BLOOD DONOR
Summary: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort again…but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM
Warnings: Slash. Violence, angst. AU after Order of the Phoenix.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Favorite Review: Came from blAiseCoRRupt, who left me the most enthusiastic review I think I've ever received. Love you, blAiseCoRRupt!!
A/N: Here you go guys – my Christmas gift to you. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, whatever holiday you may celebrate. Thanks for all the wonderful reviews…I don't think I've ever had so much feedback!
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Harry realized two important facts upon waking.
--
First, his nightmarish visions had been strangely different last night.
Not better, nor less horrific, just different.
Gone had been the gruesome splatters of blood staining his surroundings a macabre red. Harry had never realized how closely Gryffindor red resembled blood.
No screams had pierced the air like shattered glass, no people had suffered, died, while Harry stood trapped, unable to help. And Harry had never wanted so much in his life to be anyone but himself, and hated himself for the thought.
Harry supposed the new version of his visions would not frighten many people.
He had woken up drenched in a cold sweat.
There had been only cool, black nothingness, broken only by harsh flickers of light and sound, come and gone so quickly Harry could not identify specific shapes or voices. In the darkness, though, which coiled tightly around Harry's consciousness like a noose, with the cool, dry whisper of snakeskin, had been a feeling.
A feeling, a sense of something so terribly wrong, and so unpleasantly awful, Harry, his black hair plastered to his forehead in the early morning blackness, cringed slightly, just remembering. It had been an inhuman corruption of the joy which comes from a pure triumph. A perverse celebration which emanated not from the victory attained in battle, but instead derived pleasure from the blood drying on the ground, the dead bodies strewn like autumn leaves around the final champion.
The victor, bathing in his enemy's blood.
Harry had hated it.
The darkness had slid whisper-soft over and around Harry's skin, a sickening, dry hiss of some strange material. Then, it had delved into his mind, slithering, creeping, crawling deeper, with all the ceaseless determination of the dead and the unbreakable strength of iron, until the foreign sensation had consumed all Harry's thoughts. It had settled under Harry's skin, a disturbing tattoo, branding his soul with darkness.
Harry had hated it.
He had hated feeling so distinctly vulnerable, a prisoner in his own mind, had hated that Voldemort had such a great control over their mental link.
The quiet, soothing blackness had been worse than any screaming. It had been far more subtle; tempting, rather than repulsing. The siren's song whose beauty paved the path to hell.
Beauty tempted even the most religious man to sin.
Harry had hated it, because he had enjoyed the sensation of watching the world burn, even knowing he had caused the flames. Had laughed as his friends had burned.
Harry hated it, because he had woken longing for the dark.
--
The second thing Harry became aware of through the haze of terror which now seemed to accompany his every return to wakefulness, was that he was in the wrong bed.
The sheets were far too soft, for one. Not that the sheets on Harry's bed in Gryffindor Tower were uncomfortable – sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs had educated Harry on the sheer misery of coarse, threadbare sheets. Only when he had arrived at Hogwarts had Harry been introduced to small, everyday luxuries like lying on a real bed. What Harry was currently resting on, though, felt almost sinfully smooth, a cotton masquerading as the purest silk.
Harry did not know exactly what had woken him. One minute, he had been suffocating under the thrall of a dark temptation, the next, he was awake, surrounded by a far more familiar blackness. Wherever he was, there were no windows, Harry noticed, with slight alarm. In the open and airy Gryffindor Tower, he could always see the sky.
Something moved.
"Who's there?" Harry asked cautiously, reaching swiftly for his wand. He could not find it, though he still wore his faded oversized jeans and red jumper from the night before. Harry's sense of alarm increased. He hastened off the bed, his rough clothes catching and pulling at the soft bedcovers.
Suddenly, Harry remembered his meeting with Malfoy on the roof, the moonlight highlighting every exposed angle with silver, transforming every shadow into a fathomless black. Malfoy's face, its sharp planes twisted with cruelty, had appeared a study in contrast, dark and light battling for dominance. And yet, Harry could not remember anything after Malfoy had bitten him, least of all how he had gotten off the roof.
