Chapter Twenty-Six — The Way (Part III)
What a cruel thing is war: to separate and destroy families and friends, and mar the purest joys and happiness God has granted us in this world; to fill our hearts with hatred instead of love for our neighbors, and to devastate the fair face of this beautiful world. –Robert E. Lee
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Hermione ran into the entrance hall, slowing down to a stop, her breath coming down her lungs like icy blades and her face stinging with cold. She bent over double, hands on knees, and tried to regain her composure in the subtle warmth of the castle. All around her Neville, Ginny, Ron and Luna were just as tired as she; some of them bent over, like her, or else giving up all pretense and collapsing on the floor altogether. Hermione glanced up and saw Harry pushing the great door closed, the wind whistling loudly as it moaned into place. He gave it a final shove and it shut with a boom, cutting off the current of brittle air. He staggered away from it, tired and spent, and dropped onto the floor as well, gasping.
"Harry?" His name came out ragged from her lips and she swallowed before trying again. "Harry?"
With an exasperated sigh Harry dropped to lie on his back, his chest heaving as he stared into the high, vaulted ceiling. "Yeah?" he asked. He reached up and unclasped his cloak, allowing his throat some relief. Hermione straightened up and pushed the hair from her face.
"Harry, what was that? What happened out there?"
He pulled his glove off with his teeth and flexed the numb fingers of his right hand, still panting. "I—I don't know, Hermione. But I felt something out there…something strange."
From Hermione's right Ron sat up where he had fallen, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Just as long as it wasn't your scar," he breathed. Everyone expected Harry to nod or say something in agreement but when he was silent Ron's face went pale. "It—it wasn't your scar…was it?"
Harry sighed and started to shake his head, but then nodded…and then shook it again. "I don't know how to explain it. It was weird; not the same thing I'm used to, but it still felt familiar, in a way. It didn't hurt," he added quickly, looking up at his friends and noticing Hermione's worried stare. "But it didn't feel right either."
"It was the moon," Luna injected. Everyone turned to look at her and, to everyone's surprise, she looked strangely composed, not at all as haggard and tired as she should have been. "Wasn't it, Harry? It was the moon that you felt. You could tell that it wasn't moving."
Harry sat up and faced Luna, the look on his face a cross between confusion and thoughtfulness. "No, not exactly. It was Lord Vol-…I mean, You-Know-Who, there's no doubt about it." Ron ran a nervous hand through his hair and Neville physically shivered. "But he wasn't…I don't know. He wasn't angry or mad or any of the other things I've felt from him before."
"Can you describe it?" Ginny prompted. Harry shrugged.
"He was—well, he was moving."
"What?"
"I can't describe it any other way. I could sense him moving, traveling somewhere. He wasn't doing magic or anything and he wasn't really feeling anything strong; just moving." He looked up at his friends' curious faces and shook his head, indicating that he, too, did not know what to make of the situation.
Hermione thought a moment and then straightened up, shaking her head. "Harry, this is amazing."
"I know, Hermione, I realize—what?"
"Don't you understand?" She looked at him and then everyone else in turn. They all shook their heads or shrugged. She turned back to Harry, her face alight with excitement, but an excitement bred from fear. "Harry, the connection between you and the Dark Lord has opened wider, broader. Before you could only feel him when he was feeling murderous or performing potent spells. Now…Harry, now he doesn't have to feel strongly for the connection to happen between you two." She wrung her hands together, nervous. "Harry, the bond between you and the Dark Lord…it's strengthening."
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Draco
I allowed Blaise and Darius to hoist me to my feet, each one flanking my arms. We stood up together and I quickly began scanning the room, frantic and panicking with hysteria I was unfamiliar with. "Where is she?" I muttered to myself, my eyes darting around the room. "Where the hell is she?"
"Who?" Blaise asked. I glanced at her and took note of her nervous state and the feeble way she was crunching into herself. She looked as if she wanted to disappear as soon as possible, and I couldn't blame her. "Who are you looking for?"
"My mother," I said absently, surprised to hear the calmness in my voice. The Dark Lord was coming. He was coming and he would be here any moment. I wanted my mother; I needed my mother to be next to me. She needed to be next to me to help me through this…to watch as I finally met the Dark Lord.
Fear and excitement mixed dangerously inside my chest. I could not resist the anticipation. I could not deny the terror.
"Draco, we have to get out of here. We're too unprotected; too visible. We need to move." Blaise was tugging on my arm and Darius' with surprising strength, trying to back us into the crowd hovering outside in the garden. I stared at her in confusion, pulling my arm free.
"Why?"
"So we will not be seen!"
"Why wouldn't we want to be seen?" I suddenly asked, not quite sure about what I was saying. "Why wouldn't we want the Dark Lord, the greatest wizard of all time, to see us and acknowledge us?" Didn't she understand the great opportunity that was being presented? Yes, people had died and I had just lost--…but that didn't matter at the moment. What mattered was that He was coming; actually and physically coming to the castle and we would have the rare chance to meet him face to face. To see who it was that had accumulated so much power. We would see the face of the man that even Dumbledore was too afraid to face.
"You don't know what you're talking about, Draco. You've never been around him before…you don't know what it's like--,"
"You've seen him?" I asked suddenly, and dangerously, excited. She pursed her lips and shook her head, unwilling to reply. "Blaise, have you ever met The Dark Lord before?"
