A/N: It goes dark in this one. Return to warnings in Ch.1 before deciding if you want to read on.

Coven. Ch. 14: Crime

Harry fidgeted awkwardly. After almost two months of silent treatment, speaking to Hermione felt a foreign mix of wrong and familiar. He searched her face for any signs of what Dumbledore insisted must be happening within her head; but he could only tell that she looked haggard. There were dark bags under her eyes, and her hair was tied in an even messier bundle of knots than usual, but if he had not known otherwise he would have said she was simply stressed. Was Dark Magic supposed to be stressful?

"So the poison was in the mead?" she asked, concerned. Her face had gone deadly pale at hearing of Ron's accident, which convinced him she had –as expected– nothing to do with it.

Harry had already recounted the story what felt like a hundred times, but considered Hermione deserved to hear it from him and not the impersonal and slanderous rumour mill. It was not one of Dumbledore's secrets after all, and he owed her at least that. They might be having… issues at the moment, but the Golden Trio had gone through Hell together, and it meant something. Hermione had reminded him of that.

He nodded. "Fred thought Slughorn might have slipped something in, but–"

"I doubt it," she dismissed the idea without a second thought, and he found himself smiling. It was always reassuring to have Hermione be absolutely certain of something.

"I thought maybe the target could be Slughorn himself, 'cause he'd been on the run from Voldemort for long. But Ginny reminded me, the bottle was meant for Dumbledore in the first place."

Hermione's features lost the feel of annoyed tiredness for the first time since they had met, as she lifted her eyes to look at his, and yet said nothing. "What?" he asked her, eager for some more input. "What do you think?"

She hesitated only for a brief second. "Whomever planned this is not the sharpest tool in the shed, is he? Slughorn, give such a tasty treat to someone else? No way," she shook her head, and her eyes shone with the fire he was used to see in them as she said, "And doesn't this remind you of another incompetent criminal?"

Harry gasped. "Katie!" Of course. "That necklace was also meant for someone else." Hermione, as always, had a good eye for finding patterns and selecting which pieces belonged to the same puzzle. They had only one criminal, and apparently he was fond of involving third parties, he realized in anger. Craven arsehole.

"And both attacks supposed to be fatal," she made him see. "Katie's necklace might have been meant for Dumbledore, too," she said ominously.

She made a very valid point, though the thought of something happening to Dumbledore made his stomach twitch in painful knots. He chased the idea out of his head; losing the only man who could guide him into how to defeat Voldemort would just be – No, better not to think about it. Instead, he focused on the would-be-murderer. He had some ideas about who it could be, but Hermione was unlikely to appreciate them.

He fidgeted once more, but in the end could not help himself. "You don't think maybe Parkinson knows something?" he asked, unable to hide suspicion from his voice. Hermione was evidently innocent, but the Slytherin wench was something else entirely. She was clearly up to something, sticking to Hermione and her new friends like a limpet.

"Pansy?" she exclaimed, wide-eyed, and then snorted. "No way," and then sternly added before he could insist, "Drop it." Harry frowned. There just was no way of getting through her; there had never been when she latched onto a new idea. House-elves or Dark Magic, it was all the same to Hermione: she would see to it until the end.

He thought there was a fairly good chance of Parkinson knowing something, if she was indeed working for Voldemort –like all evidence pointed toward. Still, saying that to Hermione was unlikely to go well, so he did as she asked. After all, he had just wanted to let her know Ron was in the hospital.

"Tell me if Ron gets worse?" she pleaded, and he nodded. "Be careful, Harry. These things always find a way to happen around you." With her face so pale and the now always-present wrinkles on her forehead, she looked strangely frail as she asked. The image was unsettling.

He managed to give her a reassuring smile and pat on the arm. "You know me, I like a quiet life," he joked. Hermione laughed, but there was sadness in her voice.

He wished he could turn everything back to how it used to be. Have her and Ron around all the time, face the dangers as three. As he left the room, he already missed her. But he knew he could not speak to her normally, not as long as Parkinson was around. Not as long as she defended the usage of Dark Magic.