"Damn it," Harry cursed violently, his green eyes flashing in the dark. "Malfoy, where the sodding hell am I?"
"Merlin, you're slow, Potter," Malfoy's voice drawled from a corner of the room. "It's a wonder you've managed to stay alive so long, when you continue to be this blatantly stupid."
As soon as Malfoy spoke, Harry could see the other boy's long-limbed silhouette leaning against a far wall; though, before, everything in the darkened room had appeared a uniform shade of black.
Malfoy aristocratically gestured, with a wave of his long-fingered hand, and soft yellow light flooded the room. Only then did Harry realize the rampant décor of the room.
Green and silver.
"Where. Am. I?" Harry asked again, a threat of violence darkening his tone. An array of delicate glass bottles, filled with multihued liquids, shook dangerously, clattering against each other on a desk.
To his surprise, Malfoy answered. "My room," the other boy said simply, a hint of a smirk on his face. "In the Slytherin dormitories."
The room looked like Malfoy, Harry noticed belatedly, even as he glared at the Slytherin boy. It possessed the same sort of rich sense of entitlement Malfoy draped around him like a cloak, filled as it was with undoubtedly expensive antique furniture decorated by intricate carvings and precious metal inlays. Rich green fabrics, shot through with gleams of metallic silver thread, draped decadently on the bed. Wood carvings of snakes, enchanted to move, twined sinuously around the headboard of the bed.
It was the type of grand opulence Harry abhorred, because it reeked of upper-class exclusivity, the type the Dursleys had tried so hard to emulate as they locked a four year old boy, afraid of the dark, into a cramped cupboard for days at a time, so they could equip another boy with luxury.
And in the corner, near the door, which, for all the opulence of the rest of the room, still resembled the door to a prison cell, rested Harry's Firebolt, apparently unharmed. Not that Harry trusted Malfoy on appearance alone. As soon as he returned to Gryffindor Tower, his Firebolt would be subject to every Anti-Jinx charm Hermione could think of. Assuming Malfoy allowed him to leave, of course. And if he did not oblige, well, Harry would find another way to make his exit. It would undoubtedly be more violent than he preferred, but bloodshed was a far better alternative than staying trapped in Slytherin House.
"Would you have liked it better if I left you to freeze to death on the roof instead?" Malfoy sneered dismissively, the gold from the lights shining off his hair.
A demon, masquerading as an angel.
Harry was painfully aware of how bad he looked in comparison to Malfoy's aristocratic form, dressed as he was in dirty, ragged clothes, black hair in wild disarray.
A pauper, facing a prince.
"Give me back my wand, Malfoy," Harry said through gritted teeth, the words a blatant demand.
"No, I don't think I will," Malfoy replied with infuriating arrogance, leaning against the wall. He twirled Harry's wand in his hand, blurring the air. The image transported Harry back in time, to when he faced another enemy who armed himself with Harry's wand, in a dungeon without sunlight. But Harry was no longer that young boy, huddled and scared on a damp stone floor, watching with angry tears as his best friend's sister died, and a charismatic monster laughed.
Harry wrenched himself back to the present. Malfoy, dangerous and cruel though he may be, was not Tom Riddle. Harry balled his hands into fists, the tendons in his hand stark white against his skin.
"You'll lose, Potter," Malfoy warned, looking carelessly at Harry's clenched fists. "Especially when I fed just last night." The dim lighting did nothing to visually dull the razor edges of Malfoy's fangs as the vampire barred his teeth in a feral grin. If anything, they appeared even more murderously sharp.
Harry contemplated fighting Malfoy anyway, just for the sheer satisfaction of driving his fist into the other boy's skin once again, just to hear skin split and bone crunch as blood coated his fist. He shifted subtly into a fighter's crouch, placing all his weight onto the balls of his feet, preparing to spring forward.
Malfoy leveled Harry's wand at its owner.
"You won't get close enough to land a blow," Malfoy hissed, shards of ice in his grey eyes.
