Sorry this has taken so long chaps. I have had THE worst essay ever to write, but I managed to finish it so I've had time to finish this chappie. I hope you all like it. I've enjoyed writing it in between pulling my hair out over stupid literature essays grumble Once again, me would like to thank my fantastic, faithful reviewers. Thank you! [Characters Copyrighted to J.K. Rowling
EDIT: It has been brought to my attention that some of my Russian is a little 'off' so I've incoporated my reviewers advice and changed a few words.
.:Chapter 10:.
"Ah, Mr Dolohov," spoke a clear, friendly voice. "Come in, please."
Antonin Dolohov entered the Headmaster's office, not knowing what or whom to expect. Something told him it wasn't going to be like Ivanovich's office at Durmstrang with Dark Arts paraphernalia peeping from every nook and cranny, previous Slavic headmasters leering down from the granite walls, and numerous dark creatures that had undergone taxidermy. The one thing that always amazed Dolohov about Ivanovich's office was the immense aquatic tank that rose like a column from the middle of the room. It housed one of the rarest, most deadly snakes known to wizard-kind – the three-headed runespoor. Vlad Ivanovich's runespoor was one of the few to have all three heads intact and Dolohov always got the feeling that there was more to the snake than met the eye. However, there was no such serpent in Headmaster Dumbledore's office.
"Please, take a seat," smiled Dumbledore, his blue eyes examining his new student over his half-moon glasses.
Dolohov obliged him, his eyes darting around the office, shocked at how light and tidy it all looked. Rays of morning sunlight filtered into the office, waking the snoozing pictures on the sandstone walls. Instead of a runespoor, there was a phoenix, and instead of Dark Arts objects, there were delicate silver instruments and what looked to be a pensieve. It took awhile before Dolohov's tar-black eyes settled on his new headmaster. They lingered there taking in the white hair flecked with auburn, the long beard and cheerful purple robes; he was nothing at all like Ivanovich. He didn't look to be of a pureblood background, but something about his eyes showed a stern determination that put Dolohov on edge.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," continued Dumbledore, his sparkling blue eyes never leaving Dolohov's. "I trust your journey was comfortable?"
"Yes, thank you," replied Dolohov curtly, his eyes once again distracted, but this time by two familiar faces that lay on Dumbledore's desk.
Dumbledore watched the young man's face harden as he glanced at the picture of Josef and Sinovia Dolohov. They had been found murdered alongside Cesare Claviger, keeper of keys, in the wizard prison, Azkaban. The two Dementors that guarded their cell were nowhere to be found, all that remained were charred cloaks ground into the floor. It would have taken a wizard of considerable talent and bravery to commit this act and make it out alive...
"I am truly sorry for your loss," started Dumbledore, his voice barely a whisper.
"They are in a better place," replied Dolohov coldly, his eyes never leaving the newspaper on Dumbledore's claw-footed desk.
There was something akin to satisfaction that lingered in the depths of Dolohov's eyes as he read the Daily Prophet's headline:'Good Riddance: Dolohov pair found murdered in Azkaban cell.' It wasn't murder though... or was it? Maybe it really did go beyond euthanasia; maybe it really did brush the elusive fringes of murder? Dolohov would forever ask those questions over and over again; for every muggle he would kill, for every wizard he would torture, those questions would always remain.
Dumbledore eyed his new student thoughtfully, catching glimpses of cold emotion fluttering over his surly countenance. He was now under Lestrange guardianship, it had been his parents wish if anything should ever happen to them – this also meant that he would be under Hogwarts tutelage. Dumbledore could see just by looking at him that Dolohov was a student whose unbending ambition would be his undoing. It pained him to know that this misguided young man would become one of the most formidable wizards of his age; he had proven that much already…
"Your guardians implore me to place you in Slytherin," spoke Dumbledore, after what seemed like moments of tense silence. "Of course, the choice is yours."
"I vould rather be in Slytherin," replied Dolohov, returning his eyes to those of his new Headmaster. "Vill I be needing the hat?"
