A/N: See! I told you I would update! BWAHAHAHAHAH! So here's chapter 2, Red vs Blue ((no, I did not mean to make it rhyme)) with a bunch of grammatical and spelling errors. I did try to fix it up as best as I could, but if you see anything horrible that might mark the end of the world as we know it, tell me. THANKS! XD
A/N Update: Fixing everything. No need for alarm. Just got a ticket to a club called Tabu. S/O to all the Tally people out there. You know who I'm talking about ;) I'm not going though, so don't expect to see me there.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor Darker than Black. They go to their respective owners. Also, I do not own Red vs. Blue. Below is a small excerpt alluding to it. Feel free to watch RvB on youtube under the username: Roosterteeth.
"We're playing for the fight's emotional game
I'm turning off my eyes and hiding my shame."
-A Neverending Dream, Cascada.
Draco curls his lip in disgust, staring at the flat surface of what muggles call a teleevizion—or however the bloody hell you say it. Blaise told them it's called a telly for short. He installed it into his room, somehow getting passed the magic wards that keep muggle technology from working. Whatever he did worked: it's flashing with bright colours with no interferences.
Damn muggle contraption.
He glowers at the screen as another explosion pulses from the large boxes on both sides of the telly. He's very much insulted. His eyes narrow in distaste, watching the character in front of him die…again. A muffled laugh comes out of Blaise.
"You really suck at this," he chortles in glee at Draco's misery.
Draco shoots him a scathing look. "Sod off."
He just shrugs, going back to mauling Draco's character. Oh how much the blond wants to wipe that smirk off his face with a 100 ton hippogriff. It would make him think twice before laughing at him.
Somehow Blaise managed to get the prude pureblood to play Halo 4 with him—a game that he found to love when he visited his cousins in America. He's been addicted to it ever since, and Draco isn't exactly easing the addiction by the way he's so horribly losing. It's hilarious. Not only did he drag an unwilling Draco, but Pansy, Theodore, Millicent and Daphne are also participating in the game.
His character, clad in red armour, holds a shotgun, climbing into a warthog before running over Draco's blue soldier. Another eloquent curse elicits from the blonde's mouth and Blaise snickers.
The blond sneers at his handheld device thingy and waits for his character to rematerialize. After a lot of hitting and threatening, Blaise finally agrees to set up teams. So now there are two teams, to Draco's luck, one consisting of Nott, Millicent, Pansy and himself, and the other holding Daphne, Blaise, and Daphne's younger sister, and her sister's friend, who, along with her friend, decided to leave the game 10 minutes ago.
Blaise tried to redo the teams only to be yelled at by Pansy and Draco.
So now Draco is trudging through the Gulch, miraculously surviving for ten whole minutes. He finally finds Blaise and they have a standoff with a promise of only firearms in their duel.
"BOOM"
Of course that doesn't happen, since Draco sucks at the game.
Draco turns to Blaise after watching his character get shot from a tank, but the Italian turns to him in confusion and surprise.
"I didn't do that," is all he can muster from the surprising death.
From their left, a boyish laugh sounds in a flurry of snorts. The Malfoy heir's mouth drops open in sick horror.
"You team killing fucktard," Pansy yells at Nott, brandishing her wand in a flurry of anger. How dare he kill Draco! Impudent bastard!
"Wait. Who turned on friendly fire," Blaise wonders aloud.
Millicent snorts. Everyone's eyes turn to her—some in amusement, some in wonder, and others in betrayal. Her eyes widen with false innocence. "I've never played this game before," she simpers, whilst killing Nott's character with an expert throw of a grenade. A thundering explosion interrupts the silence.
"Lying bint," Nott mutters, his voice sulking as he waits for his character to regenerate.
Her eyes flash dangerously and she flicks her wand discretely, watching with morbid fascination as boils painfully erupt on his face. His scream is mixed with surprise and pain.
"Son of a bitch," he howls, covering his face.
She sticks her tongue out triumphantly, only to freeze and fall down, petrified. Daphne sneers at her fallen figure in contempt.
Son of a bitch, the girl thinks in anger as Daphne turns back to the screen mildly.
Daphne grins evilly as she controls her character to take Millicent's very tempting sword. Bitch, that's what you get for hurting Nott, she thinks darkly, even though she makes no move to relieve the poor boy's pain and agony.