"There she is!" Darius had gripped my shoulder and pointed through the forest of light and sparks to a downtrodden group of people in the corner of the room. They all seemed to have been blasted off their feet and hurled at the corner where they were only just starting to rise from. Amidst them, perfectly visibly with her glowing hair, was my mother. She looked disheveled and wane, but it was nothing compared to the anger and hatred that claimed her feminine face. She had not seemed so terrified by the gypsies as furious.
I quickly grabbed onto Blaise by the sleeve and hurried to my mother, dragging her along with me as we swiftly wove in and out of the spells. I called out to her and she looked up, surprised. When she saw it was me a visible wave of relief crossed her face and she stepped forward to meet me…and then stopped.
And then I stopped.
And, behind us, Darius stopped.
And all around us everyone who was moving stopped.
I was standing before a still Disarming Charm, the red sparks and crackling appearance familiar. And I stared, amazed, as its glittering tail freezing over, solidifying along the entirety of the spell until it was nothing but glistening ice all over. Everyone watched with bated breath, and then the spell fell to the ground and shattered into a million pieces at my feet, shocking me backwards a little. I looked up into the face of my mother and saw her staring at me in something that seemed unnervingly like fear. All around her I could see faces of fear and curiosity, wondering what had just happened.
"Mother--,"
"Draco, look!" Blaise was pointing upward but there was no need to look up at what she had seen. Everywhere around us spells and hexes and charms were freezing over, cackling with their ice as they succumbed to the frozen sleep. And as they each turned solid they fell from their hovering standstill and began to shatter on the floor. There was one scream, and then another, and then people were screaming everywhere as they tried to dodge the falling ice. Even I cried out and pushed Blaise back into Darius, narrowly escaping a huge ice crystal that would have fallen right onto my head. The three of us huddled together, our eyes turned upward like everyone else as those of us caught within the tapestry of spells tried to weave our way out. Some of the foolish witches and wizards tried to help by whipping out their wands again and yelling spells again, but these were the foolhardy ones, for their spells stopped halfway to their destination and began to freeze over as well.
Blaise, Darius and I fought our way through, grabbing each other when we saw danger the others could not see, pushing one another ahead before we were caught to be sitting ducks. It was strange. I had never used any sense of teamwork before. Granted Quidditch was a team sport, but I was on the Slytherin team and its Seeker at that. Relying on other people wasn't in my nature. But it was the tactic I had to use to make it through in one piece. And, to be truthfully honest, it was remarkably easy. I didn't have to do everything myself; I could rely on the other two to help me.
It was strange.
It was so strange, in fact that I didn't even notice that our breath was coming out in little clouds before our faces.
But we made it to the edge of the room safely and pressed ourselves against the stonewall, trying our hardest to stay away from the raining ice. "What is going on?" Darius growled, turning his head away to shield his eyes from the flying debris. "This night just keeps getting worse!"
"Well, that's good, considering the newest arrivals," Blaise said, attempting sarcasm but unable to mask her quivering song. I looked out the balcony doors where she was looking and felt my stomach twist. I let out a shuddering breath and finally saw the little puff of air it created in the bitter cold.
Dementors. Hundreds of them. Dementors floating up over the parapet like ragged, ghostly shadows, bringing with them the cold of death. It was their presence that was freezing the spells; their shuddering intakes of breath that was sucking the warmth out of the air and replacing it with their nightmares. Despite myself I shivered.
I had mocked the Dementors existence before but that should not suggest that I am immune to them. The people began to back away from the creatures or else cower close to the ground, trying their best not to be noticed. I was afraid one of them would bend over a guest any second and take their fill of their soul, but they were being strangely resistant to the people. They got as close to them as they could possibly stand and then left it at that, allowing their fluttering robes to graze across the people and leave them shivering cold.
A huge combination of spells suddenly crashed at the center of the room and shocked everything to silence. The air before us was now clear but the mosaic flooring was covered in a thick layer of glittering glass and ice. When the crash had sounded Blaise had screamed and grabbed onto me, her fingernails digging into my skin. I would have gotten angry with her if my eyes had not drifted to the top of the stairwell…
…where my mother had mysteriously appeared…
…holding the door open for someone…
…in a black cloak…
…and red…
…slanted…
…piercing…
…eyes…
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It was the day before the school year started. The day before his seventh year of Hogwarts began. It was his last year; his final year.
He was in his parent's room. His mother was sick again, his father at her side. He was standing next to his wife at the head, the same, electric blue eyes staring at him. Christian stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at his mother and remaining silent, just as he'd been taught since he was young.
"Christian," his father said, speaking quietly. His mother was sleeping. "The Dark Lord has come to us."
"Yes, I know," was the reply. Was the expected reply. Because Christian wasn't supposed to have known that Voldemort had come to the Machiavelli mansion yet he was expected to have found out on his own.
"He has asked us for a very large favor. He has asked me to do a very important thing."
Father, why were you talking like that? Like I was a child? Like I was too dumb to understand? Why did you treat him like that? Why did you treat me like that? Why did you treat me like that!
"We live to serve our Master," Christian answered habitually. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and waited.
"Our reward for this task will be very great. We will be amongst the honored of His inner circle." A pause. "And he has asked that you be a part of it."