He shook his head. It was his fault, that Hermione had lost her way. He should have stood by her side more firmly when Ron started dating Lavender; that had been the trigger, he knew. He should have been a better friend.

Hermione clenched her fists so strongly she drew blood and smacked the stone wall viciously with both palms when the Room of Requirement did not open for her. Bloody, slimy, despicable room-stealing good-for-nothing bastard! When she got her hands on the pillock she would rake him across the coals, skin him alive and make him eat his own dirty, charred skin, the fucking –

Hermione forced herself to take a deep, calming breath.

The Room was in use, and there was nothing to do about it. Taking her frustrations out on the cold stones was unlikely to help, she logically knew that. And so was yelling at the poor first-year who had been standing in front of it. The girl had even dropped her scales in surprise.

The news of Ron's poisoning had left her with a hot, fiery anger screaming in her mind. Someone was hurting people indiscriminately –people she cared about– and she felt utterly powerless. No matter how much of a horny dog Ron was acting like, hooking up with Lavender, she did not want him poisoned. She did not want him dead. Just the thought was unbearably painful.

Well, if she could not access the Room to relieve her stress then she would seek Pansy. Her mere presence usually made the whispering, insistent, hostile voice subside. Besides, she had told Harry her friend knew nothing, but she had her doubts; she might have caught on some rumour, or simply find a new perspective on the whole issue. God knew their way of looking at the world usually differed greatly. She just wanted Harry to forget the absurd idea that it was Pansy's fault. Not that she would never try to off Dumbledore, but she at least was more competent than any useless twit who thought Slughorn reliable.

Following the persistent pull on her soul that always pushed them together, she was led to Pansy, who was working together with Tracey in the Astronomy Tower. The two had gotten special permission from Professor Sinistra to check the tracking spells on their telescope using Venus, which was already visible in the late afternoon. Hermione briefly regretted having been forced to drop the subject as she regarded the two, but knew she was already taking too many.

Tracey heard her arrive first, and she must have seen the urgency in her rushed steps, because just as she turned she told Pansy, "Just go. Vicky will be up here soon; we can manage with just the two of us."

Pansy hesitated, but Hermione knew she could feel her urgency, and she gave in as expected. "Don't let her set any numbers. Especially if she insists something should be seven," she warned Tracey, who laughed. "I'll be back in a minute."

Hermione rushed Pansy down the stairs as the girl complained about her pushing –and about everything ranging from the pattern on her barely visible socks to her interruption– until they stopped mid-tower, casting a muffiato to keep their conversation private, and ducking into a shadowy alcove. She doubted Tracey would follow them, as she did not look the type to be interested in gathering juicy gossip. Besides, she had heard her criticize Daphne Greengrass for her nosiness more than once.

"What happened?" asked Pansy once they had privacy, always direct and to the point. She probably remembered the last time Hermione had gone out of her way to find her; the news that Dumbledore had caught them had not been happy ones.

"It's Ron," Hermione told her after taking a deep breath. "He was poisoned."

Pansy blinked a few times, disconcerted. "Am I supposed to cry or something?"

Hermione huffed, irritated, "No, I didn't expect you to," she admitted. There were few people Pansy cared about in this world, and if there was only one Gryffindor amongst them Hermione would count herself lucky. "But I thought you'd at least be curious."

She was. Her eyes shone brightly as she scooted closer, sniffing bigger news. Hermione recounted Harry's story, as well as her suspicions. After she finished, Pansy smirked and goaded her, "Pity he's still alive." Hermione hit her arm, and received a push back.

Pansy laughed, and then pulled her closer and re-casted the muffiato, for good measure. Garcia went by, focused on counting steps even though she probably already knew how many there were by heart. Pansy peeked after her to reassure herself no one else was skulking in the shadows, and then went, "I know who it was, that almost killed the Bell girl."