"You fucking bastard." The curse was delivered without any regard for Malfoy's parentage. Harry meant to wound, to hurt. Purebloods despised any insinuation of illegitimacy in their bloodlines.
"Answer one question, truthfully, and I'll give you back your wand."
Harry smiled grimly, his green eyes almost black. "Why the hell should I trust a Slytherin's word?"
Malfoy smirked, though something painful glimmered behind his aristocratic mask for a brief, infinitesimal second, before his expression smoothed over into its customary icy disdain. "You really have no choice, Potter," the Slytherin said cruelly. Damn Malfoy, the bastard, the words were agonizingly close to what he had hissed to Harry in King's Cross station at the beginning of the year, when Harry's blood had stained his mouth a violent red.
"Would you have preferred if I left you on the roof?" Malfoy asked, examining Harry with well-disguised curiosity.
Harry stiffened for an instant, before relaxing. "No," he replied harshly, with a bitter laugh. "Rubbish question, Malfoy. Now, give me back my wand." Harry held out his hand expectantly. His palm was scraped and bruised, probably from sitting on the roof, his fingernails ragged. Once again, Malfoy defied Harry's expectations, and placed the wand in Harry's hand. The wand felt ice cold in Harry's hand. Harry had expected it to be warm. The fact it wasn't only served to remind Harry of the inhuman nature of the boy in front of him.
Malfoy stared hungrily at Harry's upturned wrist. A silver star gleamed faintly on the skin, the image, a remnant of the Binding Pact, traveled over the bones in his wrist, moving with Harry's beating pulse point. Harry snatched his wrist back.
"Burn in hell, Malfoy," Harry snapped, fury blazing in his expression. He grabbed his Firebolt, and stalked out the door, not pausing to notice Malfoy's angry glare.
--
Draco leaned against his doorframe, his arms crossed, and watched Potter stride angrily out the Slytherin dormitories. He vaguely wondered how Potter knew the layout of Slytherin house so well, but attributed it to Potter's midnight wanderings in his Invisibility Cloak. They would have to reinforce the protections on the entrances.
Potter had sat on the roof, cross-legged, arms folded on his knees. The relaxed position spoke of familiarity with his surroundings, for any other student would have been frightened by the height and alien landscape of the roof. Especially at night, when the wind howled and the air chilled like death, and dangerous creatures rose from the Forbidden Forest to hunt.
Potter must go onto the roof often, then.
Dark purple bruises blackened the areas under Potter's eyes. The Gryffindor boy was too pale for September, the remnants of his normal summer tan almost unnoticeable. More than that, Potter moved wearily when he thought no one was watching, as though every step was painful.
Potter wasn't sleeping.
It was the only conclusion Draco could think of. Though, what could bother perfect Potter, the archetypal Gryffindor, enough to make him purposefully deprive himself of sleep, night after night? People fawned over the Golden Boy with almost sycophantic subservience.
But Potter had hesitated when Draco had asked about the roof, and the hesitation told him more than Potter's actual answer.
And there had been rumors, in Fifth, Fourth, even Second Year, about Potter's connection to the Dark Lord, and the visions it brought him. Draco, of course, had encouraged, started even, some of the most vicious gossip, giving information to Rita Skeeter behind an old oak tree on Hogwart's grounds. All for the sheer joy of seeing Potter angry and depressed as the world turned against him with all of the sadistic pleasure it saved for its fallen and disgraced heroes.
So nice, for Draco, to see the witch hunt from the predator's perspective, rather than the prey's.
And if the rumors were true…Draco dismissed the thought as ridiculous. Potter was far too much the Golden Boy, the Savior of the Wizarding World, to share a mental link with the Dark Lord.
A pair of cruel red eyes, glowing violently in Potter's wan face…
Although, Potter was nowhere near as selflessly pure as his reputation insinuated. Potter had a cruel streak, one which allowed him to fight with an utter ruthlessness and disregard for his opponent, which even Draco admired, for it hinted at a mercilessness no Gryffindor could bear to possess.
If the rumors were true…Potter had killed a man, Professor Quirrell, in First Year.
