So, Chapter 4 is finally here! Sorry about the wait guys, but school had a burst of hectic-ness. I hope you like this one, though. I made it a bit longer than the last one because I prefer when updates are nice and long :D
I got the title name from a line in the poem called "The Chimney Sweeper" by William Blake—a really good poem (there are two by the same name and author) which I recommend reading together. But that may be just 'cause I had to write an essay on them :D I thought the title sums up the content quite sufficiently.
The spell literally means Soul Destroyer (probably completely grammatically wrong) in Latin.
Enjoy!
Chapter 4: Notes of Woe
Each second that ticked away felt like being stabbed in the heart. The very organ in question pounded out the rhythm of her fear as her gasping lungs tried to steady the wretched song.
Sweat appeared on her forehead as she wrenched her hands and shuffled her feet. Her hands weren't long together, and they pushed through her hair, pulling out a few strands in their haste.
She kept up this mantra of sorts, feet tapping, heart thumping, lungs heaving, and hands wringing. The dismal melody only drowned out by the still echoing sound of Draco's screams ringing in her ears.
She kept her eyes fixed on the plush gray carpet beneath her nervous feet, not truly understanding how she'd managed to get to her room on her own.
Once the door had finally opened—no, exploded—Hermione had been thrown aside by the force of a powerfully dark spell that, later on, she would realize she had been lucky to escape. When she looked up from the floor, she watched Dolohov stumble into the hallway.
Hermione's lungs emitted a sob at the thought. She felt as though that even when she got herself under control, she still wouldn't comprehend why Dolohov hadn't attacked her where she lay.
Instead, he had barely looked in her direction as he struggled to run away from whatever he'd left in the library.
And when he was gone, Hermione could scarcely bare to know either.
But she had risen, and had taken the few shaky steps between her spot on the ground and the door now splintered into pieces at her feet. She had looked into the library, now a mess, and the man kneeling on the ground, staring into space.
She had approached cautiously.
Draco's eyes weren't right. They were wide and the pupils were but pinpricks. The light color of his irises gave his stare an even more disturbing look: it was as if his eyes had rolled into the back of his head. Yet he seemed to be quite aware and focused on whatever he was looking at.
His arms hung limply in front of him, his hands lying on his thighs. But his back was straight and rigid. His mouth was closed.
Hermione hadn't known what to do. She crouched in front of him and passed a slow hand before his field of vision. He blinked, but continued his silent watch.
"Draco?"
Her voice had seemed to lessen his paralysis, and his pupils began to dilate.
She had continued murmuring softly to him, while she checked him for any visible wounds. He hadn't even been bleeding.
Finally, he had come around enough to speak. His tongue seemed to work faster than his mind though, because his sentences were garbled.
"Granger, Dolohov'sspelleftswhereshe?"
Hermione remembered shushing him and trying to help him stand. He hadn't been able to hold his weight.
And now, as she sat on her bed, hands still in fervent motion, the memory still made her shudder and cry.
Draco's eyes had closed and he had slumped onto the floor.
Hermione remembered that she had had, graciously, enough presence of mind to go for help. Because, now she knew that if she had dawdled, Draco would have died.
And luckily she hadn't been the only one in the house. Draco kept a Half-Blood Healer in the Manor. In hindsight, Hermione now knew why.
Jalen Cadbury was thrity-four years old and oddly proud given the circumstances. He had arrived to the Manor only three weeks after Hermione had, loudly voicing his opinions on "Death Eater filth" and "You-know-who's cowardice". Despite his over-confidence, Hermione was strongly reminded of Kingsley Shacklebolt whenever she thought of Jalen. She had soon realized that he lived only because each Death Eater was required to have a Healer on retainer. Otherwise, she doubted Draco would have put up with the older wizard's cheek.
Hermione had left Draco's side reluctantly, but knew Jalen was the only one qualified to diagnose and treat the bizarre curse Dolohov had used. There was only one problem, and Hermione prayed as she ran to the Healer's room that it wouldn't stop him from doing his job.
Jalen hated Draco.
At times, Hermione almost believed she could feel the hatred physically, whenever she was in the same room as they. It was even more common for her to believe that Jalen hated the man more than Harry and Ron had. More than she had…
She understood the hate. What captive wouldn't want freedom? Three weeks into her lockdown, she had wanted to kill herself. Slowly, the thought of such a dramatic solution had dissipated. Jalen still raged. But he didn't want to kill himself…
"Jalen!" Hermione had panted as she finally reached his room.