"Pansy!" she could not help but scream. Was she even – How had she not – Hermione took yet another calming deep breath. She could not believe Pansy had hid from everyone she knew who had attempted murder. How had she kept the secret from the authorities – from her? Seeing the easily recognisable look of righteous indignation in her eyes, Pansy kindly reminded her about the whole 'keeping quiet about the book' issue, and Hermione sulkily shut up. "So, who was it?" she finally asked. Who was the enemy within their own walls?

"Draco," she whispered near her ear, and at her gasp, added, "I saw him imperius Madam Rosmerta."

Hermione could almost feel the world coming to a halt all around her. The rational part within her, which got smaller every day under the unyielding pressure that was her magic yearning, let out one last chirp before being extinguished into a wisp of smoke. Her ethical principles and implacable logic were lost under the sound of her mind roaring Draco. And like an echo, it reverberated within her head until the name itself turned into a cacophony of blurred sounds; still the meaning never lost. Draco. Draco. DRACO.

"I didn't know who it was meant for, the necklace. But if Potter tells the truth, then Draco's mission must be to kill Dumbledore!" Pansy went on, excited with the discovery. "He'd been hinting at an important errand from the Dark Lord, you know? But, oh, to think it was such a – The poor fool!" she laughed, cackled, crazily. When she regarded her again, a pleased viciousness danced in her eyes, "It must be a punishment. The thick-witted twat thought he was important! 'Pansy, get out of my way, you women just can't understand'," she mimicked mockingly. "But I told him, Granger. I told him that if You-Know-Who was displeased with Lucius, then there was no way this was meant to be a reward! I told him he was acting like a blind idiot!" she roughly whispered, now furious.

"And then he struck you," she guessed. Draco. Pansy's expression went sombre.

Hermione could feel her anger, now familiar instead of sharp and surprising like it had once been, swirl and stir within her. Pansy had only been concerned for her old friend –Draco–, and the egotistical, wicked bastard –Draco– had not cared back one bit. The Death-Eater –Draco–, even if barely more than child, had hit her Pansy. Hermione could feel her own fists clenching and her breathing become laboured. Her rage awoke fully, dark and dense and heavy as it seeped out and met Pansy's. Their fury resonated within the narrow staircase, engulfing their whole beings within a madness of wrath, painting their thoughts black.

Draco.

It was the name, she realized as her rationality gave up and joined in instead of opposing her innermost desires. The feeling, the intensity, it overtook her with regained force because now there was a focus for it. Now there was Draco.

And she didn't need words to know that Pansy was thinking exactly the same thing.

Hermione had once thought herself incapable of murder. She was not stupidly naïve either; and after battling for her life while trying to escape the Department of Mysteries she had realized that anyone could cast a spell that resulted in an opponent falling badly. She had understood that one day she might cause somebody's death. But that was not murder. Murder, she thought, was sitting in the Gryffindor Common Room with an open Charms textbook on her lap and planning when and how to catch Draco Malfoy.

A couple of fifth years passed her by, openly looking disapproving. It was always the older students who cared; the ones who could read war within the current political climate. Usually, ignoring them came easily to her, but today a cold sweat gathered at the base of her nape and made her shiver. They did not know, she reminded herself. If she planned it properly, nobody would.

Paranoia, she had discovered, was a worse feeling than guilt.

She woke up most days having dreamed of Malfoy's hands tinted red with Pansy's blood, and her mind screaming his name in vicious fury. She had needed to flood her bed with silencing spells, lest her roommates heard her yell the name of a soon-to-die man.

Other days it was Ron who laid at Malfoy's feet in her nightmares. Those days, Katie was always present, body sprawled on the ground a few feet back as Draco Malfoy smirked down at her and kicked Ron's face with petty viciousness.

She wondered, after waking up covered in cold sweat, what Pansy dreamed. In the course of a full week, since they had taken the unspoken decision, she had never asked. She suspected Malfoy was in hers, too. He was the trigger after all, from the moment in which he had truly become a common enemy.

She wondered, with clinical detachment, if this was the Dark Magic taking control of them as Harry had said it would. Poisoning their thoughts and their dreams, pushing and stoking their hatred until they finally complied. If it was, she thought, then sorry Harry. Sorry because it's already too late.

