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Chapter 10: In Which the Death Eaters Find Nothing

Voldemort positively shrieked with glee when he saw it: a sign that read "Tour the Italian Underground: A Must-See Visitor's Attraction." After composing himself, he spoke, in a certain disinterested tone, "Ah. My followers, it seems we have stumbled on the entrance to the Volturi stronghold."

"But my Lord," Wormtail uttered, "weren't the Volturi characterized as being subtle in their hunting? A sign that is basically yelling 'Come in here!' isn't exactly how I imagined them going about attracting prey." Although many of the Death Eaters looked at Wormtail appreciatively for displaying some intelligence for once, Voldemort looked indignant.

"I still say it is the entrance to the Volturi stronghold."

"And if it isn't?"

"Then we wasted all of five minutes. When you have eternity staring you in the face, does it really matter?" The Death Eaters pondered this revelation for a bit, then shook their heads.

"Good. Malfoy, you may lead us."

"Me? What makes you think I want to lead us to our deaths?" Quickly realizing what he had said, Malfoy endeavored to cover himself. "Not that I don't trust the plans you have conceived, my Lord, but… Oh, never mind. What I meant, of course, is that I could not possibly accept such an honor, my Lord, as leading us to what shall be unquestionably your greatest moment of triumph. No, I simply couldn't. It is too great an honor that you try to bestow upon me. If you yourself, my Lord, insist on another, may I suggest Wormtail? For it was he who played such a critical role in your resurrection. Surely he, above me, deserves the honor."

Malfoy completed this with a sweeping bow, lowering his head so Voldemort could not see the relief he felt upon giving, what he believed, a suitable reason for him not to be the first to die. Because they were going to die. If it weren't the vampires that killed them, it would be Voldemort. He would take his disappointment out on them or find some reason that they were responsible for the Volturi's absence. Malfoy knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt, and all he could hope for was that somehow there would be a moment that he could make an impossible escape. An impossible escape would be entirely impossible if he were first.

"Malfoy," Voldemort stated grandly, and Malfoy looked up at him worriedly. "Your humility does you great credit." He paused, and Malfoy let out a quick breath. "For that… I must simply insist."

There was one word that quickly flew through Malfoy's head, and that word was not one that is usually considered genteel. No, quite the opposite in fact. But, he calmed himself best he could, and muttered, "Such an honor." He began walking, slowly and not very courageously, toward the poor man who was about to have tour tickets stolen from him by means of magic. Malfoy didn't feel an ounce of pity.

"Look above! There's a grate!"

"My Lord, you have commented on the last five we've seen." Malfoy groaned. He was in the lead, but unfortunately not far enough away from Voldemort to be spared his excited chatter as they traveled the winding underground tunnels. "Any one of them, yes, could be the one through which the Cullen siblings, Bella, and the other vampires descended, but grates are not restricted to only the Volturi stronghold, or to Volterra for that matter." It was going to be a long day. And then they were going to die. Malfoy was not in a good mood.

Hermione was in as foul a mood as Lucius Malfoy, but hers was not a reflection on what she considered to be her impending death – it was Ron's. She had somewhat forgiven him for his complete disrespect in stealing her book without permission, but while that had been pardonable, the fact that her book now rained crumbs and was a thorough tribute to the various foods Ron had eaten during his reading was decidedly not. She was livid.

"Ron, what ever are you doing?" Hermione asked sternly upon finding him in the commons room. She might have been utterly furious with him, but she couldn't help but to inquire as to what had him scribbling so frantically on a piece of parchment.

"Oh, Hermione! How nice to see you! I'm writing… my… Potions… homework. Yes, that's right. Potions. For Snape."

"Ron, Snape isn't teaching Potions this year," Hermione responded, smiling. So he was doing something interesting. Or something humiliating…

"Leave me alone, Hermione," Ron pouted. He stuffed the piece of parchment under his arm, but Hermione was too quick. As he tried to walk away, Hermione pulled out her wand.

"Accio parchment!"

"HERMIONE!"

Hermione unrolled the parchment triumphantly, her smug expression quickly giving way to one of incredulity as she read what he had written. Her eyes wide, mouth agape, she looked up from the writing to a blushing Ron.

"Ron… is this… what I think it is?"

"No, 'course not."

"I can't believe it."

"It's not what you think it is."

"What is it then, Ron?"

"Um…"

"Ron! I can't believe it!" And with that, she began laughing madly. She dropped the parchment as she wrapped her arms around herself in attempts to keep herself together. It was hopeless. She left the room giggling wildly. Ron's coloring rose proportionally – the harder she laughed, the redder he got. He fled the room behind her, leaving the poor parchment to lie dejectedly in their wake.

Stupid, bothersome, nosy Hermione, Ron thought as he trudged up the stairs to his room. Just had to go and laugh. He sighed, trying to come up with a good place to hide it so nobody else would ever see it. Perhaps in that blasted magical creatures book Hagrid made us get… that one that bites people…now where... OH NO!

Ron practically flew done the stairs, but he wasn't quick enough. In the commons room was Ginny, his own sister, reading his parchment. Life couldn't get any worse. With his head bent down in shame, he went to quietly return upstairs, hoping that Ginny would read it without recognizing his terrible scrawl, have her laugh, and put it back down where she found it. Then he could retrieve it and burn it…

His face aflame and his body quivering in horror, he completely missed the haggard Harry that was sitting scribbling at his desk as furiously as Ron had been. But what Harry was writing differed substantially; he was formulating plans to thwart Voldemort. But, try as he might, he just couldn't concentrate properly…

There was something that Harry distinctly wanted to know. It was the answer to a question that, over the past few days, had been bothering him more than being subjected to Voldemort's inexplicable flashes of irritation and euphoria. It frustrated him more than when he was trying to master a new spell. It annoyed him and irritated him and aggravated him and infuriated him more than the Dursleys…

Why?

Why did someone feel the compulsion to write bloody Twilight?

Couldn't she see what it was going to do to him?