"He asked?"
"He wants."
No one would think to deny the Dark Lord what he wanted. "Then He shall receive. I would be honored to become one of his Death Eaters."
His father shook his head. "You are not to receive the Mark; not yet, anyway. But you will be asked to serve, and when the time comes you must do exactly what is asked of you."
"Yes, father."
"You are a brilliant boy and the Dark Lord has taken notice to your prowess. You will do great things, Christian. You will uphold this family's honor."
"I would love nothing more."
His father looked away from him then and down at his sleeping wife. "We are done here. Be sure you are ready for school tomorrow."
Christian bowed. "Yes, father."
He bent down and leaned over his wife, taking her limp hand in his own and staring into her slumbering face. "You must be faithful to him, Christian. You must always be faithful to your father."
Christian was walking out the door and he nodded. "Yes, father."
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
Love and honor for you country.
No! No! That was not the meaning…!
Schoolboy's translation…an English teacher misrepresenting…
What was the truth? What was the truth of the old lie?
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori…
It is sweet and fulfilling to die for one's fatherland…
But what, then, was the fatherland? But who, then, was the fatherland?
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"Whoa, Hermione, you can't just start making assumptions like that," Ron piped up, licking his lips nervously. "That—that's dangerous, if what you're saying is true. That's horrible."
"But it makes sense," Ginny injected, staring at Harry and not at Ron. "When I was being possessed by Tom Riddle it was the same thing. In the beginning I would completely black out when he took over my actions. But, as time wore on, the bond between us began to strengthen and soon I didn't have to surrender by entire consciousness to him. That was how I was able to discover that it really was me doing all those horrible things." Harry held her gaze and she held his. "It's the same thing. Their connection is getting stronger and therefore Harry can sense You-Know-Who even at mundane times."
Hermione nodded, pushing the wily curls of her hair away from her face. "Exactly. Harry, you have to tell Dumbledore, right away. He'll want to know about this immediately--,"
"No!"
Everyone jumped in surprise and turned to look at Luna. She was standing next to Hermione, her fists clenched at her sides and her leg trembling after she had stomped her foot. "That is not important! You are forgetting about the moon! You are forgetting about the most important thing right now!"
"Luna, this is important," Ron yelled back, his frustrations boiling over. "You haven't been around as long as the rest of us so let me explain: When Harry's scar hurts it means that we drop whatever it is we are doing and prepare to either be kidnapped, attacked or killed. That's how it's been since the beginning of our friendship and some stupid moon isn't going to change it, even if it is frozen in the sky."
"You don't understand!" Luna had suddenly spun on her heel and was dashing for the stairs, her cork necklace thumping against her collarbone and causing a hollow 'thud' sound. "You just don't know the important facts, do you? Childish children!" She darted up the stairs and turned on the first landing, disappearing swiftly down a corridor. Everyone else watched her go, confused and bewildered at her very immediate departure.
"That's a bit redundant, don't you think?" Ron called after her, annoyance apparent. "Childish children can't be children unless they're childish!"
"Oh, well said, Ron," Ginny grumbled, rolling her eyes at her brother. "You astound me with your cleverness."
"Enough fighting!" Hermione had stepped forward and gently pushed Ron's chest, forcing him to take a step back. He hadn't intended on going anywhere but the tiny gesture seemed to have stilled his wily temper. He grumbled and crossed his arms. "This isn't helping any of us. What we have to do right now is speak to Dumbledore."
"But what about Luna?" Neville asked, standing up and helping Ginny to her feet. "We can't just leave her by herself."
"You don't even know where that madwoman has run off to."
"Ron, stop it." Hermione turned to speak to everyone. "Okay, how about we split up: half of us will go with Harry to Dumbledore and the other half will go and find Luna? I feel a little guilty as well, letting her go off by herself."
"Well, it's not like we forced her to leave," Ron mumbled.
"You two can go with Harry," Ginny offered with a shrug. "And we'll go look for Luna. I think I might know where she is."
"Where?" Harry asked, raising himself to his feet.
"Her dorm."
"You're not supposed to know where that is!"
"Oh, come on, Ron! Don't tell me you don't know where everyone's dormitory is." Ron held her gaze and then made a face, throwing up his hands in a way that said 'why would I know?'. Ginny burst out laughing. "But you're even a Prefect! Our dorms aren't exactly kept secret anymore. Even Hermione knows how to get to Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin."
"She does not!"
"Actually, I do, but that's not the point right now." Hermione had grabbed Ron's arm and was shooing Ginny and Neville away, hoping to stop the potential Weasley feud before it truly began. "We have things to do. You guys find Luna and we'll speak to Dumbledore. Meet us outside of the portrait when you get her, all right?"
"Right." Neville touched Ginny's arm and headed for the stairs. Ginny looked back at her brother, stuck her tongue out at him playfully, and then dashed after Neville along the same path as Luna had traced moments before.
"She's such a brat!"
"Yes, we know Ron. That's why we love her."
"And you."
"What did you say, Harry?"
Harry smiled and led the way to Dumbledore's office, momentarily forgetting the danger they were in. "Nothing."