If the rumors were true…it had not been a clean kill either, the type heralded by a bright green light and the sudden fall of a body. Potter, it was said, had used his bare hands to somehow burn Quirrell to death. Quirrell's death would have been slow, agonizing, for both the victim and his murder, as the vile smell of burnt flesh choked the air, and Quirrell's skin collapsed into a melted heap under Potter's hands.
Draco remembered how quickly Potter had reached for his wand upon waking, and earlier, when Draco had first shoved Potter onto the floor of King's Cross station. The reactions had been immediate, automatic in both cases, the type of response which spoke of years of practice, hardened into habit, tempered until the quick movement became as intrinsically a part of Potter as the vibrant green eyes he had inherited from his dead Mudblood mother. It spoke of desperation, of warranted fear, of necessary caution, the sort of intelligent wariness most idiotic Gryffindors were too ashamed to exhibit. The type of cunning precaution a Slytherin held in high esteem. Kill your enemies first, bother with misplaced morals later, or never at all.
Weakness could not be tolerated by Slytherins.
And Potter, as infuriating as the other boy may be, was not weak.
Draco smirked slightly. Potter would prove highly entertaining, a prey worthy of Draco's skill. And, if Draco played his cards right…well, that could provide so much more amusement.
In the dark, Draco's grey eyes gleamed dangerously.
--
"If you would all turn to page five hundred-eighty three of Advanced Potion Making, and begin work on your Chameleon potion, which will be due in at the end of class today. Extra points to anyone with a perfect potion…not that'll be a problem for you, eh, Ms. Granger?"
Sitting between Ron and Harry, Hermione blushed pink at Professor Slughorn's praise. Harry did not think Hermione had ever received any positive commendation in a Potions class before, just rude comments and bitter sneers. Because of Snape's continued absence, though, which the Gryffindors had cheered as the Slytherins had glared, McGonagall had asked Slughorn, the Potions professor before Snape, to teach until the other man returned.
Privately, Harry hoped Snape never returned.
It had barely been two weeks, but already Hermione's intelligence had garnered Slughorn's attentions and praise. Slughorn, though a Slytherin himself, showed no favoritism towards his own house. If anything, Slughorn was prejudiced against Slytherin House, if his tendency to ignore questions from the Slytherin side of the room was any indication. Instead, he showered Gryffindors, Hermione and Harry especially, with aid and extra points. Malfoy, Snape's favorite, must be furious, Harry thought with more than a little vindictive glee.
Why had Malfoy taken him off the roof?
"You're going to help us too, right, Hermione?" Ron whispered anxiously, staring at the complex array of ingredients resting on the rough-hewn wood desk in front of him with obvious apprehension.
Hermione frowned, her mass of brown hair already bent over the correct page in her own potions book. Absently, she tapped her wand against her cauldron, and the merrily simmering potion, already bright green, the exact color the book described, bubbled furiously. "You could just study the material beforehand, like I do," she sniffed disapprovingly.
Harry and Ron shared a private grin over her lowered head. Hermione never deliberately failed to help them on a school assignment unless she was upset at one of them, most often Ron.
"Harry couldn't study, though," Ron said, grinning. "He was out all last night, with that girl. Didn't come in 'til dawn."
Harry glared fiercely at Ron, chopping his dried Shrivelfig root with unnecessary vehemence. His silver knife, adorned with unattractive nicks and stains, cut violently through the Shrivelfig, lodging deep into the tabletop. If Hermione found out about Harry's deal with Malfoy…
"Harry!" Hermione hissed. "It's not safe for you, especially you, to go out after curfew…If you were caught, you could be expelled…"
"Oh, come on, Hermione. They're not going to expel Harry. He could probably set McGonagall's Transfiguration classroom on fire, and it wouldn't matter. Lighten up."
Harry wondered why Ron's words bothered him so much. It probably was true; they would not dare to expel Harry Potter, esteemed Savior of the Wizarding World, Golden Boy extraordinaire. Perhaps that was the problem. Harry had never wanted to be exceptional, had only wanted, even at the Dursley's, to be normal, to have living parents, to not be hated, despised, by his relatives. Then, though, he had gone to Hogwarts, and for his eleven-year old self, that had been wonderful, magical, like his whole future had lightened from the dreary misery he had been anticipating, and he had finally found someplace to be accepted and normal.
