doesn't want any of that!"
"Circumstance is irrelevant. Appearance versus reality. He is a cult of personality, like I. Something your kind would never understand. The thrill of performing, we live for it... some die for it."
Lockhart began muttering again, words that the victim could not understand, and nor did he want to.
The madman spoke again, after a time. The podium was gone, and he slurred his words again, as if he was a flower that had sprouted, only now to be slowly shrivelling up and returning to the dirt. "I would like... you to tell me... everything you know... of Harry."
"Really, what're you going to do about it?" the victim said with a courage he did not feel. Why the hell was he shaking?
Gilderoy nodded, as if in agreement of something. He slowly moved his arm, the victim thought he was going to slap him, but Gilderoy merely opened his palm before the victim's eyes, revealing a Galleon.
Ah, there it is! That's all he could do to him. Money, pah, it couldn't solve everything!
The victim smirked contemptuously. "Money, money!" he said, spitting loudly on the carpet. "Money can't do everything, and it certainly can't kill me."
Gilderoy winced as the saliva seeped onto the carpet. He robotically bent down, brought out a handkerchief, and began wiping the floor delicately. The captive was dumbfounded, not sure how to respond. He watched as Lockhart diligently cleaned the floor like a good maid. Eventually, after Gilderoy had almost rubbed a hole in the carpet, he stood up.
The victim expected anger, he was prepared for that. What he was not prepared for, was Lockhart sauntering slowly towards him, whispering in his ear. "Would you like... to see... my money?"
Gilderoy let the sentence linger, so close the victim could feel Lockhart's breath on his cheek and then... Gilderoy snorted, clapping loudly.
"Very good, very good." Lockhart continued clapping, it was an aggressive, savage clap. The captive was surprised Lockhart's hands weren't bleeding from the impact. The captive watched as Lockhart's hands connected together relentlessly, it was almost hypnotic, everything became a blur.
A hidden door opened. CLAP. Revealing a mess of a man dressed in an apron that was smeared with blood. CLAP.
"I'm in need of your services." CLAP.
The bloodied man wiped some indecipherable substance from his forehead. CLAP. The victim couldn't see over the bloodied man, but he could feel heat eroding from the secret room. CLAP. "I haven't had a chance to clean the tools after the last one, so it'll probably be painful." CLAP.
"That's okay. I'm used to the screaming... It's all publicity."
The clapping stopped, the victim awakened from the trance... He watched as the bloodied man approached, malevolent smile reflected on the large blade he was holding.
"Hey, wait a..."
*****************************************************************
Several hours later, the golden carpet that had previously been spotless was now stained red. Gilderoy paced around the room casually, talking, as if to an old confidant. He seemed confident again, as happy as a man who enjoyed the sound of their own voice - and a ready listener - could be.
"Do you know why I wear white? No, well I will divulge... Memory!"
He placed his hands together, closing his eyes as if he were reading an emotional epitaph.
"I'm afraid, that even celebrities such as myself have imperfections. Oh, those imperfections, the bane of my existence. I'm afraid, well, my memory has a habit of, shall we say, running away at times. But," and now he immediately brightened, pumping his fists with authority, "as my fans expect, I bravely fight on. But alas, I forget myself once again."
His face and voice shifted ominously to the stoic monotone of his previous mutterings. There was no fanfare here, only the cold truth. "I wear white for the blood stains, they stand out better for me to remember. Names, numbers, stories, they can all be forgotten, but the blood... I never forget the blood."
His eyes stared at something only he could see. The stare promised death and vengeance.
"Sir, the train is about to leave the station." Abe, the interrogator from earlier entered the room shyly, eyes on the floor.
"I see, well I'm afraid it's time for the curtain call. Yours not mine, of course. I thank you for your hospitality in granting me the information I required. Hospitable not philanthropic, that's what I always say. It's unfortunate, but the world is a stage, one cannot linger. But there was..." he paused, looking around nervously, as if someone was watching him, "... one thing."
He came closer than ever before, his lips were now even touching the man's skin as he marked him verbally. "Can you hear it? Can you, listen it's - just there, right now!"