The three friends traveled through the corridors and up changing stairwells and trick doors, each one keeping an eye out for the familiar hallway with the gargoyle statue waiting at its end. As they walked Harry glanced outside the passing windows, craning his neck a little to get a better view outside. From up here, in the castle, Harry could see that it had started to snow while they were outside, but the snow had not made it down to earth when everything had frozen over. The air surrounding Hogwarts was dotted with tiny snowflakes, each anxiously awaiting the moment when they would be free to continue their graceful fall. He looked up at the moon again. It was so strange…the moon did not move in the night, but it seemed completely different now that it was truly stuck in the heavens.
"Just up there, Harry?" Hermione confirmed, indicating the sharp corner before them. Harry nodded.
When they turned the corner, however, and finally found the trademark corridor Harry stopped walking, his hand darting out to stop his friends. Ron and Hermione followed suit, but not because Harry had stopped them.
"Who are they?" Ron asked, staring wide-eyed, mouth unceremoniously hung open. Harry shrugged, green-eyes puzzled.
"I can't say that I know, Ron. They're not exactly the crowd I tend to hang around with."
Hermione was politely surprised although trying very hard to hide it. "But…what on earth are they doing here? At Hogwarts?"
Harry shrugged. "Once again, I can't say that I know, what with me not liking to hang around with a crowd like them and all."
Ron, still bewildered, nodded absently. "Huh," was his only reply.
Standing in front of Dumbledore's gargoyle, like statues of their own accord, stood a dozen odd men and women, each wearing clothes terribly unfit to be worn during the winter and black, tribal-looking markings covering their skin. Their hair was raven black, their eyes were just as dark, and their expression were absolutely and completely blank.
"Harry," Hermione said, speaking calmly and quietly, "I think—I think they're gypsies."
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Draco
The Dark Lord.
He was tall; taller than I had thought him to be. My mother was not a short woman, but he towered over her, more so than just a head. He wore a flowing black cloak, like I had imagined he would, with the hood turned up so one could not see his face save for his eyes. They were so bright, to be seen from so far away.
He moved like any other person would move. He did not float or glide or hover above the floor like a ghost. He walked with one foot in front of the other, his body reacting to the movement as anyone else's would. When he held up his hand to beckon towards people unseen behind him it was an ordinary hand: long-fingered and slim. They did not move with a particular grace and they were not agile and crafty and unique. They were just regular, slender hands that moved mundanely, calling forth a person just as any other would do so.
No…not just one person; and not just any person. Or people.
It was my father.
My father!
And Bellatrix Lestrange.
And two others, a man and a woman. The woman was pale and sickly looking with long, brown hair graying in her age but a face that was beautiful despite her illness. The man looked exactly like Christian. They were his parents.
Christian's parents!
They all stood behind him like some dark, sinister posse, but they were not don as Death Eaters would have been. They wore robes that were no different from everyday garb. My father wore his usual black suit and Bellatrix wore a black dress with a low neckline and dreary plainness and Christian's mother wore a long-sleeve, turtleneck dress to shield her from the cold and Christian's father wore a black collared shirt, a black tie and black trousers.
Nothing absolutely special.
They entered into the hall behind the Dark Lord, each one acknowledging my mother. She nodded to them in turn but her focus was completely on the amazing figure before her. The only person who mattered in the room.
I held my breath as the dark hood slowly scanned the ballroom.
So this was it. This was the huge mystery of the night. This was the spectacular surprise that none of us could figure out. This, the Dark Lord's appearance in the wake of a deadly gypsy rampage, was the unknown, holocaustic event of the evening. I had a stale, metallic taste in my mouth as I thought of all the people who had died during the gypsy woman's psychotic spell casting and wondered what those people must have done to cause the Dark Lord to send foreign mercenaries to a Christmas ball. What had people like Millicent and Madame Parkinson and…Pansy…done to anger this colossal man? Why had he gotten rid of them?
The hood had stopped scanning the crowd and now turned to my mother, staring down at her upturned, waiting face. Even from my distance I could hear his words loud and undeniably clear.
"Narcissa," it hissed, saying her name and letting it slither across his tongue, "where are the rest of my guests?"
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Christian was not an innocent.
His mind was a mess, his soul was a mess, his heart was a mess. What else was there to keep him pure? He knew that Blaise was no virgin; she had given her maidenhead to some undeserving bloke during this past summer, when her hormones were too high and a pretty face winked at her. She didn't even know his name. He hated her for it, but that shouldn't have suggested that he was so inexperienced.
Christian knew he could charm and could lure any girl to his side. He knew he was handsome and used it to his best advantage. After all, life in the shadows could get very, very lonely.
But he was not a ruthless glutton on the matter. There had only ever been two girls, no more, and he had treated them with the utmost respect and gentleness: a woman's body should never be handled any other way. He had known the girls' names and their faces and what their hopes and dreams were. He had romanced them and had been sincere, and when he had kissed them he had done so with genuine caring.
He had never touched a girl who was unwilling and had never forced anyone into anything. He could not imagine why any man would want to hurt a female; they were so fragile and yet so powerful and they were soft and warm and comforting.
Usually Christian was immune to his solitude and relished in his anonymous demeanor; but when the loneliness became too lonely he had sought out feminine company…or else it had found him.
The first was on his sixteenth birthday. She was a few months younger and a Hufflepuff, with long, golden hair painted with hues from the sun. He had met her in the greenhouses and she had been flirtatious and coy. They had talked for hours before departing. The next night, for his birthday, he had asked and she had met him in the confines of his bed.