Suddenly the girl cries out in horror as pain laces her body. "Son of a bitch," she gasps out, her vision blurring red as she tries reaching for her wand, which was inconveniently kicked far away from her reach by a black designer boot.
Pansy.
"I'm a girl," she hisses with a scowl. It contorts back into a pleasant smile as she plops onto a green, plush sofa. That's for trying to hit on Dray.
Blaise frowns at his friends. He doesn't like this at all. Nope. Not one bit; they're not supposed to be killing each other physically. Only figuratively. He really doesn't want to hex Pansy, but she must learn not to hex people in his room. With a suffering sigh, he flicks his wand.
She falls onto the ground with a loud thud.
He cringes at the sight of her eyes, burning in fury. He can already hear her yelling in his mind and the one distinct phrase that everyone has been using. I'm really going to regret this, he thinks mournfully.
His body suddenly shudders and his vision bleeds white.
"You shouldn't go around, magicking fellow Slytherins," Draco scolds with pleasure, staring at the twitching figure at his feet with sadistic glee. "Naughty, naughty."
"Son of a bitch," Blaise growls, his vision still marred by white.
Draco flushes angrily. "That's my mother you're talking about neanderthal!"
He turns to the screen, his eyes locking onto Blaise's character. His heart beats quickly, palpable, as he strolls up to the man. Finally! He breathes in excitement, raising the sword he took from Millicent's red character a while back.
He pauses, savouring the moment and swings it, and then…
the lights turned off…
"Son of a bitch," he yells in anger, jamming the buttons, trying futilely to get back to the almost victory. The screen doesn't turn back on.
In rage, he chucks the remote at the screen. Sparks explode from the large hole in the telly. But that doesn't ease the anger bubbling in his stomach and mind.
"I'm sensing...an angry and irate blond who is rage-quitting."
Ron frowns and looks down at his Divination notes. With an uncaring shrug, he writes down Harry's speculation while Hermione stares at them both with her mouth agape.
"You're seriously not going to submit that," she asks, though it sounds more like a statement. "I'm not in that class and I know that's just made up."
She folds her arms across her chest.
They've been doing homework for an hour, completing a dratted Potions essay and a DADA essay with the help of the Gryffindor brainiac. Since they've already started working, they just went onto Divination to write down daily predictions about the present. It's completely rubbish, but they have to do it nonetheless.
"'Mione, it doesn't matter. It's something to write down and I actually think it's happening," Harry says in a serious manner. He puts away his quills and parchments, Ron doing the same. "It's better than the usual 'some-just-was-brutally-murdered-by-a-man-eating-dolphin-in-the-desert' and either way the she-bat believes it. No harm no foul." He stops thoughtfully. "And now it's telling me to grab something to eat."
Ron grins
"You can't do that," she objects, hands on her hips. "You just had dinner and it's passed curfew."
"Relax 'Mione, it's not like we're going to get caught," Ron says, following Harry to the entrance of the common room. "Hey. We'll bring you something back."
Her cheeks puff out in indignation, watching the painting close. A moment passes and she chases after them and gives an exasperated huff to the waiting men. The invisibility cloak lifts a fraction to let her in. She pointedly ignores the freckled Gryffindor's grin as they trail down the corridor to the kitchen.
Fifteen minutes later, the Golden Trio emerge from behind the pear, Hermione's nose wrinkled in evident disgust as the other two munch greedily on treacle tarts. From down the hall, they see a quick dark movement, disappearing down to the left. She frowns, copying Harry's expression of curiosity.
He quickly downs the pastry with pumpkin juice and chases after it, a voice echoing with a hiss in his head. When he turns the corner, he barely evades a wand that almost pokes his eye out. They come face to face with a scowling Parkinson and an impassive Zabini.
"You shouldn't be out," Hermione says, her voice rising in suspicion. "It's passed curfew."
"Up yours, Granger," Parkinson hisses, her eyes flashing with…is that worry? What the hell are they worried about? "And anyway, can't be in trouble. Prefects, remember? Or has your brain become as muddled as your atrocious hair?"
"For your information, we're prefects too," Ron shoots back.
"But Golden Boy isn't," she sneers. A look of triumph flash across her face as Hermione gives Harry a look of dreaded realisation. "Oh, what would the Headmistress say if she were to find out the precious Boy-Who-Lived"—she snarls the words with disdain—"has been out pass curfew, endangering his life for just a morsel."
"Why are you here," Harry counters before Ron could retort.