Silence. No reply. The anger. "Answer me! Answer me!" He swore and cursed, savagely throwing everything within arm's reach, tearing even his own feminine clothes.
The now even more bloodied man with the apron spoke nonchalant, "Sir, his tongue is cut, he can't answer."
"I see," Gilderoy said slowly, gathering his composure he corrected his hair, smiling jovially at his new friend.
"Would you like your tongue back? Yes, very well, bring it to me."
The 'Doctor' knew better than to argue.
Gilderoy was handed the tongue after the Doctor had hastily searched through the various other organs they had stacked up. Gilderoy handled it reverently, caressing it like the skin of a Goddess. He placed it with great care, back in its rightful place.
"Happy? Will you answer me now?" He closed his eyes, expression serene. After a time, he opened them again. "No, that's to be expected."
Lockhart's words took on a bitter edge as he continued, "You aren't special, just another face in the crowd. But don't worry, don't fret, I have something that will fix you, that will make you better. It's what everyone wants, what they all crave."
He unveiled his wand from a breast pocket. "My signature."
Sounds of skin being torn with meticulous precision reverberated around the room. After three minutes, Gilderoy looked at his work, and thought it good.
"Just think," he said, placing his wand back delicately, "now you're special too."
The torture had lasted for seventeen hours. The man had only lasted the first seven.
Gilderoy nodded pleasantly at the Doctor, thanking him for his assistance, and ordering him to tidy up at his leisure, while making him promise to enjoy his new 'material' vigorously.
"Any time, sir." The Doctor bowed respectfully before eyeing up his new 'playmate' with delight.
"I think I will require a change of clothes, image is key," Gilderoy said as he assessed his appearance. He began making his way to his quarters, flanked by Abe.
Curiosity got the better of Abe as he walked with Lockhart; standing in a corridor in perfect silence for seventeen hours would do that to a person. "Sir, why are you so obsessed with that... boy?" he hesitated before gaining confidence. "Everything is going according to plan, he can't stop us!"Abe finished passionately before he could contain himself.
Gilderoy seemed unaffected by the heartfelt vote of confidence, as if it were a prerequisite. "Let's just say... I'm a dedicated... fan," Lockhart spoke in his stoic monotone once again, hand on the door to the room he'd spent the last seventeen hours in.
"Wait, Sir!" Abe recklessly grabbed Lockhart's shoulder, stricken by the irrational fear that he was about to be locked in with that... 'Doctor'.
Abe was too embarrassed to even breathe. Lockhart studied the hand on his shoulder with a certain air of detachment. "... I... don't like... no touch," Lockhart said, shaking with what looked like fear.
Abe instantly released his grip, splurging out apologies. "Well, excuse me, sir, but it seemed like... you were going to lock me in." Abe motioned to continue walking, but Lockhart remained where he was, hand on the door, blocking his way.
He looked at Abe, no, right through him. "Do you hear it?"
Abe had been around Lockhart enough to know the script by now. "Yes, of course, the applause of your adoring public."
Lockhart's eyes increased in size; face suddenly revealing the wearings of age. Lockhart's eyes became bloodshot as he let out terrifyingly shrill screams, scratching his own face. A dementor's face, Abe thought instinctively as he was frozen with fear.
Lockhart let his hands fall to his side, face bleeding from several small cuts. "Wrong, I'm afraid you are so very mistaken! They are not applauding, no, no, they aren't... They are booing, booing... THEY HATE YOU!"
He slammed the door despite Abe's protests. Lockhart smirked as Abe wildly bashed at the door in terror. "Let me out!", "Don't leave me with him!"
"I did say he could use a new playmate," Gilderoy said while shrugging, confused as to what all the fuss was about. Did he have to write it out to these simpletons nowadays?
Gilderoy drowned out the continued screams by whistling his favourite tune as he sauntered down the hall, nodding to people on his way. In truth, the screams did work as a sufficient bass for the tune.
"It's all publicity, Gilderoy," he said lovingly to himself, screams ringing throughout the building like the flashing of a photographer's camera.