More than anything, sometimes, Harry wanted to be normal.
He did not want to be chased and threatened and almost killed every year by a sadistic dark lord, whose dangerous pride could not allow one meager boy to live after defying him. He did not want to see his friends die in front of him, because of him, did not want to see his parents, and Quirrell, and Cedric, and Sirius, in his dreams, did not want to relive their deaths again and again in his nightmares.
"What girl?" Hermione asked suspiciously, minutes later, when her intense concentration broke. Harry did not answer, concentrating instead on stirring his potion the exact number of times. Three half-turns clockwise, eight counterclockwise turns, add powdered spiders legs, repeat five times. Then, the book said, the potion should be a pale shade of turquoise blue.
"What girl, Harry?"
Harry's hand jerked slightly as he continued stirring. "Err…"
Ron interrupted, grinning. "Whoever she is, Harry has one hell of a hickey on his neck."
Automatically, Harry clasped his hand to the side of his neck, trying to stir his potion properly. "Damn it, Ron," Harry swore. He had thought his grey turtleneck, which he had quickly changed into when he had run back into the Gryffindor dormitory that morning just as the sun dawned, hid the mark properly. He did not raise his eyes to meet Hermione's curious gaze. Hermione was far too bloody intelligent to be fooled by such a weak excuse, and Harry knew it was only a matter of time before she discovered everything.
He could postpone detection for as long as possible, though.
And, because Harry had forgotten to add the powdered spider legs, his potion, supposed to be a pale blue, turned an angry, smoldering orange. "Harry!" Hermione cried out in alarm, pointing at his potion. He looked down instantly, rushing to correct his mistake, but it was too late.
Bang! The potion exploded with a violent sound and rush of light. Globs of potion, ocher in coloration, flew with projectile force throughout the room, hitting many of the students with unabashed vigor.
Half the class, glaring and muttering curses at Harry, shuffled to the front of the room to receive antidotes from Professor Slughorn.
"The Chameleon potion, if brewed correctly," Slughorn explained to the complaining class in a loud voice, "alters one aspect of the drinker's appearance, like a weaker version of the Polyjuice potion, which we will be working on later in the year." Slughorn beamed at the assembled students.
"We would like the antidote, sir, not an useless monologue," Draco Malfoy sneered. "Before Potter's incompetence does who knows what harm to us."
Slughorn glowered at Malfoy, who glared back arrogantly, but did finally reach for the antidote, though he continued speaking. "Now then, Harry's potion," Slughorn sprayed a bottle of grey liquid on one student's arm, which was beginning to smoke alarmingly, "had been interrupted during a combustible period of the brewing process. Not to worry, though, any exposed body parts hit with the potion should only change colors, and smoke slightly."
Harry looked at his own arms, which had been spattered with the potion as it had exploded. They were rapidly changing color, turning red, yellow, green, and blue in quick succession, all the while smoking ominously. His arms started to burn painfully. Quickly, he joined the queue to receive the antidote.
At least, Harry reflected as Slughorn sprayed his arms with the vile-smelling antidote, Hermione was too distracted by her own rainbow-hued, smoldering hair, to ask him any more questions.
--
"Oy, Harry, why didn't you tell us?" Ron exclaimed loudly as he sat down next to Harry at dinner the same day. Hermione remained uncharacteristically quiet, scowling down at her plate. She was probably, Harry reflected, still upset by the fact portions of her hair kept shifting color. For some reason, the antidote had not worked quite as well on Hermione's hair, presumably, as Slughorn had explained with the sheer ignorance of a man who perpetually digs his own grave, due to its unusual thickness and volume.
A few yards down the table, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil kept shooting Hermione sympathetic glances, and wincing occasionally at her hair. Hermione's grip on her book tightened severely as this continued to occur.
Ron had helpfully tried to point out to Hermione earlier, as they escaped the Potion's room, that at least her hair had subsided from emitting clouds of smoke. Hermione had slapped him.
