Chapter Twenty-Eight — The Way Unfolds
Harry sat quietly in the infirmary, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the flagstones beneath his feet. Around him the resurrected curtain blocked out the rest of the injured wizards and witches and the bustle of the room had returned in full measure.
Harry sighed and dropped his face into his hands.
Pansy had cried for a long time. It was nearly half an hour before her tears and emotion took their toll on her taxed body and she had fallen asleep on his shoulder. Madame Pomfrey had helped him lay her back onto the bed and draw the covers over her body, arranging her dress so that the skirts wouldn't get tangled. Professor McGonagall had conjured him an armchair and told Harry she would bring him something warm to drink and something to eat. With that she had beckoned Madame Tsion with her and the three women had left him alone with a very quiet Pansy Parkinson.
He glanced down at his shirt collar. Her tears were still there.
Never, in his life, had a crying girl been so…
Harry had had his fair share of crying girls: Ginny, when she was younger, Hermione, Cho Chang, that Hufflepuff girl who had asked him to the Yule Ball in his fourth year. They had
brought with them a strange mixture of emotions and had brought about a different reaction out of him. When it had been the Hufflepuff girl and Cho Chang he had felt little pity, to be honest. Their tears had seemed unnecessary. When Ginny cried in the Chamber it had made sense because she was scared. When Hermione cried it had always been out of either worry or because Ron had been an arse to her. And for both Ginny and Hermione Harry had wanted nothing else but to soothe them and make them smile again.
But with Pansy…
She had cried as if she'd never done so in her life. The whole time she couldn't breathe properly and she was gasping and sputtering, her body too weak to even mourn properly. Harry had let her cry into his shoulder but it was a forced kindness.
Her crying was the sort that made him feel like he'd done something wrong; it made him feel like a horrible jerk.
He raised his head. Pansy, face red from her weeping, lay silently on the bed. Her breathing was too shallow for proper sleep, but it was there. She was still alive. Harry leaned back in the armchair and let out a long sigh.
He wished Ron and Hermione were there to help him.
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Draco
The first blow he dealt me surprised me. I had expected the wand to move and be rendered near unconscious by the pain that would sweep over me. But he didn't use magic. At first he just stared at me, and an uncomfortable pause surrounded us. Then, without me even seeing it, he had stood up and brought the back of his hand smashing across my face, causing white stars to explode in front of my eyes and erupting my jaw with pain. I staggered back from the impact, more from shock than strength. I felt blood well up at the corner of my mouth but I didn't wipe it away.
I didn't have time.
"What did you say?" he hissed at me, bringing his arm back around and catching me in the neck with his fist. My throat nearly collapsed in on itself and, this time, the force sent me crashing into the floor. I coughed and grabbed at my neck, trying to push the air past my shattered throat. I gasped but didn't move. He stood over me, his robes too still to have betrayed any sort of movement.
What did I say? I couldn't remember anymore.
He turned back to Christian and flicked his wand at him. For a split second I was relieved. I was not to be at the end of his magic tonight.
Christian's limp body floated upward as if pulled on strings, held upright in a crude mockery of a puppet. He hung there in the air, his cloak hanging down past his feet, the edge opening just enough so that I caught the sparkle of a dagger hilt belted to his side. I looked up to see if the Dark Lord had noticed the weapon. He hadn't.
"He's nearly dead. His hasn't got a heartbeat." He rounded on me again, his cold gaze more painful than any spell could ever be. "How did he get like this?"
I didn't know. He knew I didn't know. I cowered there at his feet because I didn't know.
"Get up," he hissed. I did; faster than I thought possible. Before I had even steadied myself on my feet he flicked his wand again and Christian was propelled right into me, a dead weight. I threw up my hands to grab him, his limp body dragging me back down. I fought to stay upright, trying to catch him under his arms and hoist him upward. I chanced a pained glance up at the Dark Lord. He was smiling, and it made me feel small and insignificant.
And pathetic.
"Take care of him," was all he said to me, his tone low and nearly inaudible again. "Make him wake up."
A brush of his robes, my eyes squeezed shut and a swish of air.
I opened my eyes.
He was gone.
I looked around widely, wondering if he'd simply vanished. But no, he was already behind me, walking back to my unseeing father, my deranged aunt and the Machiavelli's, his pale head standing out, stark white, in the surrounding darkness.
I looked down at the unconscious Christian in my arms, his face hanging limply over my elbow. He was heavy and I was shaking, but I knew that if I put him back down I would have hell to pay.
I gritted my teeth, dropped my strength into my legs and lifted him up, his body slung over my shoulder. Sweat dotted my brow and my costume was getting too hot in the timeless air, but I turned around anyway, taking step after step as I approached the group once more.