The same feature of worry appears on her face before it's hidden with a heated glare. She opens her mouth to say something—probably biting—but Zabini cuts her off.
"Let's go back," he says, his voice uncertain. He fidgets uncomfortably under her death glare but then she sighs in defeat. With a scowl, she follows him back to the Slytherin room, but not before shooting one hesitant glance down the hall.
Harry stares at their figures while Hermione admonishes Ron for his disappointing conduct—"house unity"…"I swear Ron"…"Don't let them rile you up." It's after a moment he finally hears an annoyed hiss. He looks both ways in surprise and the hiss comes again, more annoyed and urgent.
Down here ssspeaker.
He looks down, with a look of bewilderment, to find a small green snake glaring at him—at least that's what it seemed, if snakes could glare. Male, he suspects, admiring the neon sheen of its skin in the dim light of the torches.
What, he asks in surprise after a moment, completing missing what it just said.
It flicks its forked tongue out in irritation. The Malfoy boy—man, it amends after a moment, thoughtfully. It flicks its tail, beckoning for Harry to follow.
What's going on,Harry enquires, trying to keep up with the slithering serpent.
Before you decided to rudely interrupt, Mistress Pansy and Master Blaise were trying to look for Master Draco, it hisses. I was tracking him and they left me!
Harry blinks. It suspiciously sounded like a whine.
They turn another corner and Harry pushes himself—rather reluctantly—up the stairs to follow the serpent. They finally stop, and it's after a tiring and wheezing moment for air, Harry realises where they are. It's a bit hazy, but if he remembers correctly, it's the room that hosted the Mirror of Erised before it was moved.
The snake's forked-tongue flicks and it turns its head to a figure, huddled and enveloped in the silver-blue moonlight from the arched windows.
"Malfoy," he finally asks, taking a step forward, only to be stopped by a small, non-venomous nip on his foot.
The serpent seems slightly hesitant on letting the Gryffindor continue, but after a moment, it nods.
The closer he gets to the still figure, the more he realises the warming temperature of the room. There's a flickering glow of light in front of Malfoy and Harry finds himself gazing at the way the light glistens warmly off his white, alabaster face and how it dances along his cheek bones, glinting brightly in his dull eyes.
"Malfoy," he repeats, tentatively reaching for the Slytherin's shoulder, but hesitating before making contact. He doesn't touch him, in fear that the blond might jump into the flames from contact. The only thing he can do right now is wait.
It's quite strange, now that he thinks about it. He'd be the last person to look for the prat. Ron would probably try to scare him into the flames and would only repent later from Hermione's never-ending haranguing.
After a long, agonizingly silent minute later, the blond jerks up, in a rigid movement, from his trance, falling backwards with a choked scream. He stares at the fire with fear. A rustle to his left makes him realise that he's not alone.
"Potter?" He blinks, his mouth falling open. They stare at each other, waiting for the other to say something. "Oh sh—" He quickly puts out the flames that were threatening to spread.
"I never knew you were such a pyro…though I do believe that they don't dumbly stare at the flames that might kill them," Harry finally says.
The other flinches at the comment. "Me either," he says sullenly, tucking his legs to his body in a position that his father would definitely not approve of. "Then again, when have you ever seen me with a lighter?" He tries to keep his voice light, but knows that Harry doesn't believe him.
Harry looks at him with concern etched on his face. "This…this room held a special mirror once. It showed what you most desired," he says, his voice melancholic, remembering how he would stare in it and see his family waving at him with smiles. Malfoy looks up at him with suspicion. "I saw it my first year." A soft smile melts on his face, remembering the warm memory as if it were yesterday.
The blond nods numbly. "What did you see?"
"My parents," he says solemnly, not wanting to add the whole line of his ancestors into the mix.
"The Mirror of Desire," Malfoy says, his voice distant.
Harry gives him a started look, blinking. He nods dumbly and they sit there in compatible silence.
It's strange. Sitting with Malfoy like this without animosity between them—it's actually quite nice. A small hiss reminds the brunet that they're not as alone as they thought, and Malfoy turns to the sound in surprise.
"Winston?" He asks.
The reptile hisses in reply, glad that the finally blond acknowledged him.
Harry stares at him in confusion. "The snake's name is Winston?"
It sniffs derisively, as if insulted by the blatant questioning of his name.
"But he's a muggle," Harry protests, stunned that Parkinson would name her snake that.
