A/N: Hey guys! It's Kitcat! I didn't update earlier because I went to Disney with my marching band, then I was dragged into a homework mania. ^^; And of course, band practice doesn't help a lot with writing... However, I'm proud to present the third chapter of CTI. :)
Update: Still alive. Really, I am...just sick. Yeh, college sucks because everyone gets sick, and when I mean everyone, I mean EVERYONE. It's an awful thing. Worse than high school.
Information: /Flashbacks/
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and Darker Than Black, nor do I own Hetalia. They go to their respective authors.
"I lied, wrote my injuries all in the dust
In my heart is the five of us
In White Houses."
-White Houses, Vanessa Carlton
"Draco," Pansy pleads, "Just join us on the break. You don't have to go back to—"
Draco puts up his hand, his silver eyes hard. She stops talking and Blaise tries to reason instead.
"Look mate. I understand that you want to go back to the Manor, but—"
Draco gives them a look of confusion. "Wait…is this what it's been all about? Me going back to the Manor?" He lets out a choked laugh, making Pansy's eyes bulge out and Blaise splutters something incoherent. "You don't have to worry. I won't be going to the Manor."
I can't…not yet, he thinks to himself.
A strained silence falls between them until Blaise speaks up, his voice cautious and hesitant. "Where will you be going?"
"London."
It's winter and Harry finds himself dragged into a plan to travel with Ron and Hermione to London. Usually they don't take trips—no, they never take trips—but Hermione has convinced them to get out of the confines of the castle. Of course, who was Ron to argue against her? And since Ron will be going, Harry must go as well.
It seems that's the logic lately.
"I want to come," Ginny whines, her lips pouty.
Ron clears his throat nervously at Harry's agitated look.
"Look Gin. You can't come," Harry says, his voice borderline exasperation.
"Why not? The war's over. You don't have to protect me anymore," she argues. "Ron. Tell him!"
Her brother chokes and he rubs his neck. "Sorry Gin, but we just want it to be the three of us. Anyway, it's a Ministry thing, so you can't come either way."
Her eyes flash dangerously and she turns, stomping up the tower stairs to the girl's room.
Ron sighs. "I'm not sure what you want, but you can't just keep putting it off forever."
Harry doesn't say anything. There's nothing really needed to be said. If they're meant to be together, then she needs to wait and be patient. Ron understands that, but it doesn't qualm the want that he has to be Harry's brother—legally.
It's after a moment of Ron's emotional silence that radiates around the area that Harry decides to take a walk. The snow has fallen on Hogwarts's grounds in soft flurries, leaving a perfect sheet of fresh whiteness to be marred by the raucous of footprints. It's a winter wonderland—barely…that is.
With his mind set in determination, he walks to the lake.
It's covered in a thin layer of snow, overlaying a thick layer of ice; and if one looks closely, they might be able to see some fish bobbing towards the surface, a mermaid's pointy grin or a row of the many tentacles of the friendly Giant Squid wanting to say "hi."
Flicking his wand slightly, a warmer spell hovers over a small patch of yellowed grass where he kicked the melting snow. It's been a while since he was able to sit like this: alone. In peace. But the last time he was able to do this was on the Horcrux hunt with Ron and Hermione.
He shudders from the bitter memory.
It sometimes haunts him. In his thoughts, in his dreams, to the brink it's hard to sleep. His scar has stopped burning, and for that, he's happy, but there are still nightmares.
His mind wanders.
Ginny has become too clingy for his liking, lately. He does love her, he truly does, but not in the way she loves him. It's become a daily hassle whenever she comes to talk to him. It's always about the war that he wants to forget and how he's allowed to date her without any repercussions that aren't there.
It would be easier to date her if she would just stop annoying him. And the perfume she wears reeks—something like a cross between daisies and daffodils and Pegasus piss. It's horridly pungent and it seems like her friends don't have the guts to tell her. Poor girl—to go through such lengths for a boy who doesn't have the time for her, nor want to have a relationship with her.
She thinks she knows best. She'd probably put Voldemort in a tutu and have him dance the tango if she thought it would have made the world a better place. She'd also probably decorate the Malfoy Manor with pink and colourful displays of whatever she wants.
But she doesn't understand.
The war has made him think a great deal about the future. He doesn't want to marry too quickly like Bill and Fleur. It would be too much for him if he were to marry Ginny that quickly, and now after a year of not dating…his feelings for her have faded from desire and marital love to brotherly and sisterly love.
Of course Ron wants him to date her—the git finds it idiotic that he won't at least try to have a relationship with her again—but he knows the brunet needs time to breathe and sort out his feelings: the amount of time that Ginny doesn't seem to want to give him.