The second was during this last summer, in his secluded home of Russia. She was the daughter of one of the family servants, someone he had seen all his life but never took notice too. She had curly, black hair and dancing grey eyes. It was late night and he had been sitting in his room at his desk, writing for no apparent reason at all…just writing to pass the time. She had come in to bring him new linens for his bed. She was unusually shy and nervous, fumbling about with her work. She was taking much longer than usual and Christian had decided to help her with her chore: she was having trouble gathering together the old sheets. He had gotten up, walked to her side, and helped her. In not but a few seconds she was on him, suddenly kissing him and clinging to him. He had been surprised and pleasantly taken aback. She had not left his room until the morning.
Both memories were sweet ones and some of the rare few moments in his life when he was not completely miserable. He could still recall the scent of both girls, the Hufflepuff was fresh with strawberries and the serving girl was heady with mint and clean soap. Both were beautiful, both were satisfying, and both were dully satisfied.
But neither had expected anything else from Christian.
They had both known it to be a one time thing; one night of sweet passion and that was it. No love, no lingering affair. They did not expect him to fondle them and care for them and pine for them when it was over. They had known, without him saying anything; that it was just once. It was just the act and not the feeling.
Christian had always hated that they assumed. He had always hated that they did not expect more from him.
Because now, he did not know if he had anything left to give.
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Draco
The gypsies weren't sent from the Dark Lord.
The gypsies weren't supposed to have been present in the first place.
The Dark Lord was furious when he had heard. They were not supposed to have been at the ball at all. He did not know who they were. They were not to have taken anyone away. He was furious because people were missing. A lot of people were missing. People, he said, that he needed for this night. He asked who had sent for the gypsy minstrels. My mother told him that it was Madame Parkinson. The Dark Lord asked where Madame Parkinson was. My mother told him that she, too, was taken by the gypsies. She said that they had killed people with their green light and, when they disappeared, the people disappeared as well.
The Dark Lord was angry.
And so he took it out on my mother.
From my place in the ballroom I watched, with at least two hundred other guests, as my mother writhed and screamed and squirmed on the floor at the Dark Lord's feet, her piercing screams echoing tenfold from the rafters.
I was haunted. I was aghast with revulsion and disgust.
I was terribly intrigued.
Why was it so alluring to me, to watch my mother being tortured? Why was his wand so amazing, the way it pointed at her and caused her so much pain without touching her at all? Why was it that I wanted to say that the Cruciatus Curse was beautiful? Why was I not turning my head away and closing my ears like Blaise? Why was I not about to be sick like Darius? Why did I keep staring?
My mother was so fragile.
And then it stopped. He had moved his wand tip away and she was suddenly still, breathing heavily at the top of the stairs and sobbing. Sobbing! She was actually sobbing.
"My lord…" she whimpered, lying on her back, her iridescent gown splayed about her, draping over the top step. "My lord, I am sorry--,"
And then he did it again, his arm out-stretched rigidly in front of him and the invisible spell coming out of its tip, agonizing my mother. The people could hardly take the ruthlessness. Guests were crying and they couldn't even feel it. But I felt it. I could feel it as she pounded the tiles with her fists and tore her throat to sheds with scream after pleading scream. I could see Bellatrix watching with her eyes lined thick with kohl. I could see Machiavelli's parents watching with cold detachment. I could see my father staring at the far wall, unaware that his wife was being ripped apart over and over and over and over…
The wand was lifted a second time, the pain was ceased a second time, and the crowd waited with bated breath a second time. Without even realizing it I had pushed my way through the crowd, almost coming to the foot of the stairs, as my mother was tortured. Blaise was with me, for I had grabbed her wrist and dragged her along, but Darius was left behind near the wall. My neck hurt as I stared upward, hoping to glimpse the face of this ruthless man.
This ruthless creature.
The only person I had ever seen that was crueler than my own father.
"Your carelessness and Zhyerra's stunt have wasted my time. I offered the both of you the most valuable gift and you discarded it. For that you will be punished."
I blanched. So being tortured was not punishment enough?
"My lord, I am sorry. I beg—I beg your forgiveness…" She sounded like she was dying. The dark hood seemed to contemplate her for a moment and then the wand hand lowered completely.
"But you have not betrayed me as Parkinson has betrayed me. I will keep you with my chosen and I will find her and make sure she will die at my feet, fully aware that she dies as a traitor." The hood titled upward, thoughtful; the voice was airy. "I am a picky Purgatory." And then he turned and addressed his waiting audience, his valiant speech tantalizing and hypnotic:
"Ladies and gentlemen, I beg your sweet forgiveness. I have come at a most inopportune time and have ruined your good night. Believe me, were I to have the means, I would have been here sooner. To see all of your lovely, yuletide faces would have brought no. Greater. Joy.