Draco scowls at the Gryffindor's audacity to question the name. "We're not that prejudice. It's better than having him Robert or any other idiotic name. Winston sounds respectable and established, and he seems to like it."
It slithers up his arm with a pleased hiss at the heir.
Harry flushes in embarrassment and for some strange reason, Malfoy can't help but think it's quite cute—platonically of course… Dammit. He isn't attracted to him at all! Sure, the brunet is attractive, but he isn't attracted to the bloody git.
"By the way, why are you here?" He has calmed down a while ago from the minor…discrepancy of his character. His eyebrow is quirked in a questioning fashion at the Gryffindor.
"Winston—" He coughs, clearing his throat. His voice came out unusually rough. "Winston brought me. You see…" He explains everything to Malfoy who just stands quietly, listening to the brunet's prattling.
When Harry finishes, the Slytherin all but scowls. "Those blithering, nosey—" He sees Harry's reproachful expression and stops his sentence to explain. "They're nice people, Blaise and Pansy, and I appreciate it that they looked for me, but…" He trails off.
"Hmmm," he says, and for some reason, Malfoy feels reassured. "Ummm…we should get going," Harry says awkwardly with a cough, interrupting the impending silence between them.
They walk down the stairs and corridors in compatible silence before splitting ways.
"Thanks," Malfoy says hastily. He leaves the surprised Gryffindor, Winston coiling around his neck, hissing something in his ear that he doesn't understand.
Harry feels his stomach warm, the unfamiliar bubbling sensation threatening to break out as a smile. It's strange. To hear Malfoy—his arch-nemesis—speak to him without a single snarky comment, and then thank him…It's unlike anything he really ever experienced before. Sure, he's been thanked before—thousands of times to be exact—but when Malfoy said it…
Something must seriously be wrong with him.
Dammit.
"I don't care," Hermione hisses in a low whisper to Harry. "You can't write that down." Her eyes glare at the journal in his hands.
Harry frowns at her. "It's not like she's going to care. And you abhor that class, so why should you care?" His reminder of how she threw the glass-ball down the stairs in fury the last time she was in the class makes her flush red.
"But I—"
"Look at that Pansy," a voice sneers. The two turn to see Malfoy, Zabini and Parkinson, walking towards them as if they own the place. "Seems like Granger thinks she actually has some talent in the ludicrous subject, Divination."
"Sod off Malfoy," growls Ginny, shooting him a look of pure loathing.
He gives her a look of surprise, a grin spreading over his face. "Look! Seems like the Weaselette is trying to talk to us." He earns a cackle of laughter from Parkinson while Zabini shakes his head, a smile creeping across his face. "Don't strain yourself. You need to keep that little head of yours on straight," he patronizes with a simpering tone.
"For your information," the ginger huffs, brushing off the last part, "she doesn't have to follow a phoney to be smart. And Harry's just—"
"Oh yes. The Golden Boy," Parkinson croons. "What did you write down?" She snatches Harry's journal from the table before anyone could stop her, earning a look of amusement from Malfoy. After reading it, she starts to laugh.
Ginny turns red and Harry looks at them in confusion, feeling the muddling urge to sink down into the ground and out of sight, but strangely unbothered by the fact that he just got his journal frisked. A snort of laughter erupts from Zabini as he reads the chicken-scrawl.
"Draco," he chortles, handing the journal to the suspicious blond who takes it in silence. Other than the slight pinking of his usually pale cheeks, his face is passive. "Oh come on. Admit it. It's hysterical."
"Yes, very funny," Draco says dryly, reading the entry back over with a look of disdain. He drops it onto the table. "However, it's too bad that he left out the part where the blond hexed an idiotic and immature Italian."
Zabini stops and a scowl forms on his face. Parkinson snickers.
"Oh shut up Pansy," Zabini snaps. She just sticks her tongue out at him and clings tighter to Malfoy for protection.
Hermione frowns at their behaviour while the others are a mix of confusion and rage. She picks up the journal that Malfoy has dropped. She doesn't understand what's so funny. It's just about a blond rage-quitting—wait.
Blond.
Her eyes flicker to Malfoy's pale, blond hair. It's then she understands. Blond.
When she laughs, Ron and Ginny just stare at her, both thinking that their friend finally broke from all the studying she has done in the past years.
"Blond," she giggles, clutching her stomach, letting Ron and Ginny take the journal. Ron snickers while Ginny frowns at the writing. Harry stares at Malfoy in sudden realisation, a smile cracking across his face, making the Slytherin's scowl deepen.