"Mark my words, you're a Slytherin if I ever did see one," came the grumbled reply.
Dolohov's eyes glanced to the tatty, battered old hat, resting on an equally battered old stool. There was a tear along its brim that had grotesquely formed into the shape of a mouth. Antonin had heard tales from his penfriends about the obscure history of Hogwarts' Sorting Hat – there was nothing of such nonsense at the Durmstrang Institute.
"Well, there is your answer, Antonin," smiled Dumbledore genially. "Slytherin it is."The bedsheets felt surprisingly cool against her warm skin. She could feel the fever still raging through her body, but it had thankfully begun to subside. Raising a shaky hand to her forehead, she wiped away the sheen of sweat that clung to her pale brow. Narcissa felt as if she had been asleep for days – that wouldn't have been far from the truth. She had been asleep for well over eighteen hours, except it wasn't normal sleep. It was feverish, fitful - broken dreams colliding with incorporeal hallucinations; a faceless figure placing a cool cloth over her brow, watching her, defying her pride... Her memory was hazy, but she had a good idea as to who the faceless figure was.
The chill morning breeze offered a welcome respite to the parched air that filled the dormitory. Inhaling deeply, Narcissa caught the delicate scent of winter mingling with the fresh gust of air. It was a scent she knew well, one of her favourites in fact; opening her impossible blue eyes, she was greeted with the sight of a dozen winter roses adorning her bedside table. Narcissa felt herself smile as she saw something else; lying next to the vase of icy blue winter roses was her rosewood wand. She wanted to reach out, to touch the winter blooms, to make sure they weren't one of the many hallucinations that had haunted her troubled sleep, but her body could not comply.
You're so weak...
Look at you lying there...
Narcissa felt so wretchedly feeble and so utterly helpless; once again she had relied on him... Lucius Malfoy. Her mind raged silently, thinking of what her father would say if he knew she had accepted help from a Malfoy – no doubt Bellatrix would go to the trouble of informing him. Bellatrix... She had thought on her sister a lot, her taunting face passing in and out of the nightmarish illusions the fever created for her.
Bellatrix knew. She knew too much, and her silence would come at a cost, a cost too great for Narcissa to endure. She needed to get to Evan before Bellatrix did, needed to stop her, needed to tell him it was over, needed to...
Narcissa felt her body succumb to the waning control of the fever dream, her mind wandering aimlessly in and out of the confines of reality.
She could feel his strong arms pulling her closer to him as she stood on the verge of collapse. His words of concern had touched something deep inside her, something that had begun to bypass her ever-controlling pride.
"Professor Eltanin must be made aware of this," began Lucius, his tone commanding.
"N-no," mumbled Narcissa, once again pulling back from his arms. "I'm fine."
Lucius studied her flushed face, her drained lips and her listless eyes – it looked like he would have to take matters into his own hands. Before she knew it, Narcissa had been whisked up into his arms, her shivering form, once again, cradled against him.
"Put me down," protested Narcissa, attempting to muster as much defiance as possible. "I ...demand you... put me d-down."
"Believe me," sighed Lucius, "I do not relish the thought of having to carry you up three flights of stairs, but it seems I have no choice."
"I c-can't let you," mumbled Narcissa, her heart racing. "Blacks... don't need-,"
"Enough with your Black pride!" retorted Lucius, his cold-steel eyes silencing her. "It means nothing to me!"
Narcissa was taken aback by his sudden outburst, her glazed eyes widening in disbelief. Black pride meant nothing to him, and why should it? He could never, and would never, understand how much it meant to her – it was her driving force, the one thing she had left to cling on to when all else failed. But where was her pride now? Where was it when she needed it the most? Even her pride couldn't stop her from drowning in the feelings of insufferable helplessness and stifling loneliness...
She felt the words, the words her pride had desperately tried to thwart, escape from her mouth before she had a chance to silence them...
"Thank... you," she whispered, her delicate hand reaching to touch the side of his face.