"It's all publicity."
**********************************************************************
Some claim that only during times of great peril do people possess the power to discard their allegiances, their preconceptions and hatreds. To unite; under one banner. The scene at platform 9¾ was proving this theory derelict, champagne glass by champagne glass. It was a time for celebration, a time for bragging.
"All aboard!" came the cry that ignited the fire of bodies. There was an undercurrent of excitement that had been steadily growing in the hearts of the travellers on the platform - some for very different reasons.
The Hogwarts Express was run amok with blurs of speed whistling faintly past each other; like fireflys locked in a jar, they jostled with each other in this confined space, air heavy with the waste of man. Everyone was searching for the opening that the familiar train offered. Loud and vibrant, the Hogwarts Express stood proudly, as if to assure the potential occupants that it was still there - waiting.
While such a sight at such a station was not particularly surprising, there was one fundamental difference that left an indelible chill in the air. The pitter-patter of small footsteps along with the energetic murmur of laughter was painfully absent. Instead of children wrestling with their luggage, men and women of varying wealth accompanied by their long coats and servants boarded the train. Canes replaced toys. Money replaced sweets.
A few children were situated at the platform, but their roles had been reversed. Now they were the ones crying, pleading silently to follow, to not be left behind. But the destination remained the same. To Hogwarts. To the school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
In truth, even the ever reliable train had changed its outward appearance. In an attempt to accommodate the thousands of the wizarding social elite, new personal designed carriages had been attached to the docile train. It now was as mismatched and uneven as a Mr Potato head, it was probably more suitable for a child as well.
The insignias of the various countries in attendance battled for dominance, each contrasting horrible. This was indeed not merely a British wizarding spectacle but a global one, a rare opportunity for countries to showcase their superiority. Under the pretence of celebration of course.
"Ah, the Hogwarts express," Allan murmured solemnly, as if visiting a sick friend as he prepared to board.
"Did you know," Allan said, "that this here is the first steam engine. Oh, I know what you're thinking. Don't let those muggles fool you, we got there first. Then wands made there appearance and everything else just stood still." He paused looking almost accusingly at the fellow passengers making their way. "We got lazy."
"I don't think we should get on," said an old women who clearly didn't appreciate the history lesson.
"Dorothy, you're not a seer, please stop acting like one."
"People are going to die," she said, "and only the lucky will survive... and those not h-"
Allan was clearly exasperated with her 'ominous' prediction. "Now you're scaremongering, could we please just board. Look, look there's even an orchestra, what sort of disaster ever occurred with an orchestra present."
He pointed at a band who were currently struggling to load their equipment which looked, judging from their expressions, to be quite heavy. Allan could tell they were an orchestra from the tags that were magically attached to their caps reading: ORCHESTRA MEMBER 1, 2 and 3 respectively.
Allan found nothing peculiar in this at all.
They wore drab pale brown uniforms that looked more suitable for cleaners than anything particularly grand. The orchestra consisted of two men with matching black hair that fought against their containment, and a women with blonde that had already won out. The women, for her part, seemed to want to get better acquainted with the instruments and one of the men quickly pulled her away, rolling his eyes and sounding disgruntled despite the smile on his lips.
Allan wasn't the only one who was excited by the arrival of the musicians; a young couple, arm in arm, dressed in the latest muggle fashion pointed at the trio. The women, who despite looking beautifully seductive, portrayed the mannerisms of an excitable child.
"Look, Firo, its a band!"
The man displayed a similar countenance, causally lowering his shades without relinquishing his grip on the women; he whistled loudly.
"Is it Mozart or Beethoven, maybe even Glass!?"
He grabbed his hat, throwing it into the air as the women applauded. "Play us a song," he sang with an affected voice that sounded suspiciously like he was trying to gain the attention of everyone on the platform.
The man who was trying to pull the blonde haired women off looked over, eyes shrouded by his cap. He stuck up his middle finger defiantly. The singing man seemed to take this as encouragement, unperturbed as he caught his hat deftly, much to the delight of the childish women, before blowing a kiss in the bands' direction as he boarded one of the more glamorous carriages, singing as loud as ever, much to the distaste of his fellow passengers.