With an elongated sigh Harry gets up from his spot. In two hours, they'll be on their way to muggle London. Hermione's ecstatic; Ron's happy to get more time with her; Harry will not doubt have muddled feelings and a migraine the whole time.
He's up the second set of stairs when a girl's voice calls out to him with a screech. He sighs in relief when it's Hermione, but his face darkens when he sees the seriousness in her features. Parkinson is right behind her, as well as Zabini. They both look as if they attended a funeral.
"What happened? Did Malfoy die," he asks.
"Harry, they need to speak to you," she says, ignoring his words.
Parkinson shoots him a scathing look for the comment before it morphs into a look a worry, and she doesn't miss the exchange between the two Gryffindorks. Granger makes up in the intelligence area for what Potter lacks.
With a slight wave of his wand, Zabini says, "What's going on with Draco?"
It takes a moment for the dazed Gryffindor to register what the boy said. What does he mean? What's going on with Malfoy?
"What," he rasps. He clears his throat. "I don't understand."
"Don't give me that bull shit," Parkinson hisses. "I know you found him with Winston. He told me everything."
Winston or Draco? He doesn't believe that Parkinson is Parseltongue, so it must have been Malfoy…but it would be very strange if it were Malfoy.
"Look. I don't know what you're talking about, but I never talked to Malfoy," Harry grinds out, his teeth clenched, ignoring the inquiring look from Hermione, who can't hear their conversation at all.
There's no doubt that she'll have questions later.
Zabini's mouth tightens into a thin line, but he just walks away with a superfluous turn of his cloak. Parkinson looks frantically between the two, as if something about her House-mate's behaviour is abnormal, before following him down the nearly deserted corridor. But before her interlude, she whispers something in a low voice.
"What did they want," Hermione finally asks.
She's sitting across from Harry. They're in the train to London and Ron's out getting some snacks for them. She has been worried at first, making Ron gather some snacks for them with muggle currency, but she needs to speak with Harry. It's imperative that she knows what's going on. She's worried about him, and the fact that the two Slytherins from Malfoy's posse confronted him about something that she knows not of is irritating her to the utmost extent.
Meanwhile, her nosiness is grinding its way past irritation point in Harry's mind, making him hesitate before responding.
"They wanted to apologise for what they did during the war," he finally says, remembering about Pansy's role in the war. He's not so sure about Zabini though.
Hermione's eyes narrow, but she doesn't argue, torn between whether or not he's lying or telling the truth. She can't find any holes in his answer, except the fact that Malfoy wasn't accompanying them. Which was, without a doubt, rude. Harry did vouch for them at their trials when he didn't have to. Ron voted to let them all rot in Azkaban, which happened to the Malfoy Head, which she found a bit harsh, but he should have thanked Harry!
She vaguely remembers the day. It surprised them both when Harry spontaneously disappeared from Grimwauld's, and then turned up in the Prophet's front page: The Boy-Who-Lived Protected Known Death Eater Family? Imperioused or Down Right Mad? ((No doubt it was the works of Skeeter))
Ron nearly attacked him at their confrontation, but the brunet didn't give them any explanation to his madness.
"At least you threw that old coot into Azkaban," Ron finally said, after a long challenging glare with his best mate.
Harry nodded slowly before going upstairs to his room.
From Harry's point of view, he didn't lie. In fact, he was telling the truth, just not all of it; but, he feels that it isn't the time to talk to her about it.
Something flashes in her eyes as she studies his expression and she opens her mouth to say something, but the train door opens.
Never in his life has he been this grateful for his mate's impeccable ability to interrupt serious and choking situations. Of course, he's exaggerating, however...
Hermione shoots him another look of suspicion before turning her attention to her boyfriend, who's struggling with a handful of snacks.
Finally relieved of his hold, he flops down next to Hermione with a large grin on his face, oblivious to the tense atmosphere in the room. "So, what did I miss?"
"Nothing much," Harry says quickly, biting into a large pastry before Hermione could get a word in edgewise. "So, the Chudley Canons."
Ron's eyes light up as he starts to talk about the last Quidditch game in avid detail. Hermione herself can't help but smile at him, his excitement contagious. They eventually start to go onto other subjects, giving The-Boy-Who-Lived the opportunity to look out of the large, rectangular window and stare at the racing scenery.
Malfoy has been acting strange, he thinks, already pointing out the obvious that was accentuated by the Slytherin's friends. But it's not that he really noticed—not that it wasn't noticeable—but that the Malfoy heir seemed nearly pleasant towards him after his little...phases...was strange.