"Sure," he mutters in annoyance, "laugh at the blond, why don't you?"
"I knew you were dramatic, but this?" Ron cackles in glee.
All of the sudden, a shriek pierces the air like nails dragged across a chalkboard.
"What the hell Pansy?!" Malfoy demands, clutching his ringing ears.
"RED!" Is all she yells before running at top speed down the hallway, leaving a trail of dust in her wake.
Malfoy turns and stares thoughtfully at ginger. He smirks. "Soulless arse."
He turns to the direction that Parkinson ran, Zabini following him with indiscreet looks at him.
Ron turns red.
It has been three full days since Harry has run into Malfoy and it was quite relaxing. There were no arguments, no ignorant contentions nor bouts with the Slytherins, nor any kind of mishaps involving him being hexed or verbally abused. Of course, during his musings, he bumps into someone.
"This has got to stop, Potter. If we keep bumping into each other, I insist that I must be on top," a snarky voice says with a sneer.
Harry scowls and moves to get up, only to elicit a groan from the other. He freezes. Looking down, he realises how compromising their position is. Fuck, he curses in his head, staring at Malfoy's calculating look with slight apprehension. Taking a deep breath, he notes the situation with morbid intrigue.
Shifting a bit, he gets another groan from the man on the bottom.
No doubt, as Malfoy pointed out, he's on top of the latter. He can feel pressure on the inside of his thigh and another on the outside. If he were to shift his head lower, he'd be hearing a clearer sound of the other's heartbeat, palpable and drumming in a rapid pattern. Malfoy's apple and mint breath brushes his face and he can't help but stare into his stormy grey eyes, finding them hypnotising.
Damn. He is crazy.
With careful, thought out movements, he manoeuvres his body off the blond, finding himself quite disappointed by the way the other's movements seem more stiff. Malfoy makes a noncommittal grunt and dusts the imaginary particles of dirt off his robes. He suddenly freezes.
Harry frowns and stares at him for a moment before turning his head. A previously unlit torch sparks into bright blue flames. His head whips back to Malfoy in surprise.
The Slytherin's eyes are grey hazed mist, staring at Harry. No. That's not right. They're looking through Harry, seeing something else that isn't there. It's almost like he has no pupils and Harry feels chills run down his neck, prickling. It's frightening. He's not frightened, per say, but he's frightened for the boy who's staring at non-existent space.
With pulling hesitation, he gingerly touches the blond, who in turn, jerks sporadically from the light brush. The movement is quick and alarming, but he finds himself relieved when light and life slowly seeps into existence. He breathes out the breath that he didn't know he was holding.
Malfoy gives him a look of sudden confusion then a scowl mars his face.
"Try not to be so…clumsy," Malfoy says with a frown, confusion edging his words.
Harry nods numbly and watches the Malfoy heir walk pass him with a huff. All of the sudden, his hand reaches out and clasps onto his robes. The blond turns, looks down at Harry's hand, then his face with a quirked eyebrow.
Oh Salazar. What should he do?
"Where are you going," he blurts out, cursing his impulses internally.
"To Divination," Malfoy replies, amusement and confusion in his eyes.
"Oh," he says rather smartly, letting go of the cloak.
Malfoy nods. His head turns slowly to the side, and for some strange reason, Harry believes he's looking at the Divination Tower, beyond the bricks and passages of Hogwarts.
"Something's going to happen," he suddenly says, his voice eerie, sending chills down Harry's spine. His head snaps forward and the click of his heels drowns out the brunet's thoughts. "Be careful Harry." His voice is tight, as if he knows something that Harry doesn't. "Be careful."
It's not until Harry walks silently down the hall, up the Divination tower, and seats himself beside Ron does he realise that Malfoy said his name.
"Mr Finnegan, after you drop one of the crystal balls, please let Ms Brown take out one instead. They're very expensive," Professor Trelawney says, breezing in between tables swabbed in light, minty green fabric. She changed them last year, something about how her inner eye told her that she must change them this colour. "Now, once you've collected the required materials, please get together with your partner…." Groans fill the air, rising over her voice as she continues to speak with unblinking eyes.
Ron nudges Harry with an apologetic look as he collects his paraphernalia to join a petrified Parkinson.
"As much as I know you enjoy my presence, you need to get our supplies," Draco drawls slowly.
Harry resists the urge to hit the man, grinding out with clenched teeth, "Why can't you? Too spoiled? Let the house elves do everything?"