Pansy came to the sudden realization that she had led a terribly dull, average and unexciting school life. Un-chosen, she could call it, maybe. Because apparently, when you were the Chosen One, treasures dropped on your head one after the other just because you had decided to get out of bed.

First, she ran her hands on the unearthly soft material of the invisibility cloak, because of course, only Potter would have inherited an item so magical it seemed to have come out from the Three Brother's Tale itself. She settled the cloak on her lap and her lower half banished; no single misplaced shifting of light to be seen. It was perfect.

Then, she took the map. Such a wonderfully useful invention! And Potter's own father had made it. She never knew he and professor Lupin, along with escaped –now apparently innocent, and also deceased– convict Sirius Black, were such talented wizards. But again, give it to the Boy-Who-Lived to be related to such a funny mix of people.

She could see that most of the student body was congregating around the Quidditch Pitch, as expected. Snape and Dumbledore, the ones they should be most careful around, were already sitting on the stands. Potter, Weasley and Madam Pomfrey were in the Infirmary. She could also spot a few students in the Library or in their Common Rooms –How had those Gryffindors mapped even the Slytherin Common Room? Sneaky bastards– but the corridors remained essentially deserted.

Draco, she saw, along with Crabbe and Goyle, was moving out of the Dungeons. He tended to disappear off to somewhere often, these days; probably burrowing into his hidey-hole to plan Dumbledore's demise. She could not help but burst out laughing, earning a sidewise glance from Hermione. It was hilarious that Draco even thought he had a chance! One of the greatest wizards of all times, who the Dark Lord himself feared to face, falling prey to a lone sixteen-year-old with daddy issues? Fat chance.

"He's moving," she told Hermione, leaving the gloating for later. They had a mission now, and could not afford to miss this chance.

Hermione nodded and grabbed the cloak, raising. "Let's trail him and wait for the best chance."

Pansy followed, hiding a flinch when her ankle hesitated. Some quick bastard had thrown a tripping hex her way chancing upon a distraction, and it had remained tender for the past couple of days. She sighed and marched on. It was not the first time someone threw a nasty in her direction, and it was unlikely to be the last. Her housemates were not pleased with her open display of allegiances. No one had dared confront her face to face once more –much less with Tracey tagging along– but they took advantage of the shadows. She sighed. At least, for the moment, she had succeeded in keeping her injury hidden from Hermione. She did not want to be coddled; or worse, forced to practice even harder. After so much conditioning, she was pretty sure she was casting shielding charms in her sleep.

They huddled together under the cloak, big enough to cover them since they were not tall –Granger particularly. She figured two boys would need to be extra careful to not let a foot peek underneath.

They followed the map until they found Draco speaking to Potter –two roosters in a hen pen, like always– and waited pressed against the wall. The sight of his blond head made her nerves tingle and her skin warm, but not in the giggly, silly way it had years ago. The slow rumbling of magic within her resembled a dark, vicious kind of lust. She wanted him. They –she remembered, when Hermione clasped her hand with bone-shattering strength– wanted him. Only the hold they had on each other anchored them enough to reality to avoid jumping into action. Since the day the boy's name had echoed within their minds, they had needed this. They had waited far too long.

Pansy forced herself to focus, and glanced down to monitor their surroundings. The map said Crabbe and Goyle were escorting their soon-to-be victim, but she could only see two young girls in front of her. Granger's eyes shone and she whispered "polyjuice". Pansy supposed that whatever Draco was doing, he was taking it seriously enough.

They went after the Slytherin boys as Potter stood rooted on the spot and watched them disappear. Their blood boiled –she swore she could hear Hermione's flow fast, right under her skin– as they hunted their oblivious foe. Each step felt more exhilarating, each second passed increased their impatience.

They went up and up flights of stairs, holding the cloak carefully in order not to step on it, while trying to keep all their extremities hidden. Pansy had the fleeting thought that she really missed escalators. As they climbed up the Castle, she wondered where Draco was headed, and why on earth did he need to get so high up for whatever he was planning. Hermione's sudden gasp drew her attention.