"Didn't tell you what?" Harry asked, piling a helping of steak and kidney pie on his plate.
"You're the new Quidditch captain!" Ron exclaimed. "Bloody hell, mate, that's amazing!"
"I thought Quidditch was cancelled this year," Hermione finally ceased her silent indignation over her hair, though she kept reaching up to surreptitiously touch it on occasion, as though trying to psychically discern if it had finally stopped changing color.
"Well, it was," Harry explained in a low voice, not certain when McGonagall planned to make the announcement. "But the teachers decided it would be best for the school…morale, or something, if they kept up with Quidditch this year, too."
"I think reinstating Quidditch is a wonderful idea, what with the sort of… depressed atmosphere invading the school lately, you know?" Hermione said.
"Wicked," Ron said enthusiastically, completely ignoring Hermione's statement. "When are tryouts? I always thought I'd be a good Keeper."
"I dunno," Harry said, a heady wave of alarm rushing over him. He had no idea how to even go about conducting tryouts, how the hell was he supposed to captain?
"You'll be fine, Harry," Hermione reassured him distractedly, her book from the night before resting on the table in front of her. A streak of green rushed blazed through her hair. Ron looked at Harry, and promptly burst out laughing.
Hermione hit him with her book.
"Ow!" Hermione shot Ron a withering glance. Ron rubbed his arm indignantly. "C'mon, Hermione. I think green looks good on you…" Ron trailed off weakly, his freckled face red. Harry made a valiant effort to hide a grin.
"Slughorn said it would just take a while longer than normal for the effects to wear off," Hermione said, annoyance tingeing her voice. Ron hastened to assure her that he definitely thought the colors were fading.
Blinded by Ron and Hermione's indignant conversation, Harry barely noticed McGonagall rising to her feet.
"Excuse me, students," McGonagall said in a loud voice. Slowly, the clatter of silverware on china, and the chatter of student voices ceased. The Slytherin table took by far the longest to acknowledge McGonagall's presence.
"The staff and I have agreed, in light of current events, to reinstate the Quidditch tournament this year." Stunned silence greeted her words, followed by loud cheers.
"Quidditch captains have already been notified of their positions by their Head of House. From Gryffindor, Harry Potter, from Slytherin, Draco Malfoy, from Hufflepuff…" Harry looked at the Slytherin table, competitive fire blazing in his eyes, to see Malfoy seated elegantly amidst a congratulatory sea of green and silver. Malfoy smirked back at him in return. Harry missed the name of the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw captains. Not that it truly mattered. The real competition, the one imbued with blood and sweat and aggressive rage rather than a neat point tally and friendly handshakes, always occurred between Gryffindor and Slytherin.
"The first match, between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, will occur in three weeks, on the seventh of October. Thank you." McGonagall sat down neatly in her chair, a faint smile gracing her face at the tumultuous outburst in front of her.
"Three weeks?" Harry asked the rest of his table in stunned disbelief. "Is McGonagall insane? There's no way…we have to have tryouts, and training, and strategy…"
"When are tryouts anyway, Harry?" Ginny Weasley asked curiously from further down the table. A loud chorus of voices echoed the questions.
"Yeah, when are tryouts, Harry?"
"Harry, I think…"
"Harry!"
"Alright!" Harry stood and yelled down the table, his supper forgotten. "Practice is tomorrow at three o'clock. I'll go book the pitch straight after dinner. Any more questions, take it up with me then." He sat down heavily.
Next to Harry, Ron groaned sympathetically. "Ravenclaw, how bloody awful. And Slytherin is going to flatten Hufflepuff, no contest."
Harry nodded, cradling his head in his hands. There really was no way Hufflepuff stood to defeat Slytherin, especially with the way Malfoy played…Dishonest to the bone. Also, Slytherin retained most of its old team members, while the Weasley twins had left Hogwarts the prior year, and Katie Bell would not be returning to finish the school year after what happened to her parents. He would have to assemble a team almost from scratch, and train them…but, regardless, Harry would be damned if he allowed Slytherin to defeat Gryffindor this year, especially because Malfoy, the arse, was captain.