But alas, I am not a man free to roam the world and travel from place to place on my own whim. I must do such things in the utmost secrecy to keep my dreaded enemies at bay. Have any of you ever been through such trials? Oh, but probably no, not any of you. I forgot; this is a ball for the rich and wealthy clans of Great Britain. This is a ball for the pure of…heart. Come, my friends. Let us join these people in their celebration…
"I see that Madame Parkinson has worked very hard to bring this castle up to standards. This mosaic tiling is ancient, a design original to Pellinore's court. Do you see it? Or have any of you not even realized the art that you have been so selfishly standing on? Move, woman. See there? That is Arthur, himself, standing at the edge of the lake while Merlin points his staff towards the water. Over there, near the wall, is the hand of the Lady of the Lake, offering up the legendary Sword Regalia so that Arthur may rule all of Britain. Just imagine, a sword to rule all of Britain and it was handed over to a boy who was no more than fifteen years of age. Does that seem fair to you?
"I see your faces and I am saddened. Why so glum, my dear colleagues? Why so miserable? Have you come running down to the Christmas tree to find nothing but coal? Poor children, you know nothing of Santa Claus."
He was more than halfway down the staircase now, my father, Bellatrix and the Machiavellis following a few steps behind. I was astounded to see my father moving with such fluidity. He was still mad, obviously, and he would not take his eyes off the wall yet his steps were measured and sure. Behind them, still lying on the landing floor, was my mother, nothing more than a heaving pile of glittering blue and purple.
He was so much closer now and yet I still could not see his face. There was still a thick wall of people separating me from the bottom stair, but I was too afraid to step forward. At my side Blaise was cowering into my arm.
"Draco, Draco we should leave! We could slip out to Christian and go back to the coast--,"
"Shut up."
"But the Dementors! Draco, the Dementors!" She was whispering in anguish but I didn't give a shit about the Dementors. I had seen them before. I had never seen the Dark Lord before.
"But I digress. I must admit, I came here for a very important reason. A reason, I hope, that will help change the world forever."
He pointed into the crowd and, like the following shadows of cattle, we all turned our heads to see whom he had chosen. It was Madame Bulstrode, standing perfectly conspicuous by the glass doors. She did not look scared or surprised…or, if she did, she hid it well.
She already knew what being pointed out meant. She did not have to ask. She headed directly for the staircase, parting the crowd like a biblical sea: all she had to do was approach and they would shrink away. We watched her go with excited anticipation. Why her? Why the Bulstrode witch? Had she done something wrong? Had she done something right? Had she done anything at all? Was she just lucky? Was she just unlucky?
She approached the stairs and dipped low before him. I expected her to only curtsy, but she dropped completely to her knees and reached forward, kissing the hem of his robes before standing up again. She did it all with a wonderful grace, her beautiful face serene and calm.
Or, at least, upholding the mask of being serene and calm.
The Dark Lord beckoned her to stand on the step below him and she did so, turning around so that she faced the crowd. And then I saw it…the flicker of uncertainty that crossed her face…and I realized that she did not know why she was there. She did not know why she was chosen. She was just as confused as the rest of us.
That was when I knew that this night, this hideous, murderous, moonless night, would never end.
------------------------
"They're awfully stern looking," Ron observed, squinting at the foreigners. "And a bit underdressed, if you ask me. Aren't gypsies supposed to wear seven layers of skirts and bright-colored vests and stuff like that?" he asked Hermione. She shrugged.
"Yes, the Moors and the Roma do, but I do not think these people are the conventional gypsies."
Harry frowned. "Is there such thing as the conventional gypsy?"
"You still need to talk to Dumbledore, Harry, and we're wasting time."
He turned on her, face indignant. "Hermione, there are gypsies guarding his door! What do you want me to do, just push right past them?"
"I'll do it then," she hissed back. He glared at her and frowned. She knew, full well, that he wouldn't let her anywhere near a group of dark-looking strangers. "We'll be right behind you," she assured him and pushed him forward.
"Thanks," he spat back sarcastically and proceeded forward.
He walked evenly and slow, watching the gypsies watch him all the while. True to Ron's observation the six men and six women did not wear clothes familiar to the traveling people they had learned in History of Magic. Instead of layers of brightly colored skirts, the women wore only one, floor length skirt of deep brown, a black, beaded belt hanging loosely from their hips. Their tops looked little more than a light brown piece of fabric, wrapped around their bodies and clipped at the shoulder in the traditional Roman style. The men wore breeches and tunics of the same brown color, and each one had a beaded, black belt strapped across their bodies, a quiver of arrows peeking out from their backs. As Harry came closer he noticed that, alongside having a variety of different tattoos amongst themselves, each gypsy had a black moon upon their person: the men had it on their necks and the women had it underneath their left eye.
"I take it back," Ron whispered from behind. "They don't look stern, they look terrifying."
"Ron, please. They can hear you."
"Er, excuse me," Harry murmured, stopping in front of the man and woman standing right in front of the gargoyle. He was surprised at how small they were. The two in front of him were at least half a head shorter and the tallest in the group was almost as tall as Harry, himself. They all seemed dwarfed by Ron. "Could I possibly get through?"
They both stared at him, blank-faced, and the woman, (more likely a girl), cocked her head to the side and studied his face.
"You have the scar," she said quietly, her words heavily accented. "The scar of lightening. You are the boy who lived." The other gypsies turned to stare and Harry felt his face grow hot with the familiar embarrassment.
"Yeah, my name is Harry Potter and I was wondering if you wouldn't mind letting us through--,"
"You cannot speak with your Headmaster right now," the man said. "He is busy."
"He is?"