"The Room," she only told her, but she understood because they were just nearing the seventh floor. Of course. Of course he was heading there. Of course, she now understood, the Room was always occupied.

Hermione rushed her, almost running now since Draco was walking briskly on fairly longer legs, and she whispered "If he goes in, we're screwed, Pansy."

They had counted on Draco's hiding hole being an enclosed space; a barely used room, maybe. There were plenty around, after all. The plan was simple, but sound. Get in the room right behind them, lock it non-verbally, attack them from underneath the cloak. They could deal with two before the third one noticed, and then they would still be invisible; nice advantage. It was not an exhibition of mind-blowing strategy, but it would work.

They had certainly not considered the possibility of the room becoming inaccessible once the bastard got inside.

"We need to get them before that," Pansy said. If they had to wait for him to come out the match might be already over. That might imply Potter wondering where his map and cloak went, people crowding the corridors, a higher possibility of someone noticing their absence.

Draco turned left at the corner and was already way too close to the entrance for their tastes. As Pansy went to follow, Hermione took a step back and pushed her ahead, "Keep the cloak. I'll hide behind the corner and distract them; you get them from behind." Pansy nodded, but Hermione was already out and crouching behind the wall, and could not possibly see her.

She took the turn after them, and ran almost sticking to the opposing wall, getting herself out of the line of fire. Hermione casted the first stunner, which grazed the blond girl's hair –Crabbe or Goyle, who knew– and fired a second one almost without aiming, hurrying to duck again behind the corner.

The three turned, one of the fake girls yelping in surprise, the other fumbling with her pocket to get the wand out. Draco, face white as virgin snow, set his back to the wall and raised his wand with the barest of trembles. His attention was focused on whomever hid behind the corner, but no matter how quickly he had reacted –she had to admit, much faster than she had expected– Pansy was the true threat. Invisible, she casted with the same ease she did within the classroom; no pressure, no real battle for her. Draco dropped unconscious before he could even attempt anything against Hermione.

The shorter of the girls, who had just managed to get a firm grip on her wand –Crabbe, she guessed then; he was even slower than Goyle– let out a sharp gasp and looked straight into Pansy's direction. She was momentarily taken aback. Of course, Crabbe could not see her but her spells were not invisible. The girl –boy– threw a hex at her, something she did not recognize from her –his– mumbled small words, but which felt nasty. Her shield raised by pure reflex and only thanks to Granger's never-ending imposed practice.

The momentum of the impact forced her to step back and she flinched, dropping to one knee when she settled too much weight on her bad ankle. Crabbe's follow-up hex burned the wall above her head, but she managed a stunner from her ground position that toppled him.

"Fuckers," she cursed out loud, as Goyle fell to Hermione's last spell.

Then, as if feeling the need to be awkwardly inopportune even from a distance, Lovegood's muffled voice came through the windows, "And that's Smith of Hufflepuff with the Quaffle. He did the commentary last time, of course, and Ginny Weasley flew into him, I think probably on purpose – it looked like it. Smith was being quite rude about Gryffindor, I expected he regrets that now he's playing them – oh, look, he's lost the Quaffle, Ginny took it from him, I do like her, she's very nice…"

Pansy could not help herself but laugh. Damn all those girls that followed her around, always insisting on being anticlimactic.

Hermione looked at the two sprawled girls, thinking quickly. What was safer? They had not seen them, thankfully, so there was no need to – no need to take any desperate safety measures. She let herself relax briefly. Good, that was good. They had fought, though, so they knew someone –at least two people– had come to take Malfoy; one of which was invisible. It was more than she liked them knowing.

Pansy groaned at her right, getting rid of the cloak as she slowly raised. She seemed to be limping slightly, and Hemione frowned. They had hurt Pansy. She took a deep breath, pushing down the vicious darkness within her head that urged her to make them pay. No, there was no need. Their thirst would quench with only Malfoy.