The man from the band finally conceded defeat to the blonde haired women. He sighed, adjusting his cap, giving the impression that he was covering something up.
Not everyone could focus on the upcoming party at Hogwarts. Such a large party of people spelt a massive headache concerning security. Aurors were like ghosts, trained to mingle inconspicuously - one didn't want to upset the party mood - they drifted, alert to any possible disruption. Some part-time workers had set up stalls for food and fluids while Healers had been granted a special carriage to tend to those feeling unwell. So many people in such a tight space was a breeding ground for sickness.
Benjamin had been serving as a conductor for the train for... what was it now? 50 years? Yes, that sounded about right. He was a humble man; who didn't ask for much. Some would call it a lack of ambition, but Benjamin slept at night with the knowledge that he was satisfied. In a way, he was the luckiest man alive.
He didn't have any kids himself, although it never bothered him or his wife. As conductor, he had been granted special access to thousands of childrens' lives over the years. In a way, they were all his children. He had watched them grow from nervous first years filled with wild thoughts, to competent men and women who guided their own children down the same trusted road, relying on him to bring them back safely.
It had become such an important task that many didn't even consider it, like they didn't consider their own heartbeat. Benjamin considered it a compliment. To live vicariously through these people was to live a thousand times.
The Hogwarts Express had changed considerable over the years he'd been working, but retaining enough of its original spirit to not be accused of dissimulation. He looked around the conductor's perennial carriage. It made him feel young again to step foot in here. No matter how many infirmities he'd accumulated over the years, this tenacious carriage remained as magnanimous as when he'd first met her.
The system had completely revamped for the more 'refined' guests. Each carriage was designed to match the tastes of the occupants, with corridors separating each carriage from one and other. They were celebrating unity in the face of a great threat. No need to live with each other, Benjamin thought snidely as he inspected his own quarters.
It was different from the other carriages. The conductors weren't going on some voyage, they were working, and the practical air reflected that. A temperamental clock was hung on the right wall and another clock adjacent to it - so the conductors didn't have to waste time turning their heads - didn't always agree with its opinion on the time. There was no seats, so conductors avoided the temptation of sitting down; their job was on their feet, constantly moving between the passengers. The floor also felt strangely like stone, whether to discourage the conductors on sitting down further, or simply as a result of poor craftsmanship, he wasn't sure. There was also a small public address system that didn't really project loudly enough for the normal amount of carriages to hear, never mind the extended amount they were contending with today.
To his great pride, he'd been the sole conductor since his last apprentice had immigrated to America, some twenty years ago. No one since had passed his internal assessment, much to his superiors' exasperation. He'd tried not to be too offended when the Ministry had taken liberties, hiring a new conductor to "assist him on this expedition", as the Ministry called it. What had irritated him further was the fact that they hadn't even consulted him. As if eviscerating the train wasn't enough for them, he thought with irritation.
The effusive and fun loving children had been replaced by the pompous elongated upper class who Benjamin remembered as spoiled snot nosed children, born with a silver wand up their arse. It was going to be unpleasant dealing with their snobbery rather than the innocence of the children, but he was the only one for the job.
One of the young upstarts that he'd been told to expect was already in the carriage. He straightened his lined and haggard face in an attempt to appear amiable. Conductors had to have a pleasant disposition by default. The young man was practically overflowing with excitement, standing in the centre of the room, fidgeting like he didn't know what to do with himself.
"Your first time, son?"
The man jumped out of his daydream with a start, he looked around as if he had been caught in a criminal activity. Benjamin could have announced himself but he'd wanted to test this young man's reactions. If he was going to be working for him then he'd have to be in peak condition. Benjamin would accept no less.
He repeated the question.
"Y- Yes, sir, fours years in the making I am," he smiled as if to prove that they were all worth it, worth every second.
"Do you have a name?"
"Yes, sir, Adam."
The old man nodded in satisfaction, turning to begin his inspections, the young man rose nervously.