He said nothing, but his silence spoke more than any words could. What passed between them in the silence that followed was a mutual acceptance, an acceptance of her need for him, and his ability to sate it.It had been hard leaving her bedside – he could admit to that, but anything else he would blatantly deny. Lucius Malfoy had never been one to express his emotions and desires, especially when they involved certain people. To his Slytherin peers, he was the cold paradigm of arrogance and pride, a being completely devoid and incapable of showing any real emotion. Part of him had to agreed with them, it was easier that way – if he revealed his emotions, it showed weakness and weakness did not factor into who or what he was. He was abruptly shaken from his thoughts by a series of measured knocks on his door...
"Yes?" asked Lucius, his head partially turned to face the door.
"It's Evan," came the muffled reply.
"Come in," sighed Lucius, his patience already wearing thin.
Lucius watched the dark haired fifth year walk in, dark bags circled his hollowing, amber eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in days – whether through worry or stress, Lucius didn't know, or care, for that matter. He was seriously thinking about replacing Evan Rosier for another Chaser – his insolence and lack of dedication didn't settle well with Lucius.
"What do you want?" questioned Lucius, turning his eyes back to his half written essay.
"I just want to apologise for my behaviour yesterday," replied Evan, a tired edge detectable in his voice. "I was just... worried I guess."
"Apology accepted," muttered Lucius absentmindedly, underlining his title.
"Is that all you're going to say?" retorted Evan, disgruntled by Lucius' answer.
"What do you want me to say, Rosier?" began Lucius, angrily placing his quill back in its ink point. "That you were totally irresponsible, that you are completely undeserving of her? What?"
"Undeserving?" countered Evan, his temper rising once again.
"What are you? A parrot?" snarled Lucius, standing up to face him. "Yes, Rosier, undeserving."
"I know what this is about," chuckled Evan amusedly. "You're jealous – you're jealous because she chose me over you."
"Don't be ridiculous," lied Lucius, rolling his eyes.
"Oh, I'm not being ridiculous," smiled Rosier. "It must drive you insane knowing that you'll be second best for once."
"You think your childish taunts will get a rise out of me, Rosier?" challenged Lucius dangerously. "You are sadly mistaken, now get out."
"Always running from the truth, eh Malfoy?" sneered Evan, his face draining of colour.
"Don't misunderstand me, Rosier," growled Lucius, his frozen glare settling on the fiery depths of Evan's eyes. "The only reason you are still standing is out of respect."
"Respect? For someone other than yourself?" barked Evan. "I find that hard to comprehend."
"Someone of your standing wouldn't understand," replied Lucius resignedly. "Now get out... I'm sure Miss Black would prefer her... boyfriend in one piece."
"Your idle threats don't wash with me, Malfoy. Never have," snarled Evan, "and they never will."
"You'd do well not to push me, Rosier," whispered Lucius calmly, his words drenched with malicious intent.
Evan could see that the heir of Malfoy was not joking – the frozen glaze that covered his grey eyes had melted away to reveal tempered steel, intent on some self-serving purpose. Backing towards the door, Evan gave him one last scowl before hastily departing, his dark robes catching on the draft.
Lucius ran an exasperated hand through his hair as he considered what Evan had said – was he really jealous? No. Malfoys had no reason to get jealous because they always got what they wanted in the end, pure and simple. He had allowed himself to develop feelings for Narcissa because she was perfect, and in the end, she would be his. No jumped up fifth year was going to interfere with that.
"Malfoy," interrupted a familiar voice.
Turning from his desk once again, he saw his fellow sixth year, Rabastan Lestrange, standing in the doorway.
"Lestrange?" sighed Lucius, tired of the constant interruptions, "Something wrong?"
"Nothing, my friend," began Rabastan, surveying Lucius over his horn-rimmed glasses. "Although I see the same can't be said for you. I just bumped into Rosier..."
"Let's just say I had to deal with him," muttered Lucius, standing up. "Next time you see him, tell him he's off the team."
"I take it you have a replacement lined up?" questioned Rabastan casually.
"I hoped you might be able to help with that," started Lucius. "I hear your Durmstrang friend has come to Hogwarts."