The other two, though… Obliviation, maybe? But any good legilimens –Dumbledore, Voldemort– could break through that with a little patience… Maybe nobody would try? Maybe she could convince the boys to believe they had been pushed away by Malfoy, sent somewhere else. If they were questioned afterwards, that's what they would answer. Why would anyone think to delve deeper, to try and crack their little brains open?

Or… No – wait. She could tweak their memories, confound them, make them believe Malfoy had attacked them. If Dumbledore asked, they would lie. The man could make of the lies whatever he desired; she could not care less. If Voldemort asked, he might think Malfoy a deserter, and pursue him instead of anyone else –meaning, her and Pansy. If anyone pressed them with heavy legilimence, then it did not matter how Hermione tweaked their minds in the first place; they would find out the truth but still –hopefully– not link it to them.

Yes, she liked this idea more. 'Let them lie to Dumbledore knowingly and let the man know they are lying', she thought with a smirk. Hermione knew first-hand how erroneous Dumbledore's conclusions could end up being.

She altered their memories with care and a touch of confusion, so that their minds woke up foggy. Pansy joined her, eyes wide open and hungry as she stared at their unconscious forms. She knew –felt– what she wanted, but Hermione shook her head and asked her to hold back. They had Malfoy –Draco, Draco, Draco! Her mind spun and jumped and she enjoyed the feel of his sweet name rolling near the tip of her tongue– and they needed no one else.

Together, they levitated one unconscious boy each through the holes between the complex web of moving staircases until dropping them on the second floor. Barely able to see them, Hermione whispered "rennervate!" and left them to make what they could of their situation. Foggy, obliviated minds always filled their own voids in the most convincing of ways.

They entered the Room of Requirements, Malfoy's limp body floating gracelessly behind them, and she could feel her blood boil and her magic dance in breath-taking anticipation. She licked her lips as the door closed behind them, isolating them from the rest of the world, the sound of Luna's fluid, dreamy voice accompanying them in the distance.

Draco dreamed of his mother's blond hair sprawled in a puddle of blood, flowing red and dark until meeting the fine boots of that man –monster– he dared not look in the eye. He despised him, the half-snake hybrid that had taken his house as a nest and filled it with filthy brutes, sadistic lunatics and dark horrors. He had once thought it an honour, serving under him, until a Christmas visit had shown him that he liked his people bleeding at his feet.

His mother's voice still whispered a pleading Draco as he slowly came to, awaking on the cold stone floor of an unknown room. The only light was given by a circle of low, flickering candles lighted all around him, and never reached the eerily high ceiling, which was lost within the darkness.

He could not move a single muscle despite not being tied –he could feel his arms at his sides, and the coldness of stone against his open palms– and he supposed he was under a petrificus. He was stuck facing the ceiling, barely seeing the shimmering flames through the corner of his eyes, and unable to turn toward the sound of someone stepping closer.

"Are you actually trying to invent some sort of ritual?" He recognized Grangers' stiff, condescending voice and the clipped edge it acquired when she was lecturing someone. What was she doing there? Why could he not move? What the hell was going on?

"I'll have you know," answered Pansy, of all people, in the prim and haughty voice she got when she wanted to be annoying, "that this all is fully documented in The Book."

He had guessed something was wrong from the moment he awoke immobilized, but Pansy being there –and with her new, mudblood friend– pointed toward a disastrous situation. Ritual, Granger had said. He was –he realized as his heart-rate sped up– in the centre of a bloody ritual circle.

"Oh, really?" Granger scoffed, sounding disbelieving. "Where exactly are this point-by-point instructions that I missed?"

"Everywhere, Granger. You're just not going to find a neat, colour-coded list, Circe's sake! You need to read with an open mind, appreciate the metaphors," she half-scolded, her high timbre grating as always. He could see their silhouettes as they neared each other. "See here, 'The flickering of a suffering soul' and then down here 'the circle of life.' We are representing those with the candles." He would have held his breath –if he could control his diaphragm– at the mention of a suffering soul. "And then the 'path to the other world' with this never-ending ceiling." The other world, she said?

"So," Granger concluded, "you are making up a ritual."