He stills, surprised at himself. Malfoy frowns and opens his mouth to refute Harry's intolerant and impudent words with something scathing, but closes it, changing his mind, knowing it wouldn't do any good to argue with the prat. Without another word, he viciously gets up, grabs the supplies and brings them back to their table. The crystal ball is as shiny and as normal as ever, showing neither hints nor desires to change and help them predict the future.
"Why the bloody hell do we need to do this," Malfoy growls, glaring at it with distaste.
Harry inwardly agrees, but sighs, "It'll be helpful in the future…maybe."
"Yes, because everyone is going to become a seer and spout useless, trivial nonsense," Malfoy says dryly. After staring at Harry's bemused expression, he frowns and returns his gaze to the orb—of which isn't even trying to help them predict the bloody future. "What do you see," he demands.
Harry stares at it intently, resisting the impulse to redirect his eyes to Malfoy's lovely, silver, luminescent—stop it! Don't get distracted!
His gaze intensifies into a glare and to his surprise, mist starts to swirl inside of it, glowing, twinkling speaks blooming into the glass, glowing brighter and brighter, then falling in streaks of white. A figure rises in the mist and he can't help but feel terror prickle his spine as it starts to move towards a large wall, looming against the dark skies that are brightened by city lights glowing against—
"…Potter."
Harry looks up to find Malfoy's eyes staring at him with…worry? But why would he be worried? It seems as if—sadly the Gryffindor doesn't get to finish the thought process as a voice interrupts.
"How strange Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy. It seems as if something bad is going to happen." Mrs Trelawney's misty voice comes up behind them, nearly startling Harry from his seat.
"How is that strange," Malfoy interrupts with annoyance laced in his voice. The old hag always says that something might happen that will bring their downfall or death.
She blinks. "It seems that there will be a meteor shower."
Harry just stares at her in utter confusion and opens his mouth to ask something, but she leaves without another look. When he spares Malfoy a glance, the boy looks considerably pale.
The bell finally rings and when Malfoy walks by him—Harry's packing his bags beside a chattery Ron—he can hear the Slytherin mutter, "no…not yet. It hasn't happened yet…"
With caution, Draco takes the book that he found about mysterious Contractors and Dolls to the Come and Go Room, wishing for a private place where unwanted people won't intrude on him. With a bated breath, he opens it to a random page.
The book seems to always know what he wants to know—no. What he needs to know. If he didn't know better, the book was specifically made for him, sent for him…but from whom?
Shaking his head, he focuses on the text before him.
The Syndicate. Outranking the United States in power, this mysterious organisation train and utilises Contractors and dolls for valuable objects and information. As well as other organisations, they will do everything that they need or think is necessary.
P.A.N.D.O.R.A. ((Physical Alternation Natural Deconstruction Organised Research Agency))is an UN-operated research facility dedicating itself to studying the phenomenon surrounding Hell's Gate. It is not the only agency that has examined the abnormal properties of the gate, the Syndicate and the CIA have infiltrated the facility focused on almost every level of research taken and adhered by P.A.N.D.O.R.A.
Draco takes a deep breath, hoping for something different with anxiousness in his every movement. He turns the page.
Moratoria.
Known as an intermediate between both a Contractor and a Doll, they don't required obeisance as part of their growing power; however, unlike Contractors, they are unable to control their powers as they shift into a hypnotic state of unconsciousness. They also don't give off the Lancelnopt Synchotron radiation nor the usual red glow in Contractors' eyes when using their unstable powers. They suffer tremendous mental trauma as a result of being able to retain a normal, human entity. An unknown source stated that the chance of a Moratorium becoming a Contractor is very rare, but not impossible.
During the process, they also gain a Contract and adopt the placid and self-preserved mentality of a Contractor. Due to their instability, government organisations would do everything in their hands to incarcerate them, for the danger they pose to civilians and the eventual danger that they will pose once they're able to control and adhere their ability for their own gain.
However, there's a possibility of losing one's power. Those who lose their gift are called Forfeiters. They exchange their power for a glimmering hope for the normal life they had before the Change. Though the occurrences are often rare, it's not impossible to regain oneself, though the loss will be regained if the person steps back into the Gate.
Draco shakes his head for a moment. It's too good to be true…but.
He shuts the book and takes deep breaths in hopes to slow his heart rate.
But…
A/N: Hope you enjoyed it