The man looked up, startled. "What's wrong, Hermione?" He came quickly to her and steadied her. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine. But…Draco," she waved her hand in the direction of the library, "Dolohov—fought."
Jalen clicked his tongue. "I'm sure the Great Master handled the situation well enough."
Hermione flinched at Jalen's nickname for Draco. While sarcasm blunted the moniker, Hermione still didn't like the thought of having a master.
"He's seriously injured, actually. I don't know what Dolohov did to him…he left. Draco's not—not right." Hermione gulped.
Jalen snorted. He'd never liked Hermione's unethical tolerance of Malfoy.
Hermione knew this but wasted no time re-explaining her reasoning. "Come on, it's your job to take care of him!"
"Treating someone is not the same as taking care of them," Jalen muttered resentfully. But he started gathering supplies nonetheless and Hermione breathed easier.
Not even two minutes later, Hermione had led a still grumbling Jalen to the library, hoping Draco's situation hadn't worsened.
It had.
Draco had begun to convulse wildly, eyes wide, pupils again constricted.
Hermione gasped and dropped to the seizing man's side. Jalen followed suit, his healing instincts shoving aside personal animosity. "How long has it been since Dolohov performed the curse?"
Hermione wrenched her eyes from Draco's. "I think at least ten minutes?"
Jalen said nothing as he pulled out his wand—something he was only allowed to use for medicinal purposes—and began checking Draco's body. "Hermione, I need you to lie across his arms and torso."
She obeyed instantly, gently lowering herself so that her side covered his stomach. She leaned forward and used her arms to brace his right arm and her leg to brace his left. She felt sick to her stomach as he writhed soundlessly beneath her.
Jalen sat at Draco's head, which twitched back and forth. His eyes remained as wide as ever.
Placing his knees on either side of Draco's head, the Healer pulled a potion out of his bag. He used his fingers to open Draco's mouth and forced him to drink the potion.
The effect was immediate. Hermione watched as Draco's eyes changed back to normal and his body stopped shaking. She closed her eyes in relief.
Draco started screaming.
Hermione looked down at his face in horror. He screamed and screamed, absolutely still.
"What did you do?" She shouted at Jalen who was calmly rifling through his bag.
"Nothing, I'm not finished yet."
But Draco's screams were reaching unbearable levels, a scream that filled Hermione with terror and sung of every pain imaginable.
Without thinking, she ran from the room, ignoring Jalen's protests.
Which brought her to her current position.
She was still shaking, but her breath had quieted.
What kind of spell had Dolohov used? Had one just gone horribly wrong?
What was happening now?
Hermione couldn't move.
Jalen's eventually appearance brought with it a bittersweet end to her waiting. Now she would find out…
Jalen looked at her for a few seconds, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed—deliberating.
"He's alive," he finally said.
Hermione slid from the bed, and knelt on the floor. She shook in relief, now.
Jalen walked away.
"Thank you," she whispered.
She stood slowly, wanting to see Draco terribly. But at the same time, she did not want to put him into a position in which he'd feel compelled to recount the horror of the past few hours. She did not want to know what had made his eyes change, what had made him scream as though someone had been sawing through his chest and breaking each of his ribs one at a time…
The urge to protect claimed her resolve forcefully.
She made her way to his room, trying not to think too much. She didn't want to run away again, when he needed her.
At his door she listened for any sign of movement within, not intending to interrupt his sleep.
"You can come in, Granger," she heard him call. Of course he would know she was there.
She opened the door and sidled in, refusing to make eye contact.
He was sitting up in his bed looking, in her opinion, a little too frustrated. He was messing with his pillows and fidgeting—clearly not wishing to be there.
When she got to his bedside, she could take it no longer and looked at him. Really looked.
He looked perfectly fine. But exhausted.
She sat down and pursed her lips as he snatched a newspaper off the nightstand beside her.
"So," he began. He didn't get far. When he saw that silent tears were streaming down her face, his expression softened and he put the paper down. "Granger," he murmured.
"Don't." Hermione stood up and crossed her arms. She turned away. "You—you were dying."
He did not refute this. She was right, of course, as she always was.
"And I—it was my fault. I shouldn't have snapped like that. Dolohov—he said—he said things that, that," she stopped and faced Draco, "that made me want to die."
Draco narrowed his eyes. "What things?"
Hermione whimpered and shook her head. Draco brushed aside the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
"Don't, you're hurt…"
"Shut up, Granger." He stood up and made her sit down. "Granger, what things? I can forbid him from entering the Manor ever again."