"With our Chieftess," the girl explained. "She has come to the only man He has ever feared to speak of important matters. Tonight has been his doing."
Harry felt his insides twist as Ron's audible gasp sounded behind him. "He was behind the moon? But how? A person can't stop time; how could Lord Vol-,"
"But he is not exactly a person, now is he?" the boy interrupted. Harry looked over to him, knowing that he was right. Unconsciously he reached up and rubbed his scar, remembering the feeling of it burning when Voldemort was feeling murderous. He wondered what it had meant earlier, when the Dark Lord was moving, and he wondered even more about which direction he was moving towards. Was he move closer or farther away…
"Don't worry," the girl said, breaking into his thoughts. "He does not have a plan for you…yet. He must first deal with the most wayward of his flock." She suddenly looked sad. "Don't trust anyone. Don't trust each other. If couriers come, couriers know. Houses must stand together, not fall divided. Your deal--,"
"Will seal your fate," Hermione suddenly finished. Harry and Ron both turned to stare at her, but she was looking at the girl, brow furrowed deeply. "How did you...how did you know that?" she asked, her voice growing high in confusion. Then her eyes widened at a thought and she pointed at the girl. "Were you the one who sent me the--,"
But the girl was shaking her head. "No, I was not responsible for that. I only know what is happening now and not about what is going to happen in the future. Speak to your friends of your concerns. They are the corner stone of your survival now."
Puzzled, Hermione turned to Ron and Ron turned to Harry and Harry turned to Hermione. They looked at each other, all three having already known this.
"After all," the male gypsy started, "everything is going to change…right…now."
----------------------
Draco
"Pure blood," the Dark Lord suddenly announced, pacing behind Madame Bulstrode like a hawk to prey. "The cornerstone of your hierarchy and power. Blood that falls back through eons, kept purely magical through each generation. Untouched by time and strengthened by barriers. Blood untainted. Blood that is strong.
"Did you know that, in theory, a pureblood can be considered stronger than a half-blood or mudblood? Yes, there is the changing factor that people can make themselves stronger…like me, a mere half-blood. But purebloods are born with an advantage. Their line is stronger; their tolerance of magic is higher. With each passing generation the blood grows thicker with magic. It takes stronger spells to affect it, more potent poisons to penetrate it. The lasting power of pure blood is exceptionally powerful. Such an advantage and most of you cannot even begin to comprehend the magnificence you possess."
He scanned the avid crowd thoroughly. It looked like he was making contact with every single person in the room and I shivered when I thought his eyes rested on mine. Dark slashes were all they were, but they were tantalizing and fearsome. "Tonight is Christmas night," the Dark Lord suddenly said from the stairs, "and it seems that the world has stopped in favor for it to never end. Well, at least our lovely, little British Isle has taken a break in time to witness this event.
"I am saddened. Here, in this glittering ballroom, on this night of miracles, all of you have gotten dressed up, piled into carriages and traveled from all over Britain, Ireland, Spain, France, Belgium, Germany and Italy to attend this, a Christmas Ball. No gown was too expensive, no cosmetic too extravagant, no adornment too gaudy for this, your precious ball." He reached forward and held up a lock of Mrs. Bulstrode's hair, sifting it through his fingers. Like threads of silk is slipped through his pale digits, shining like satin, as intangible as water. "Hair like a noble. Hair like a royal. Primped and polished to absolute perfection. This is the symbol of your purity." His tone darkened and he pulled back his hood.
A face…
…the face…of nightmares.
This was the poster boy for complete submersion into power.
"This is all you have done with your gift."
Behind him Machiavelli's father was staring right at me, his blue eyes shockingly apparent. I tried to ignore him, focusing instead on the Dark Lord and his right hand reaching into his sleeves and unsheathing his wand once more. A long wand, ebony in color, conformed perfectly to his hand.
"For years I waited, abandoned in a haven I had sought, for my faithful servants to find me and bring me back to the power I once owned. And for years I had anguished over the loneliness I had been succumbed to." His eyes narrowed and I felt my chest overflow with an oncoming dread. Around us the Dementors drifted in closer. "You were willing to dress pretty and venture miles for a Christmas Ball and yet you never once tried to look for me." He gripped his wand tighter. "This is the character that you dub as pureblood."
He grinned.
"I will finally put that blood to good use."
In the split second before he did it we all simultaneously realized his horrible intentions. People screamed, women shrieked and turned away. Blaise grabbed my shoulder and buried her face into my robes. But I watched. I watched in a sick, almost fascinated horror as the Dark lord flicked his wrist and, from three meters away, slit Madame Bulstrode's throat.
She sputtered, her head lolled back and she grabbed at her throat, trying vainly to catch the blood pouring from her. Like a garnet waterfall it spilled forward, staining her gown and splattering on the floor. Some people in the audience retched; some even vomited. I felt my gut twist, but that was all. Millicent's mother had just been murdered and the most I could do was crane my neck for a better look.
I watched, entranced, as the Dark Lord knelt down and pulled a glass phial from his sleeve, smiling manically, and held the phial under the woman's throat. It spilled into the phial, around it, onto his hands and sleeves, and still he smiled. He waited until the glass was filled and then stood up, holding it up in the air for everyone to see. I stared at the dripping red, at the darkened red, at the red doused glass, and the red hand and the red sleeve. The cold taste of metal filled my mouth as I stared.