He knows he shouldn't be worrying—would that be the right word to use? Yes, he guesses with reluctance, but it's Malfoy for bloody sake! Why should he be worrying about the prat's suspicious health and wellbeing? Deciding that the reason why he's being so unnerved about the whole situation is his hero-complex, his thoughts are momentarily assuaged as he continues onto the other train of thought: Pansy.
He's actually not sure what she said. He believes that she apologised to him...yeh...she did. He's sure of it, but she said something else. Something that he's kind of sceptical of.
"It's not your fault"
What did she mean by that? What wasn't his fault? Was she referring to Ginny? No, that couldn't be it, because it's obvious that they hate each other. Maybe it was the war, but of course it was his fault for all of those deaths that happened because he didn't defeat the snakey arse in time. Dammit. What was it?
With an elongated and exasperated sigh, he reverts his attention back to the bantering couple.
The area they've arrived to is a quaint place located on the side of inner London. It's rarely ever visited, and here everyone knows each other. Though lacking in tourists, it is technologically efficient. Tomorrow they will be going into inner London to meet members from the Muggle Interaction and Etiquette with Mundane and Daily Technologies Unit inside the Office of Muggle Objects and Their Usage under Arthur Weasley in the Ministry.
Due to Hermione's insistence, they're at the small café this time—the Kirkland café—conversing about homework that was given to them over the break.
"Here are you latte's," a girl with striking green eyes and dirty blonde hair in pigtails, says with a thick British accent, switching from cockney to the Queen's speech. She's wearing an apron that matches perfectly with the restaurant's theme. "Your scones will be done in a moment." She gives them a smile and walks away from the gawking ginger to greet other costumers at the front.
"Ron!" Hermione scolds, hitting his arm with brute force. Her face is flushed in embarrassment and jealousy.
Ron rubs his arm, scandalised at his girlfriend's accusation.
When she does come back, Harry takes the time to look at her name tag, reading Alice in a clean font.
"Here you go," she chirps, placing the scones with a sweet and delicious aroma in front of them. "Just call for me if you need anything else."
They nod, all taking a buttery and flaky scone eagerly.
"This is really good," Ron moans appreciatively, his mouth full of the pastry. Hermione wrinkles her nose in disgust as he downs it with his latte.
Harry chuckles at them.
The door chimes, opening to a man with shoulder length, wavy blond hair and cerulean eyes. To their pleasant surprise, the once chirpy waitress stomps up to the man before he's able to take a step through the threshold. They can hear the two banter.
Ron calls on her, in a large, unsaid consensus to save the poor girl. She walks up to their table, a scowl on her face.
"Who is that?" Harry asks, watching the man flirt with another girl.
"Francis Bonnefoy," she huffs, her nose wrinkling in disgust at the name. "The French bastard."
They look at her, startled by the sudden change in demeanour.
"My brother is married to a French woman. She's really nice," Ron pipes up.
"Yes," Alice gives, "But she's also half veela and she was raised properly." She sniffs then freezes, her eyes widening as she suddenly doubles over.
Francis is by her side in a flash and he quickly picks her up and sits her down in a comfy chair that Harry offers. His eyes show evident worry as Hermione says that she'll call 911, only to be waved down by him.
"Alice," he says, "What's happening?" He ignores the glances of confusion from the trio.
"Fire," she rasps, earning a look of surprise from the Gryffindors. Her eyes turn to Harry, staring at him with burning intensity and urgency. "He needs you."
No questions are asked as screams wail against the café's outer limits, yelling about an invisible fire. The trio rush out amongst the crowd, avoiding as best as they can not to be separated.
"The fire that she was talking about," Hermione says, pushing against the current, her wand out as Ron and Harry copy her. "Don't you think it's a little weird?"
"What?" Ron calls.
"The girl"—"Alice"—"Yes, Alice. She somehow knew about the fire."
"Are you bloody mad? You're worried about that. 'Mione, you really need to get your priorities straight," Harry says as they get closer to the spreading flames.
They start to yell Aguamente, trying to qualm the growing flames as best as they can, but the fire keeps building up. From an askew angle, Harry sees a shadow in an alley. He goes to the figure only to run into a wide, silver eyed Malfoy.
"Malfoy?" Harry sputters in surprise.
"Potter?"
With no chance to let the other say another word, Harry starts to pull him towards his friends for help, but Malfoy rips his arm out of the Gryffindor's grip. His eyes are wide with a certain emotion that Harry can't seem to place.
"Please get away from me," Draco begs, his voice strange…almost like desperation.
"Why? You need to help put out the—" He gets cut off, finding himself in a daze.
He turns with a heated glare, only to meet the Slytherin's large, surprise eyes. His head slowly turns left, his verdant eyes focusing on a hulking figure who's holding a wand at them. There's a dark, intricate tattoo on the man's left arm, almost hidden by the long sleeves of the guy's cloak, and the brunette instantly understands the situation.
