"Dark magic has always been my forte," Millicent began. "An asset useful to Stoneman, naturally."
"What a bloody surprise," Malfoy grumbled as he leaned against Harry. Neville sat at unconscious Luna's side, directing a surprisingly dark glare at the dark haired witch. Blaise, Theo, and Pansy glared with all the vicious
Millicent raised an eyebrow and glanced at the blonde imperially, but continued with no small amount of venom in her cold voice. "As I was most of the magic and more than half the brains behind this little operation of ours, I realized that simply one plan would not be sufficient to achieve our goal. My counter measure, so-called 'plan b', was a spell writ into my personal book. You know, the one on the table there that Potter stole." She glared at Harry, and he stared coolly back as Draco silently fumed. "The curse I placed on it was powerful," she said, sounding a bit less icy and a bit more surprised. "One of my own design. I came upon a spell once that I modified to-"
"That's all well and good," Mc Gonagall snipped, "But you know as well as I that time is of the essence. Where in the book is your counter measure? How is it undone?"
The Slytherin girl smiled, an utterly unnatural expression for the dour creature, used to convey emotions quite contrary to happiness and quite correlative to rage. "Turn to page 394," she cooed. The reference was not lost on the conscious students, and they, particularly Draco and Harry, bristled at her mockery of the brave and deceased professor. Mc Gonagall, angered by Millicent's attitude but ignorant of the reference, began to turn the pages.
'Traitor,' Bulstrode mouthed to the boys, smirking cruelly. If eyes could kill, Draco's icy look would have destroyed Millicent within an instant. Harry flinched and had to remind himself that hitting a woman tied up to a chair was not very chivalrous, however deserving she was. Pansy, however, felt no such compunction, and gave a little smirk of satisfaction as she cast an itching spell on Millicent, who could not move her bound arms and hands. Theo gave his girl an adoring squeeze, and Hermione and the rest grinned with the realization of what she had done. Bulstrode glared mightily at Pans as she squirmed in her chair, then turned her glare on the Headmistress when she spoke.
"The page appears blank. What is needed to change this?" Mc Gonagall demanded, staring the girl down.
Millicent chuckled darkly, squirming slightly. "Oh, just ask Potter. He should know all about books with seemingly blank pages, after all. Tell me, Chosen One," she mocked. "How long did it take you to scrub the ink off of your hands last time?"
Harry tensed and came to a stand in front of her. "How do you know about that?!" He snapped, clenching his jaw in anger. "Who told you about Tom's diary?"
Bulstrode glanced past Harry and said: "One can learn a lot of interesting things while going through family records. I come from a long line of black magic- gifted warlocks, you see. You didn't think my curses were purely the result of self-study, did you? I'm flattered! But alas, if it were not for my family's abilities and support of a certain deceased Lord, I would not possess the knowledge that I do today. And, if it were not for that certain Lord's stumble across the rare magic my family created decades ago, you wouldn't have had your fun little adventures over the years collecting his soul."
The vein on Harry's neck pulsed, and Mc Gonagall stepped right up to Millicent's chair as Hermione put her hand on Harry's shoulder and led him back to Draco's side. Draco gripped his hand tightly, and Ginny looked pale, clutching Susan's arm in painful memory of the Chamber of Secrets.
"Potter," Mc Gonagall said in a scarily calm voice as she stared Millicent down with hatred seething in her eyes. "You wrote in Tom's diary, didn't you? To make the content reveal itself?"
"Essentially. But the diary also sucked me into Tom's memory, to show me a twisted version of what had actually happened the first time the Chamber was opened. With Bulstrode-"
"Bullshit," Ron fake-coughed from his bed as he stirred. "You mean Bullshit, mate." Hermione squeezed his hand and Harry smiled a little at his best mate.
"With Bullshit," Harry corrected himself, "Whoever communicates with the book could be shown something falsified or even get trapped in the memory. How can we trust she won't lie about whether the book is safe to work with?"
"There's one way to make her tell the truth about that," a wispy voice advised. Pomfrey emerged from the side, holding an emerald-colored vial in her hands. "Veritaserum, Headmistress, like you requested. I'm sorry it took me so long to find- we haven't exactly had a need for it in some time . . ."
"Thank you, Poppy," Mc Gonagall said, taking the little vial and undoing the stopper in it. Millicent clenched her mouth together, and Draco grinned deviously.
"Would you like some assistance getting her gob open?" he asked merrily.
"It would be much appreciated."
Draco came to a stand behind Millicent's chair and put his hands on her chin and jaw, his long white fingers prying her mouth open with relative ease. Three drops of clear liquid fell from their glass containment and into the enraged Slytherin girl's mouth, dissolving on her tongue as fast as a blink.
"Now," Mc Gonagall said with a satisfied smile, "Once again, tell us all about that Horcrux of yours."
Stubborn as she was, Veritaserum held sway over all liar's tongues, and Millicent was no exception.
"I created a new hex," she said suddenly, a look of frustration in her eyes but truth upon her lips. "I shan't bore you all with the details, but I found the beginnings of it in my great grandfather's ledger and decided to continue the work in his stead. 'Langsam Mortis', a spell that induces torturous pain until the body gives out with fifty-six second's time. It is, essentially, a more painful and extended version of the Killing Curse."
A chill swept through the room. "And the counter-curse? Spells to ward it off?" Hermione demanded.
"Unknown of as of yet," Millicent said darkly. "After all, I haven't personally had the opportunity to use it. I am the creator here- not necessarily the executor."
Mc Gonagall felt the stress of the day getting to her, and was about to grab herself a chair when Ron grabbed one for her and set it in front of Bulstrode. The Headmistress smiled at her pupil, and the rest of the lot. They were finally getting somewhere. She turned to face the young woman before her, all traces of the smile gone, replaced with serious curiosity. "Tell us the rest now. Stoneman, the Horcrux- everything."