"No you can't. You-know-who would want to know why two of his Death Eaters were at odds and I don't want that on you."
Draco remained silent as he considered her thoughts. "You're probably right. But that doesn't mean I can't beat the living he—" Draco gasped and clutched his side. Hermione was immediately on her feet.
"What's wrong? Do you need Jalen?"
"No," he gritted his teeth and sucked in a breath, "it's just residual stuff. I'm fine." He straightened.
"What did he do to you?" She whispered.
"Animus Eversor."
"I've never heard of it."
"Well, I should hope not. I invented it."
"You? But…what does it do?"
"I don't think you'll like it very much."
"I want to know."
Draco regarded her. "It destroys one's soul."
Hermione felt her stomach heave. She put her head in her hands. After a few minutes: "You're not…your soul is—?"
"Still intact, yes." Draco sat down beside her. "Fortunately, I have yet to work out the kinks. And luckily, it seems those kinks don't cause instant death."
Hermione didn't share in his weak smile. "How?"
He sighed. "I don't believe now is the time."
"Why not?"
"You don't give up, do you?"
"No."
"I started by researching the exact origin and abilities of Dementors."
Hermione gasped. Draco smirked. "Riveting, I know."
He continued. "I didn't just want to make a spell that would simply extract the soul, as a Dementor does initially. I wanted one that would eradicate the soul. One that would make it impossible for the owner to return…in short, a more complex form of Avada Kedavra."
Hermione watched him, horrified and enraptured by his words.
"After I learned about the Dementors, I went about the spell."
Hermione interrupted. "How does one make a spell?"
Draco eyed her, hesitant.
"It's not like I have a wand to make my own," she snapped angrily.
"Yes, but you managed to steal Dolohov's, if I'm remembering correctly."
Hermione felt her cheeks flush and she looked away. Draco continued as if she hadn't spoken.
"Making a spell is relatively easy, for brilliant witches and wizards. One simply has to find the right words."
"That's it?"
"You sound skeptical."
"I'm sorry; I just don't think a spell can be created just by muttering a few lousy words."
"But you can't just mumble any old words. They have to be the right ones. Words are our most powerful weapons, Granger, even more so than ideas. Ideas can be wicked, hateful things, yes. But words are the catalysts that bring ideas into an existence everyone can see and feel."
Hermione thought about it. "So, you're saying that such a powerful idea—soul destruction in this case—can simply be achieved by voicing it?"
Draco nodded. "But only with words that work."
"I thought actions were more powerful than words."
"Ah, but in the case of wizard-kind, words are actions."
"I'll agree with you there. Muggles need action to affect violence. But what you're saying doesn't explain wordless magic."
"Is it truly wordless?"
"Yes, you don't say it."
"Out loud, no. But you still think of the word. Our magic abilities allow the word to do just as much damage when thought of as it does when we say it aloud. It again relates back to words being actions."
"Muggles' words mean nothing, then."
"Not to wizards like the Dark Lord." Draco saw Hermione's enraged look and hastily continued. "Not in a literal sense, Granger…Muggle words don't mean the same as ours. Muggle words can't kill people."
"What about suicide?" She countered.
"Now you're just being difficult," he sighed. "Suicide has nothing to do with the nasty things some Muggles say to each other. The person insulted enough to contemplate such a drastic solution simply interpreted them a certain way."
"But that would mean the words still led to his death."
"But he could have thought otherwise. Granger, you can't escape something like Avada Kedavra once it targets you. If a Muggle insults another, the second could simply walk away and not bother to listen. Or, if it did affect him so deeply, he could have chosen to seek help. I'm saying words that can kill…they're a whole different breed. It's something only wizards can do."
Hermione knew he was right. Muggles couldn't kill someone directly just by telling him to go die. Wizards—they could kill just by uttering a single word.
She had never disliked her race more.
"What does your spell do to the soul, exactly?"
"Ravages it. Tears it to pieces so small they're unable to be put back together."
She closed her eyes, nauseated. "That's why you screamed like that."
Draco cringed. "Yes. But I will say it again, I'm lucky the kinks were still there. Had the spell worked properly, my soul would have died and I'd have felt little or no pain."
"Would you body still be alive?"
"Theoretically, yes. But I aim to make it so that the soul death brings about the body's death."
Hermione asked no more questions. Draco had been right. She wished she didn't know what had happened to him. She didn't want to know how Dolohov had come to know of such a spell—one Draco would have kept secret.
The quiet wore on. Draco eventually fell asleep and Hermione was left pondering how only a tortured soul could have created such evil.
