Disclaimer: I do not own HP. I do own Kahl, Magick of Warfare, and other various parts of this story.
Shout-outs
Miss Piratess: My most faithful reviewer! You get a Draco plushie. -
Don: Thanks for your comments. I'll take a looksie at the part with Nagini...and yes, Voldemort, Snake-man! (I just came up with that. I'll have to remember it. jots down notes)
Starfire23: Well, more chappies are up! I have a feeling it won't be finished before you leave, though. You'll just have to read it when you get back! glomps Love ya!
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Chapter 9
Stain
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Draco heard the courier's voice and his father's tones in the entrance hall. It was the second time since the initiation that she'd arrived, both times on Saturdays, when both he and his father were home. Just a brief stop, to give a message...though she had brought none this time.
Draco heard the main door shut, and he leaned back to look out the window. Kahl walked away from the house, her braid swishing slightly against her jacket. Though it was invisible, covered by the jacket, Draco remembered the sword, its hilt traced with red, and the warm fluid flowing over his hand. He snatched up his book and continued reading.
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Two weeks later, the Deatheaters attacked a Muggle village in the Yorkshire Dales. Kahl didn't even know about it until the day before. She went as soon as she could to a far town, Apparated to Hogsmeade, and sent an owl to Dumbledore, then returning to the mansion immediately. The next night, Wormtail returned from the attack. Kahl sat on her cot, her attention focused on listening, but her name was not called. Finally, when the eastern horizon showed the first faint wash of green, she lay down and went to sleep.
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Draco sat up and clutched his head. He looked at the grandfather clock in the corner. Twelve o'clock. Bright light showed from behind the curtains drawn over his windows. Twelve noon. He groaned and stood up, and he pulled a robe over his pajamas. He shuffled to the bureau and splashed water from a basin onto his face. He picked up his comb, but paused when he looked into the mirror. Shadows hung under crimson-shot eyes, and his skin was paler than normal, his mouth stretched thin. He went back to his bedroom and dug his wand out of the mess of robes piled on the floor. Returning to the bathroom, he heated the water and scrubbed it vigorously on his face, ignoring the pain as he rubbed his skin raw. He looked in the mirror and grimaced; now his face was red. But at least it didn't hold that ghastly, dead-fish pallor—
Draco shook his head. He left the bathroom, combing back his hair, and he dressed quickly. He went downstairs to the dining room, where he sat down and rang a bell. Soon there were fresh fruit, eggs, thick bacon, and cool milk on the table before him. The maid left, and Draco wearily shoveled some eggs up with his fork.
He and his father hadn't even returned until midnight, and that was after an only partially successful attack. It had started badly when they'd Apparated on the outskirts of town: One of the Deatheaters had been tripped up by a stray cat, and another had fallen over the first. Then there had been the shattering sound of glass, followed by a loud, painful explosion of sound, a scream from an injured witch, lights coming on, whining alarms...
Since the Deatheaters did not want to expose themselves to the Muggle world yet, they had been forced to make an ungraceful retreat. The witch had been separated from the group by Wormtail.
Draco considered the eggs. His stomach rebelled at the thought, and he dropped the fork. He massaged his temples. Lucius came in. "It's about time you woke up."
Draco sighed. "Morning, Father."
Lucius frowned. "It was a disgrace."
"Unfortunately, none of us did well."
"Some of us did our best."
"And for some, the best is far below average," Draco said. Lucius raised an eyebrow. "I'm not talking about us, Father. I meant some of the other imbecilic wizard we have to tolerate."
"Well, Crabbe and Goyle never gained high marks for intellect."
"Their main value, father and son, is for obedient muscle." Draco smirked.
Lucius chuckled dryly. "Next time, you will do your part better."
Draco bit his tongue. "Yes, sir."
Lucius swept from the room, and Draco went back to his breakfast. Or lunch. Whichever it was.
After another weak attempt at eating, though, he swept from the room. He couldn't help remembering the night before. He had been next to the injured Deatheater. The witch, a newer recruit like himself, had simply screamed and clutched her leg. She had grabbed him, sobbing, and—
Draco rubbed his arms briskly through the finely woven sleeves of his black robe. He grabbed his broomstick and left the manor. He stepped up onto the broomstick, and he pushed off. The rush of cool air past his face and in his hair refreshed him. He swooped over the trees, brushing the leaves. Memories fled from his mind, pushed out by the fresh green scents and bright, sun-filled sky, and he smiled.