Millicent was clearly trying to resist the drug, and looked at war with herself. A part of her would gladly rat on Stoneman, the other part wanted to work with him for the sake of success. But the Veritaserum held true, and with a flick of her hair, Millicent revealed that the book was indeed a Horcrux- one of two unique ones. She herself had not killed- of that crime at least she was innocent. Rather, she had bound her book to a certain lecherous character that Harry and co. had recently been forced to clash with; none other than Charles Stoneman.
Charles was a poor child from a poor family, with a deceased mother and rather angry and pathetic father, Joseph, who invested far too much in the numbing bliss of Fire Whisky. Destitute as they were, Joseph Stoneman eventually began to search for a job to get them out of their run-down shack and away from the filth of the streets. At last, they were granted an opportunity to live in a small cottage on a vast estate, provided Joseph work the land and maintain the grounds' pristine flora. The estate was known as Collins' Hall, owned by a rather agreeable and incredibly wealthy family, the namesake's Collins'. It was here that Charles, who was right about age nine, met Vincent.
Vincent was a quiet boy, who liked to study the people and things around him with an air of curiosity and mild regality, as though he were a scientist examining a new type of Skrewt. Naturally, a Skrewt must be examined quietly so as to leave it unprovoked, and unaware of Vincent's greater size and abilities. Yes, the child was undeniably spoiled, and as such was prone to be demanding in his own genteel way. He did not need to throw a fit to get what he desired, he merely needed to ask. A new broomstick? A new play cauldron? More toys and candy than Charles could have imagined? All were easily attainable and seen as common and deserved prizes for being a good and wealthy wizard. Vincent was not arrogant in the sense that he intentionally flaunted his belongs; he was too quiet for that. Rather, he simply accepted that he had advantages that others did not thanks to the family's money, and that was all well and good with him.
Charles was usually a quiet boy too, but prone to surprisingly loud outbursts, and he was quick to mischief. He seemed to be in a perpetuate state of tumult, either being extremely calm, angry, content, or violent. If anything, an impoverished life with an alcoholic father and dead mother had taught him that other people were not trustworthy. He trusted himself above all others, and that was the only way he thought it should be. It was curious that he and Vincent should be around each other so much, as they were so very different. Vincent quietly regarded Charles as a friend, but a friend who was beneath him in many ways, though Vincent did not think this cruelly, rather factually. Charles quietly regarded Vincent as a friend, but a friend that was fun to annoy and leave if he would not go along with one of Charles's mischievous outbursts, cruelty intended. However, eight year old Vincent's mild games were not always enough for Charles, and it is when he went off alone for more adventurous antics and temperamental outbursts that young Stoneman felt truly alive. He lived for the rare moments he felt that he was getting what he deserved- a chance at letting himself be wild. A chance to scream and run and cause trouble and berate and belittle his slovenly father and just be . . . . free. Life was his. Nothing could out-smart or out-wrestle him.
Still, he was surprised in December when Vincent drowned.
The boys had been bundled up like stuffed down pillows then sent outside to terrorize the snow for a few hours. Vincent, naturally, was calmly and happily building a snowman with the help of his magic, still raw in the fingers of a youngster. Charles, however, was feeling more and more rowdy. It was not fair that Vincent had received so much for Christmas, when he had received so little. Seeing as the Collins' had given Charles a few presents, Vincent felt that everything had been justified. He was blind to the rage that Charles held against Vincent for having more money, more presents, more magic, more everything. At last, it was too much. The snow falling around them, the snowman being built with magic by the well, the presents- Charles felt he was being suffocated. And the best way to breathe, he decided, was to get rid of the boy who smothered him with careless and ignorant arrogance.
It happened in an instant. Large, chapped hands easily gripped the smooth velvet of Vincent's cloak (an expensive, fur-lined piece of clothing, colored teal with all the finery his family could afford) drug him through the snow a few paces to the well's mouth, and deposited the small bundle of teal fabric down into the black. Vincent's cries of shock and horror were muffled as his body broke through the layer of ice half way down. His body succumbed to the freezing water instantly, and he, weighed down by the rich fabrics, was but a small boy with no money or haughty title to save him. Such were the thoughts of Charles Stoneman, at least, as much as a nine year old can articulate such things. He stood over the well, a tall and rugged boy, with nothing but the howl of the snow storm and the crackle of disturbed ice below to accompany him. Vincent's splashing sounds had ceased some time ago. Processing what had happened in a nearly mechanical manner, Charles turned to the snowman and began to even out the lumpy patches that short little Vincent couldn't have reached. He gave it a mouth from twigs, eyes of rock, and a pinecone nose. He selected new twig arms for the snowman, as the one the deceased had selected were too small. Stepping back, he admired his handiwork and decided he was done. The families would be expecting him now. He glanced back at the well, watching as wind forced icicles hanging on the bucket to fall off and disappear downward. He moved away and headed for the house, never to look back.
The room was silent, with various looks of shock, concern, and anger on the faces of those around. Pomfrey looked ready to faint, and Mc Gonagall had a controlled calm in her eyes, but tension in her jaw. Harry and the rest remained silent, only taking their eyes away from the now quiet Slytherin girl when they heard a small voice mumble "What a peculiar confession to awake to."
"Luna!" Neville turned to his now conscious girlfriend and caressed her cheek carefully, as though afraid she would break from the weight of her injuries and his hand. The group heaved a sigh of relief that lovely Luna was doing well, but another question remained the Hippogriff in the room.
"Where's the second Horcrux, and who was the second victim?"