"He's with Dumbledore," replied Rabastan, motioning with his eyes. "He'll be here anytime now. I'm sure you will grace us with your presence?"
"Of course," nodded Lucius, never passing up the opportunity to meet similar purebloods. "Does he play?"
"World-class Chaser in fact," smiled Rabastan, watching Lucius' face lighten, "but, if you don't mind me asking, why exactly did you drop Rosier?"
"Personal differences," growled Lucius through gritted teeth.
"Narcissa Black then?" retorted Rabastan, cocking his head to one side.
"That's presumptuous even by your standards, Lestrange," replied Lucius, his face darkening once again.
"Some might call it obvious," sniggered Rabastan. "The way you look at her, no wonder Rosier came to settle 'personal differences' with you."
"That'll do Lestrange," cautioned Lucius amiably.
"Very well," smiled Rabastan, pushing his square-framed glasses further up his nose. "Shall we then?"
"I'll meet you down there," began Lucius, pulling his hair back into a loose ponytail. "I have some unfinished business to settle."
This is more like it. Antonin Dolohov's tar-black eyes trawled around the common room taking in every small detail, from the obsidian fire place, to the dragon hide couches that gathered around it. A few first year Slytherins gave him wary glances, avoiding his dark eyes. He was used to people staring at him, whether through admiration or disgust, their looks only added to his confidence. No doubt most of them had read the Daily Prophet this Sunday morning, had read about the untimely murder of his parents, and the transfer of their only son to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
"Dolohov, old friend," came a familiar voice.
Turning his eyes towards the clattering sound that came from the dark granite staircase, his eyes rested on his penfriend. The dark, robed figure of Rabastan Lestrange strode over to him, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
"Rabastan, брат мой," replied Dolohov, slipping into his native language, whilst embracing Rabastan in a brotherly hug.
"It's good to have you with us," said Rabastan, studying his friend's drawn complexion.
"It is good to be here," nodded Dolohov, "at last."
The wandering eyes of Antonin Dolohov could not be halted for long and he found himself looking around the common room once more. It was different to the one he left behind at Durmstrang; there had always been a permanent draft that had hung around his old Common Room: the fires only being lit in the extreme cold of the Romanian winter. He was worlds away from Durmstrang now... worlds aw- but something interrupted his thoughts, a raven haired beauty strolling down the staircase, her dark eyes pointedly fixed on him.
"You must be Antonin Dolohov," she smiled, her red lips parting to reveal a row of pearly white teeth. "I'm Bellatrix, Bellatrix Black."
She held her hand out to him which he took and brought gently to his mouth. He could smell the musky scent of her perfume, as his soft lips grazed her skin.
"It is a pleasure," replied Dolohov, nodding his head to her.
"Oh no," smiled Bellatrix slyly, "the pleasure is mine."
Dolohov merely smiled in acknowledgement of her flirtatious retort. So this is Bellatrix? He had heard a great many things about the wild-child of Slytherin; for one thing she was dating his penfriend's brother, Rodolphus, who he still had yet to meet. Monogamy did not feature highly on Dolohov's list of requisites – women were there for his pleasure, and for the purpose of producing an heir.
"Have you chosen your subjects?" inquired Rabastan, his eyes narrowing at Bellatrix's open flirtations.
"Yes," replied Dolohov curtly, tearing his eyes away from Bellatrix. "Potions, Advanced Potions, Runes, Charms, and History of Magic."
"No Defence against the Dark Arts, eh?" sniggered Bellatrix, catching his eye once more.
"Vats the point in defending against them," replied Dolohov dangerously, "ven you can already use them?"
"Care to give us a demonstration?" smiled Bellatrix, her mind racing at the prospect of seeing true Dark Arts displayed in front of her.
"Bella, you know the rules," reprimanded Rabastan, a hint of annoyance in his voice.
"I've never cared for them," sighed Bellatrix. "You know that."
"Antonin, the penalty for the use of Dark Arts within Hogwarts is severe," warned Rabastan seriously. "You will suffer expulsion, and perhaps a term in Azkaban."