The man cackles, insanity licking each bout of laughter as he raises his wand. "Avada K—"
Harry's eyes are shut and after a moment, he realises that he's still alive. A blood curdling scream hits his ears like a train, peeling back his eardrums. Opening his eyes, he finds Draco Malfoy in front of him, and a burning fire slowly and painfully slinking up the cloaked figure's body in pure agony.
Something clicks in Harry's head and he scrambles up from his spot, grabbing Malfoy's pale wrist.
"Malfoy. Stop," he commands.
The boy turns his head towards Harry. Harry stops hearing the man's screams, but instead Malfoy's voice that's clear, unlike his vacant eyes.
"Why?"
Harry stops, unable to respond. A high pitch noise is in his ear, piercing his head. He turns back to the man, only to find white ash.
"N-no. Ngh."
His head whips around in surprise to Malfoy who's clutching his head, staring at the sight before him.
"I didn't—" A scream from him rips from his throat, shattering Harry's ears painfully as the boy suddenly apparates away.
His ears are still ringing when Ron and Hermione join him.
"The fire suddenly disappeared," Hermione wheezed, trying to catch her breath. She looks at Harry's wide eyes in surprise. "Harry, what's wrong?"
Harry doesn't say anything, his eyes focused on the charred ground.
Draco collapses in heap on the cold tile floor. He groans in pain, white blinding him as his migraine becomes worse. The flashes have finally started to diminish as a gasp bangs loudly against his eardrum.
He hears thumping against the ground, mixed with clicking of heels.
"Draco," cries Pansy, running to the fallen figure with Blaise and Theodore at her heels, though Nott's steps are at a slower pace. He stops and nods briskly at Pansy's command: "go get some water and a rag."
Without a word, Blaise lifts Draco and brings him to a couch that Pansy quickly transfigured from a little statue. Draco's breathing is shallow and staggering. She says his name, her voice as calm as she can make it, and he just nods in exhausted acknowledgement. Theo brings cold water and a rag, and they quickly fall into a procedure they were taught so long ago.
/Pansy bit her lip and Blaise just stared at the fallen Death Eater blankly. They were to learn healing in the muggle fashion, just incase one of their comrades were hurt and they didn't have their wands.
She looked at Snape with desperate eyes as the bleeding man groaned in pain, his face sweaty. Snape was overseeing the procedure just incase something were to go wrong.
From his side, Draco shakily started to get water, giving commands to the stricken Parkinson who just followed the orders without protest.
It happened repeatedly, day after day, and one day, Pansy got tired of it and spits, "What does he think he's doing? He's being bloody idiotic."
An hour later, after the procedure, Wormtail came and said that the Dark Lord summoned her and Draco to see him. When they got to the audience chamber, the Dark Lord questioned her on her loyalties and decided punishment was in order for her vulgar and disloyal display towards him.
She had closed her eyes, waiting for the monster to shoot a hex of some kind at her, but what happened was much more horrible than that. A loud, chilling scream pierced the room and her eyes shot open when she felt warm, sticky liquid hit her robes and arms.
Draco, her best friend, her first friend, was lying at her feet, his blood pooling rapidly on the cold onyx floor. It was all she could do to prevent herself from screaming Draco's name as Narcissa's shrill cries echoed through the empty room.
It was cold, cruel laugh that shook her out of her shock.
She was to heal him without a wand, following the painfully slow muggle procedure with desperation and anxiousness beating down her neck. Snape was prevented to help her at all, even though she knew how much he wanted to. Instead, he would sneer at her every time she would pick up the wrong instrument—but she knew, oh how she knew it, it was the closest thing he could do to help her.
But it did prepare her. She became wary of the Dark Lord more so than she was before. And that was when she started to support Potter's cause. If he could stop the monster from attacking her friends and the ones she loves, then she'll help him no matter what./
After agonising minutes of checking over Draco, they finally are satisfied and relieved that he's okay. Draco's eyes flicker open and his head turns to them.
His mouth opens in a whisper as he says something that chills them to their bones, his ashen pallor accentuating the tense and razor sharp words.
"Vår Sorg"
A/N: So the last line, to prevent you all from going to Google Translate, and to ruin the aesthetic mystery of the word, is "our sorrow." I know in Canon, Draco doesn't speak Swedish; however, I tried it out in Latin and French, and Latin ended up with Dolorem, which sounded too much like Dolores, and French ended up with Notre Douleur, which sounded to difficult to say in the state that Draco is currently in.
So, as a result, I chose Swedish. 1. Because Sweden is amazing. 2. Because I love the Scandinavian countries 3. I want to learn Swedish 4. Because, why the hell not?