The same sort of frantic commotion swarmed the captains at all the other House tables. Panic and flurried movement, accompanied by strategic conversation, filled the room, except at the Slytherin table, where an almost unnatural calm reigned supreme. Malfoy was discussing Quidditch fiercely, but with unusual restraint. He would jab harshly at the table, deftly outlining some strategy, but talked in a low voice.
A commander, who did not wish his battle plans overheard.
"Quiet down please!" A loud voice yelled imperiously over the din. McGonagall once again stood up, facing the students, though now she looked severely aggravated.
"Thank you, Professor McGonagall," a gravely voice stated politely. "I wished to speak my piece before you announced such joyous news, but I suppose it can't be helped now." Rufus Scrimgeour stepped abruptly forward. Low mutterings filled the Great Hall at his appearance.
"My name is Rufus Scrimgeour. I am, as many of you know, the new Minister of Magic." Scrimgeour's voice sounded slightly strange. The Minister spoke in a normal voice, but it echoed loudly throughout the immense room nevertheless. His words, as result, sounded oddly hollow, as though they had been stretched and expanded far beyond their original depth. Harry looked at Hermione is askance.
"Sonorous Charm," she mouthed absently, staring with fixed concentration at the Minister.
"Following an incident which occurred recently here at Hogwarts, I wish to inform you all of the Ministry's new regulations on the use of dark magic. Some," Scrimgeour looked slightly back at McGonagall, who narrowed her eyes at him, "tell me you are too young to be concerned about these policies. I disagree. This concerns the entirety of the Wizarding world." Scrimgeour's voice rang throughout the room like stone on iron. Several students sat straighter in their seats, transfixed by the Minister's voice, until their attentiveness almost rivaled Hermione's own focus.
Once again, Harry was forcibly reminded of exactly why Rufus Scrimgeour had been elected Minister. Scrimgeour appeared strong, powerful, his Auror background extremely attractive to a Wizarding world frightened by Voldemort. There was something compelling in the straightforward way Scrimgeour spoke, something all of Fudge's evasions and meaningless political babble never did achieve. It made Scrimgeour appear trustworthy, and more important, competent.
Scrimgeour's next words were no less commanding. "No longer is the Ministry going to sit idly by and allow dark magic users to go unpunished. Anyone suspected of dark magic use will be investigated. The Ministry's prior reluctance to arrest those suspected of dark magic use is precisely what allowed You-Know-Who to rise to power previously." Many people flinched at the mention of Voldemort, and Harry reflected that the war was becoming truly horrible, if people could not even bear to hear Voldemort's moniker.
"If any of you strongly suspect any of your classmates of being allied with You-Know-Who, I urge you to speak your suspicions to your teachers immediately. The Ministry will no longer ignore the threat of dark magic, no matter how insignificant it may appear. You-Know-Who's evil can be defeated, but not if he has his supporters allied around him."
Many of the students turned to look at the Slytherin table with venom in their eyes. "Thank you for your attention," Scrimgeour said gruffly, and he was no longer an indomitable figure preaching fire and brimstone, but a grizzled Auror addressing a room of students. McGonagall moved to escort Scrimgeour down from the stage, and then, in an instant, he was gone, as fast as he had arrived.
"If you'll please report to your respective Common Rooms immediately," McGonagall stated severely, as soon as the door to the Great Hall had closed behind the Minister. A frown creased her voice.
"Wow," Hermione whispered as she, Ron, and Harry walked through a throng of students, out the Great Hall. "That was…unexpected."
"I saw him, Scrimgeour, on Saturday," Harry said in a low voice. "He came into the Hospital Wing just after you guys left. Wanted to know why I was in the Hospital Wing, you know, if it was a fight. Talked about dark magic then, too."
Hermione frowned as someone in a yellow and black scarf jostled her. "You didn't tell him about the visions, did you?"
"No," Harry replied shortly. "Course not. I don't trust any of the Ministry, especially after Fudge."