"Azkaban," whispered Dolohov, the word catching in his throat.
The mere mention of the wizard prison sent an unbidden chill down the Russian's spine – it wasn't fear, no, definitely not fear, but something else, something completely intangible. He could almost smell the stench of death and decay seeping from the depraved grasp of the Dementors themselves. This is folly, weakness... Regaining his composure almost instantly, he nodded to Rabastan, accepting the ridiculous rules Hogwarts enforced.
"Looks like my demonstration, vill have to vait 'til next veek," began Antonin, "for that is ven the ball is, right?"
"Indeed," replied Rabastan, nodding in response.
"Its going to be so much fun," grinned Bellatrix, as she perched on the edge of one of the dragon-hide couches.
"No doubt," replied Rabastan, casting a wary eye on Bellatrix.
She was trouble – he had preached about it countless times to his younger brother, but the boy just wouldn't see sense. It was obvious that Rodolphus was blindly infatuated with Bellatrix, in his eyes she could do no wrong, but Rabastan knew otherwise. Lucius had divulged to him their 'chance' encounter in the broom lock-up, and from the way she acted around Evan, Rabastan suspected she was less faithful then she let on.
"Right," started Rabastan, pushing his glasses further up his nose, "I will show you to your dorm."
"До свидание, Bellatrix," said Dolohov, once again pressing the back of her hand to his mouth.
"I'll see you around," replied Bellatrix, casting the young Russian a satisfied smile, the wheels and cogs in her mind working over time.
"Merlin, still in bed at this time?"
Narcissa felt her eyes flutter open and closed in a desperate attempt to locate the owner of that familiarly screechy voice. A hazy blob began to come into focus at the end of her bed until it finally transformed into the podgy form of Saffron Parkinson. Narcissa felt herself sit up and give the nosey girl a wan smile.
"Aren't you going to come downstairs?" continued Saffron, oblivious to Narcissa's drained look.
"Why?" questioned Narcissa, swinging her legs from the bedcovers so they dangled over the edge of the bed.
"Haven't you heard?" exclaimed Saffron, her voice squealing and high-pitched. "A new student has transferred from Durmstrang!"
"Already?" replied Narcissa, surprised that the transfer student had arrived so soon.
"Just wait 'til you meet him!" squeaked Saffron, clutching her hands over her heart. "He's to die for!"
Narcissa merely smiled at the girl's ridiculous nature. She wished for time alone, to think properly for once without interference from the trivial rantings of Saffron Parkinson. Sighing, she brushed her tangled golden hair behind her ears and looked out of the window across the snowy grounds.
"I'll be down soon," replied Narcissa resignedly.
"Spoiled sport!" mocked Saffron, before she jumped off the end of the bed and headed towards the door, but something made her stop.
"Oh, those flowers are beautiful!" she exclaimed, her eyes fixed on the bouquet of winter roses on Narcissa's bedside table. "From Evan?"
"Something like that," lied Narcissa, desperate to be alone.
"You're so lucky," sighed Saffron, looking at the flowers with a longing stare. "Well, see you in a minute."
Narcissa watched the girl flounce out and listened to her hurried footsteps pitter-patter down the stone staircase. Hushed voices echoed down the hall, drowning out Saffron's departing footsteps. You'd have thought they'd never seen a transfer student before. Pushing herself up from her bed, she walked towards the open window, her hand caressing the cold pane. Resting her head against it, she felt the coldness embrace her cheek, cooling off the remains of her fever.
It was only after moments of silent contemplation that Narcissa realised she was still in her clothes from yesterday. A feeling of disgust overcame her as she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window. She looked haggard and paler than usual; her usually gleaming blonde hair was dull and lustreless. Her first thought was that Lucius must have seen her in this hideous state, and then she stopped herself. What did she care about what he thought? He had stunned her, he was a blatant liar, and he had, more likely than not, committed heinous acts with her sister. So, why did she care? It was the one question she just couldn't answer, no matter how hard she tried...
"You look troubled, Miss Black," drawled that oh-so familiar voice that seemed to have a nasty habit of surprising her when she least expected it.