"Pure blood. One of the most powerful potion ingredients and yet rarely ever utilized. When used the potion it creates is nigh unstoppable. Spells cannot touch it. Remedies cannot heal it. It's holding power is near absolute. Its potency is guaranteed fatal." He grinned. "The keystone to my success."
Behind him my father stared blankly ahead, unfazed by the spectacle. I felt a chill and noticed the Dementors still closing in.
Beside my father Bellatrix smiled, a smile that said she held a special little secret and couldn't wait to tell all of us.
"With this I shall create a poison of outstanding power; a potion centuries old and decades strong. We shall live in a new world, a world where the weak will be executed so that the strong may flourish. A world where power alone exists…power alone thrives.
"They say God created the world in six days and rested on the seventh. I will recreate the world in six days and on the seventh day I will not rest but open my arms to my creation and laugh. They say God created man and from man made woman. I will create gods, and from gods I will make goddesses. They say that God has died, God has risen and God will come again. I have died, I have risen and I will be here forever." His eyes widened then and his smile threatened to split his face in half. "I am the new God."
Screams erupted everywhere. Cries of agony and pain filled the ballroom. The cold was so internally piercing that I doubled over and yelled: yelled for deliverance, yelled for forgiveness, yelled for mercy.
The Dementors were feeding.
Kiss after deathly kiss was performed on the unsuspecting guests. Souls were being ripped from bodies, sucked from the human flesh into the roaring, gaping mouths of the creatures. They were taking men and woman, adults and children. No one was immune to their touch. I watched, frozen in complete horror, as a Dementor bent low over an elderly woman and tore the soul from her lips, oblivious to her fragile, flailing body and her pitiful screeches. Everywhere I looked I was more shocked.
It was a chaotic feeding frenzy. I could not begin to imagine what was happening. Why would he do this to us? Such a horrible destiny, to roam the earth as a hollow shell; to live without actually living. He was doing this to the people, doing this to his people. I turned and tried to run but could not get my feet to move and somehow I had detached myself from my body and was watching the horrific scene from miles away. All these people, dressed in their best robes and faces painted to smile and they were screaming now, scampering and falling and lying on their backs in pathetic agony as they awaited the dreadful fate presented to them. On the stairs Bellatrix Lestrange was laughing out loud, head thrown back. Christian's mother had closed her eyes and was not watching and Christian's father tried to remain as detached from the battle as he could. My father did not change. My mother had twisted away on the landing, her back to us all. In the far concerns of my mind I wondered if Christian had remained gratefully overlooked out in the garden.
And then one of them was before me, looming over my helpless existence, ready to take its fill. I did not scream. I did not flail. What good would it have done? It was my turn. I was going to be sucked dry, left empty. Just a shell. I thought of Pansy and my mother. I thought of my father and my mother and both of them together. I thought of Pansy and me together. I thought of Pansy and me separated. I thought of Blaise and I thought of Millicent and I even thought of Machiavelli. I thought of Dumbledore and Snape and McGonagall.
I thought of Hermione Granger. I thought of Ronald Weasley.
I thought of Harry fucking Potter.
The punishment for all the things I had ever done was about to be bestowed in the worst of ways…
…and then…
…the Dementor passed me by.
It overlooked me. It had sensed me, had hovered right above me and had not taken me. It simply went away.
Then another one came…
And another…
And another…
And each time I was…spared…
"No! Please!"
Blaise's screaming and pleading jerked my attention to where she was convulsing on the floor, the Dementor's proximity too much for her to handle.
I didn't think, I just did. I leapt at Blaise and rolled on top of her, hugging my body close and using my huddled back as the feeble shield between her and the creature. The Dementor stopped its advance and backed away. I looked up, sat back and cradled the shivering Blaise to my chest, unknowingly rocking her back and forth, stroking her hair and trying to soothe her tears.
Why?
I don't know.
I will never really know.
I will never forget that night. I will never forget the fear that gripped me during those agonizing few minutes. I will always hear those screams at night and I will always know where they came from. Those moments were meant to haunt me, to plaster themselves in my mind and reappear every time I close my eyes. I will never forget. I will never forget the grotesque, disgusting vision of people dying.
No, not dying.
Worse.
They took Darius Nott and Baddock too. I watched Flint try to fight them off, but after three had descended on him he gave up. I watched as the first year, Graham Pritchard, fell down right in front of me, eyes wide open and face stone grey. He wouldn't stop twitching. I even watched them take Crabbe and Goyle.
No, Vincent and Gregory.
No, now they were No One and Nobody.
I watched my friends disappear. Vanish. In a puff of smoke. In a puff of scream. Poof, all gone. The years I had spent with them meant nothing. I knew those people and yet that saved no one. I had gone to school with them, played Quidditch with them, shared a dormitory with them. Nothing mattered. Nothing mattered anymore.
That was when I realized it was all over.
Everyone was lying lifeless on the floor, the Dark Lord and his chosen stood safely on the dais, the Dementors hovered, scattered, about the room and the tiles were stained with blood where the soulless bodies had fallen on the shards of frozen spells.
And I sat alone amidst it all, Blaise clutched tightly in my arms and my face buried deep into her soft hair, tears branding my cold, unfeeling flesh as I rocked her back…and forth…and back…and forth…