"Sir, I - just wanted to say," he straightened up now, head held high. "It's an honour to be working with you. I look forward to many successful voyages with you," he spoke with the practised ease of someone reciting memorised lines, but judging by the way he respectfully bowed to end his speech, Benjamin guessed it was heartfelt.
Benjamin looked at him, eyes scanning from top to bottom, then smiled.
"This is my last ride son."
The young man gasped and then lowered his head, as if he'd just heard of the death of a close friend. "I'm sorry, sir."
"Hey, come on, it isn't like I'm dying or anything. I worked my ass off for this retirement, and I intend to enjoy, damn it. There's more to life than this." Benjamin stretched his arms, gesturing around the room.
The young man looked like he'd never truly thought of such a notion.
Benjamin sighed, this was why he didn't have kids of his own. He'd have run out of spoons to feed them with after the first year! "Every generation thinks they're most important, that they are different, that their problems are greater, their wars more meaningful, but in the end, that meaning is simply self-applied. In the end, the real judge will be future generations like yourself, and I doubt we'll care much by then?"
"... Why not... sir?"
"Because we'll be dead."
Benjamin added while laughing, "Ah, who knows, maybe your generation will be different after all. Your time is coming soon, hopefully you don't make the same mistakes we did, but, we're all the same."
"Sorry, sir, but you said... mistakes?"
"Bah, whadda I know. I'm satisfied with what I've done and I'm now going to enjoy the simpler things in life, probably laughing as I watch you all run around like idiots."
Benjamin motioned for him to follow. "You take the front, I'll take the back. I'm sure I don't have to remind you to be polite when asking for tickets."
"Of course, sir, I've read the manual," Adam answered, eager to please. So there's a manual now, Benjamin thought, bemused.
Benjamin bent down, setting the stove ready for some tea. Adam eyed him curiously but was too polite to ask what he was doing.
"We have inspections every half hour, in between it'd be better to stay refreshed ourselves, don't you think?"
Adam nodded slowly, jotting the information down on his hand fastidiously. Apparently that hadn't been in the manual!
"Oh, and another thing, please, once we go out there, call me Benjamin. We should at least appear to be friendly. Appearance is everything in this job, and you only get one chance to make a first impression."
"Yes, sir!" Adam saluted. Benjamin rubbed his brow, this was going to be a long day.
"Well, let's go into the lion's den."
"The... lion's den, sir?"
"It's a metaphor, son."
Benjamin could sense movement behind him.
"Adam?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Don't write that down."
He could hear Adam quickly correcting his shirt sleeve. This one could take a while.
As he walked out of the carriage together with his effusive partner, he couldn't help but be reminded of himself when he looked at Adam. A much younger and stupider version who was too eager to please, but himself none the less.
****************************************************************
"One, two, three, turn; one, two, three, turn.... You're very good at this," Vermont said as he led Daphne across the carriage in a Waltz. The scene seemed to have been stolen from a mushy romantic movie. The walls were covered in blood red lovehearts that made Daphne want to vomit rather than sing a serenade. The furnisher had been moved to one side to make way for the 'dance floor' that Daphne and Vermont currently resided in. Some classical piece that Daphne could not appreciate in her current situation played lightly in the background. Don't touch me you sick pervert, she wanted to scream, but instead she let her treacherous mouth say, "More wine?"
Any excuse to get away from him, she thought, exhausted. Her shoulders sagged as she turned her back on him under the pretence of getting the bloody wine that burned a hole through her throat. It was the lesser of the two evils however and-
"Wait, stop!" He touched her shoulder lightly, pulling her towards him.
"I'm sorry?" she said, fluttering her eyelids, perfectly in sync with his sudden mood swings.
His eyes burned with an intense fire. "Never leave me, darling."
Daphne rubbed her eyes, managing to produce a few tears for his approval. It also was a blessing to break his gaze, a gaze that was undressing her, stitch by stitch. She nodded to reassure him as was cordial but he wasn't satisfied.
"No, continue, continue!" he said like an exulted soldier waiting for further orders.
"Continue what?"