"Bloody moron, Fudge," Ron muttered angrily. "Springing us with Umbrige…" Even Hermione's face darkened at the mention of Umbrige.
"Yeah, Scrimgeour said the Ministry would be keeping a closer eye on Hogwarts this year, too," Harry said as they walked up a moving staircase, neatly jumping over a vanishing step.
"At least Scrimgeour knows enough to tell everyone about dark magic," Ron said furiously.
"But did you hear how he said it?" Hermione replied worriedly. "It was like he was saying all dark magic users were Vol…Voldemort supporters, and everyone already associates the Slytherins with dark magic…"
"And you're worried because people think dark magic is evil, and so Slytherins must be evil, too," Ron finished abruptly. "Hermione, you just don't understand," Ron continued in an anxious voice, as though he was pleading with Hermione to support him. "Dark magic is evil, and if the Slytherins use it, than they're evil, too. You have no idea how bad dark magic really is, what it was used for, last time You-Know-Who took over."
Harry remembered Malfoy, suffocating Carmichael and the others in the corridor, remembered the hauntingly dark look Malfoy's eyes had contained as people died in front of him, because of him, and the sinister whisper of power, frighteningly similar to Harry's dream, tainted the air.
"Ron's right," Harry interrupted Hermione harshly as she opened her mouth to argue with Ron. They stepped through the portrait hole, into the read and gold decorated common room. "You think the Slytherins are innocent of what they do, because they're still in school, still kids our age…Voldemort was younger than fourteen when he killed his parents with dark magic, only sixteen when he released the basilisk on the muggleborns…"
"Harry, calm down!" Hermione commanded, and Harry belatedly realized he had begun to yell. The crowd packing the Gryffindor common room stared at him with anxious eyes. Colin Creevey in particular looked like he would take out his camera in another moment and start taking pictures. Harry could see the headline: Boy Who Lived Suffers Mental Breakdown. Is Harry Potter the Next Dark Lord?
Harry lowered his voice dramatically. "Just…don't think they're all innocent. Because they're not."
Professor McGonagall strode through the mass of assembled students, her mouth compressed into a thin white line. "If I hear any of you," she began without introduction, "has gone and told the Ministry tales about one of your fellow students, you will serve detention every day until the end of the year. Of all the nerve of the Minister," McGonagall fumed, and now, she was clearly speaking half to herself, "asking schoolchildren to spy on their fellow classmates!"
"But, Professor," Ron said hesitantly, "the Slytherins –"
"Are students at this school, Mr. Weasley, and it is their teachers' responsibility to monitor their behavior."
"But we're in a war, Professor!" Harry fumed.
"I do not care, Mr. Potter! Gryffindors stand for honor, and respect, and decency, and I will not allow any of you to so shame any of your fellow students. I do not expect to hear any more discussion on this matter!" McGonagall snapped loudly, over a loud volley of protests.
"The Slytherins are evil, though…"
"…dark magic users to the core…"
"…Slytherins…dark magic…support You-Know-Who…"
"That is enough!" McGonagall yelled, and her voice thundered throughout the Common Room. Everyone quieted immediately. Harry could not remember a time McGonagall had shouted in anger before, and, presumably, no one else had, either.
"I have never been more ashamed of my Gryffindors…for you all to so readily want to participate in this witch hunt…" The pureblood students in the room, like the Weasleys, became even more unnaturally quiet. Ron's face had blanched an ugly white, his freckles standing out in sharp relief.
A whisper of unease swept through the room like fire, as students refused to look at one another. Clearly, the whole of the witch hunt did not concern harmless tales like Wendolyn the Weird, who utilized tickling charms to make the flames harmless. But, then, Harry reflected, perhaps he should have realized that before, for their history books only mentioned events containing intense destruction and death.
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In the Slytherin dormitories, a message arrived, demanding Draco Malfoy report to Professor McGonagall's rooms immediately for a meeting with the Minister of Magic about his actions on Saturday.
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A/N: Please, please, please review! I'll love you forever! And, if my undying love and gratitude is not enough, I promise to reply to anyone who leaves a signed review!!
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