Pansy huffed in indignation. "I'm delivering intent, Granger, which is what a ritual is all about."

He felt himself panicking and yet completely unable to display it in any form; not a shiver, nor a twitch nor a single sign of struggle, trapped within his own body. He knew Pansy was mad at him –and he had not cared much, the thought of his mission always prevalent– but he could have never guessed she would… He dared not put his fears into words.

"Did you also compose a chant, perhaps?" Granger teased, and got hit on her arm for the trouble.

"You and your unimaginative, literal self are lucky to have me," Pansy retorted, and got close enough to peer at his still form from above.

Granger joined her on the opposite side of his body and noted, "He's awake," as she stared straight into his eyes.

He moved his pupils around as fast as he could, a silent cry for help, but as Pansy flippantly answered, "Good. Else, he can't die in agony," he felt his heart drop and his stomach twist painfully. Fear, he recognized easily. He was used to it.

He looked at her, truly looked, locked eyes with hers for the first time since the start of the school year, and the hot desire he saw in them as she slowly smirked froze his blood.

"Did you bring your ridiculously flamboyant knife?" Granger asked, and his lungs constricted, making him feel faint. He looked from one girl to the other, but they were busy talking among themselves. He was just a thing there, he realized, a necessary yet impersonal element for their ritual; the candles, the knife, Draco.

Right above his head, the girls held hands and Granger took an ornate blade and very slowly cut Pansy's palm. A fat drop of blood fell and he felt it, wet against his cheek, as his eyes went wide. Pansy's sudden intake of air sounded more enraptured than pained and Granger stared at her bleeding hand with hunger. Pansy returned the favour, as blood trickled down her arm and slowly painted his face red, drop by drop.

Granger gasped, a hoarse cry escaping her lips as Pansy dropped the blade, and she bent down to fasten her open mouth on the cut on Pansy's hand. Pansy let her head fall back and moaned breathily, and then laughed as she sprung back and she took Granger's arm, slowly licking a trail of blood all the way from her bare elbow to the palm of her hand.

They both cried as the blood they failed to catch with their lips fell onto him, more frantic, louder, whimpering and wailing and devouring each other as a dark, buzzing, thick sort of magic settled on the air around them. The feel of that humming energy was intoxicating, and not even the savage sight of their lips painted in blood –splashes on their cheeks, red dripping down their chins– could completely stifle the awakening, morbid arousal Dark Magic was forcing on him.

The candlelight glimmered and burst into short, intense flames and they kissed, their hands lost in mussed hair, painting each other red. And then suddenly he felt a sharp, deep burn right under his stomach. The pain was momentarily blinding, all his nerves on fire, as if a bludger had sunk itself against his gut. When he lowered his eyes and saw Pansy's red hands firmly holding the jewelled handle against his abdomen he understood that this time the wetness was his own blood. It throbbed, it burned, it was a searing pain like nothing he had ever felt before; more real and more focused than that of the cruciatus aunt Bella had once used on him.

And then came the agony.

The girls cried and laughed in exhilarated bliss, magic swirling all around them as he bled out at their feet and they painted each other in his redness; and he thought it was ironic that his fate was as he feared, but the people in this nightmare were so unexpected.

Pansy cackled and swished her arms and the candles roared, painting the walls in dancing shadows, but never reaching the ceiling. Granger kneeled at his side and whispered nonsense as unnatural bursts of wind made her hair jump around wildly, her eyes facing upwards.

He, too, looked up toward the never-ending darkness as he felt his body grow colder. Despite the body-bind, he knew he was trembling, blood-loss and pain making him dizzy. As he felt Death creep nearer his last coherent thought was for his mother, and he wished fervently that the Dark Lord did not kill her for his failure. His vision grew dim and right before it went pitch black, he thought he saw the fiery red eyes of a woman stare at him from within abyss that was the ceiling.

A/N: Thank you everyone for reading and your support! I'm sorry I can't update as frequently as before, but I'll try my best. Special thanks to Guests who leave me nice comments, and to whom I can't answer personally.

Thanks as always to Gremlin Jack for betaing!