He smiled devilishly, Daphne was amazed at how one could smile in so many different ways; while remaining vigilant for any roaming hands. "Talking."
"You like my voice?" Daphne said elegantly, blushing profusely.
"Do I like it!" he said with bewilderment, finally releasing her as he waved his arms to give a visual demonstration on how axiomatic the question was.
But then his arms were around her again as his voice trembled with emotion. "Your voice, your sweet lyrical voice bares resemblance to the subtle cadence of a harp string played in my heart."
Vermont leaned in close, lips brushing her neck. "And it plays only for you, baby. Only... for you."
"Oh, my," Daphne gasped, flustered. The good little virgin.
"Roses are red, violets are blue, and I want you."
Oh crap, abandon ship, he was leaning for a chaste kiss now. Daphne knew where this was going if she didn't castrate his horniness. Concentrate, think of something, that's what she would say. Okay.
Daphne leaned in, allowing him a kiss for damage limitations. "You could have me anywhere, I'm yours."
His eyes seemed to glaze over even further, if that were physically possible, as he began pushing her towards the wall.
"But as yours," she interrupted, breath shuddering, "don't you think I should retain my purity for a more appropriate occasion? Such as the revolution?"
His eyes returned to clarity with recalcitrance. His decadent desires were forgotten as he smiled again, this time with a bittersweet edge.
"How right you are, baby. Our victory shall be glorious. Imagine their faces, as they beg for mercy, and you standing there, in all your grace and glory, standing in your rightful place, by my side. Imagine the power, the romanticized world we will create together, the new Adam and Eve. The fruits of our love will..."
He paused and Daphne held her breath, lips parched and appearing outwardly as if she were intoxicated with the promised future. His breathing became ragged as he locked eyes with her. He winked at her with belligerence. "But you can't wait."
He pounced on her in what he hoped was a display of animalistic dominance. Like a peacock displaying his feathers, he lifted her up, spinning her around. Crap, this wasn't what she'd planned! Think!
"I shall have you-" CRACK.
Daphne fell to the ground suddenly as she watched a vase connect sickeningly with the skull of her 'lover'. It was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard, the vase breaking on impact, little shards scrapping his scalp just to compound his hell.
"Clumsy and simple, Neville, but I suppose that sums you up?" She hid her relief well, redirecting her emotions in the only way she knew how. Almost managing to appear annoyed at her rescue.
"Daphne," Neville whined nervously. "Charlie said we're supposed to use the code names."
"Daphne? Charlie? Great code names, Longbottom." Daphne snorted derisively as Neville blushed.
"But, but Charlie-"
"Weasley can crawl under a rock and die for all I care."
"You wouldn't say that to his face," Neville said without thinking.
Daphne simply smiled delicately as she gave an experimental tap to the body before her, wiping her shoe on Vermont's silk shirt. He was knocked out cold, blood pouring languidly from multiply gashes on his head. She watched the pool of blood trickle slowly... the same colour as the lovehearts on the wall. "Unlike this man and yourself, I possess a modicum of intelligence," she muttered while continuing to lightly kick the body.
"You seemed to be enjoying it to me," Neville said slowly, not fully understanding the magnitude of his words. Daphne turned her back on him, afraid she might crack.
"Well, at least he knows how to treat a women." NO, NO, NO, NO.
"Are you okay?" Neville asked, watching her movements closely.
She abruptly stopped, huffing loudly. "Simpleton. Why haven't you told me where Luna and Potter are? I need to discipline him in particular for having thoughts above his station."
Neville shifted nervously,."You know the plan..."
Daphne stepped lightly over the body before strutting to the door. She motioned for Neville to follow her, smiling wickedly as she knocked over Vermont's expensive wine. The bottle smashed like the vase, mingling with Vermont's blood. She hoped he drowned in it.
She winked at Neville, turning down the corridor, knowing on instinct that he was following her. "New plan."
Duly obliging, Neville rushed to catch up with her. "Did you find anything useful?"
"He was just a pawn in a much bigger game."
Neville gulped nervously and Daphne rubbed her hands together internally. It was a game she intended to win.