Narcissa didn't turn from the window, she couldn't bring herself to look at him; the shame she felt was too great. If she looked at him, she would be brought under his spell once again... and besides, there was no way she would let him see her face in this state.
"Troubled?" replied Narcissa quietly. "I can't imagine what you mean."
"I see you are recovered," noted Lucius, detecting the atypical coldness in her voice.
"Yes," said Narcissa absentmindedly, watching her breath misting on the windowpane, fighting the urge to turn around and gaze upon his handsome countenance.
Lucius felt himself chuckle at the situation – why was he even here? He knew that this was the kind of response he would get from her, but he had found it hard resisting the urge to see if she was well. Admit it Malfoy. Shaking his head, as if to banish the thoughts that crept unwanted through his mind, he advanced towards Narcissa's bedraggled form, her eyes still fixed on the frozen grounds.
"Look at me," murmured Lucius, his hand running down her bare arm.
Narcissa could feel his warm breath tickling the back of her neck. He was so unbearable close to her that she was concerned he could hear the instantaneous quickening of her heartbeat. She wanted more than anything to turn around and wrap her arms about him, pushing her pride aside and indulging in what she had dreamed of for so long. No, you mustn't. Narcissa could feel his other hand gently brushing her hair over one shoulder, exposing her pale neck.
"Look at me," whispered Lucius again before softly kissing the contour of her neckline.
Narcissa felt a gasp escape from her lips as Lucius caressed the elegant arch of her neck, trailing a line of tender kisses from the base of her neck to her jawline. She wanted so badly to give in, just to give in and sate her unquenchable desire, drowning it in his kisses.
"No," muttered Narcissa, brushing his hand from her arm. "This isn't right."
"Don't tell me you've developed a conscience?" whispered Lucius, his mouth barely millimetres from her ear.
"What if I have?" retorted Narcissa, turning around. "What if I think this is wrong?"
"You would be lying," smiled Lucius, observing how beautiful she was even in her weakened state. "You need me."
"Need?" spat Narcissa, her eyes widening. "I don't need you! I don't need anyone!"
"Oh no, of course not, my mistake," sighed Lucius, rolling his eyes. "All you need is that Merlin-forsaken pride of yours."
Narcissa fought to scream back a reply, but she found that she was speechless. What he had said was innately true – all she needed was her pride. She wouldn't let herself 'need' anyone, to 'need' someone was to be weak, and she refused to be weak again... yet surely, she was showing weakness now though, by feeding him ammunition to throw back at her? She wanted to prove him wrong, she wanted to prove that there was more to her than her infamous pride; by mentioning her pride, Lucius had inadvertently fuelled its need to show him that there was more to her than just her Black name. Glaring at him, her cobalt eyes aflame with defiance, she pushed her parched lips against his, wrapping her arms around his neck.
Lucius lifted Narcissa's form so she was perched on the edge of the windowsill, her legs wrapped around his own, her arms encircled around his neck. Strands of gold clung to the windowpane, as their kiss deepened further. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest against his own, their breathing in unison. His hands ran up the length of her legs, before finally resting on the curvature of her waist. Lucius could feel her pushing against him, her legs locking tighter around his own. There was more to this than just pure defiance... lust, anger, and desire all burned together creating an explosive cocktail of frenzied emotion.
Yay, end of Ch. 10! Wow, ten chapters – I'm really surprised I got this far! Well, hope you enjoyed reading it, as always I value people's opinion on this story, so feel free to drop me an email or give me a review. The Lestrange Ball is drawing ever near, although I bet none of you believe me anymore, seeing as I've said it so many times :D But seriously, it'll be in the next chapter and the events of the Ball will hopefully spread over two chapters. Russian translations are below:
"Rabastan, брат мой," replied Dolohov, slipping into his native language, whilst embracing Rabastan in a brotherly hug.
Rabastan, my brother
"До свидание, Bellatrix," said Dolohov, once again pressing the back of her hand to his mouth.
Goodbye, Bellatrix