Only it wasn't a group so much as it was only Mr. Machiavelli. I looked around, but his wife, my father, Bellatrix and the Dark Lord were nowhere in sight. Back in the ballroom the Dementors were gliding about, dragging the wide-eyed, soulless bodies of the guests behind the deerskin curtain. They didn't pick them up, only grabbed cloaks, collars and skirts and dragged them along. None of them cared.
Beyond them the grand staircase stood, it's last four or five steps stained with Mrs. Bulstrode's blood, her dead body lying sprawled across its marble face. She wasn't positioned beautifully and artistically, like a slain princess. Instead she had dropped into a crumbling heap, her skirts up around her knees and her head twisted uncomfortably, the gash at her neck gaping wide, like another mouth.
Above her, at the top most steps, the staircase was empty. My mother was gone too.
"Follow me," Mr. Machiavelli said thickly. "We must take them to a bed." He turned towards the glass doors, Blaise's head swinging in his arms. He hadn't shown any emotion or made any other sound when he had seen me holding his son. It actually didn't bother me until later. I hadn't noticed his negligence. It had seemed normal to me.
I followed him back into the ballroom and across the mosaic floor, stepping over the fallen and carefully avoiding the worst of the shattered spells. People stared up at me, their faces a sickly, grayish color. I looked down and saw a stranger watching me pass, his eyes robbed of their pupils. It was a ghastly face, one of horrors and nightmares.
I didn't flinch. I didn't look away. I just kept looking, soaking up the image, memorizing the picture.
Just as I had done when Mrs. Bulstrode had been killed. Just as I had done when the Dementors fed. Just as I had done when He had finally shown his face.
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Hermione and Ron reached the portrait of the Fat Lady at the same time as Ginny, Neville and Luna. They met in front of the Gryffindor entrance, both parties gasping for breath.
Save for Luna.
"You guys are back from Dumbledore already?" Neville asked, his brow furrowed deeply as he tried to speak without breath. In front of him Hermione took a deep pull of air, brushing hair out of her eyes.
"Yeah. We just came from him. You found Luna," she smiled at the younger girl and Luna granted her with a ghostly smile of her own.
"Hello," she said. Her eyes flicked to Ron, who was doubled over, his ginger hair flopping over his face. Hermione looked down at him next to her and smacked his shoulder.
"What? Oh, right. Hey, Luna. Sorry about earlier," he said automatically, waving his hand at her without looking up. Luna bent forward and turned her head upside down, meeting Ron's gaze.
"That's okay," she said. Ron gave her a half-hearted 'heh' before coughing into his hand. Luna straightened up and glanced around. "Where's Harry?"
"He went with the gypsies."
Luna frowned. Ginny and Neville both shot up. "What?" they all asked. Ginny looked flabbergasted.
"What gypsies?" she demanded. Neville nodded behind her.
"There aren't even any students here descended from gypsies," he offered, surprising both Hermione and Luna with the information. Ginny seemed to not be listening.
Neither was Ron, for that matter. He grabbed Hermione's wrist, still panting hard from the running. "'Mione…they don't know about the gypsies yet," he gasped. She looked down at him condescendingly.
"Really?" she asked him sarcastically. He nodded, oblivious. Hermione sighed. "It's a long story, and we have horrible news, so let's just go into the common room so we can tell you—,"
"Wait!" Luna had thrown her hands up as if to stop Hermione from moving. She hadn't even taken a step. "I must tell the Headmaster about the moon!"
Ron, his breath finally found, squared his shoulders and joined the conversation. "The moon? Again?"
Ginny jumped to Luna's defense. "That's what she was doing when we found her, Ron. She was in her room, digging up information on why the moon has frozen, and why time has stopped. It's amazing, the stuff she's told us." She suddenly blinked, as if seeing Ron and Hermione for the first time. "You two are awfully pale. I thought it was from running but--,"
Hermione's hand automatically flew up to her face distractedly. "It's probably from…that's what I was going to tell you, but--." She shook her head. "If you have to tell Dumbledore something then I guess we can go back, especially if it's important."
Ron looked at her. "We're going back?"
"We're going back," she confirmed, nodding at the three in front of her. "Luna's obviously--,"
"But what about Harry?" Luna interrupted, mimicking Ginny. "You said he was with the gypsies. Where did he go?"
"To the infirmary, I think," Ron said. He looked at his sister and then at Neville. "But I'm not sure if we should take you there yet."
Hermione shook her head. "Ron, I'm sure if we explain it to them on the way they'll be fine when they see everyone--." She stopped talking at the suddenly dark look he shot her. He was staring at her through lowered eyes, his jaw tensed. She shrugged lightly, not understanding. He held her eyes for only a moment before swiftly flicking his gaze to Ginny and then back again, so that no one would notice. It was all it took to make her understand. He didn't want his sister to see so many of the night's injured. Behind everything he was still the big brother.
Ginny was looking between them, uncomfortable with the silence. "I hate to be painfully obvious, but this is awkward," she said, eyeing the way Ron and Hermione were staring curtly at one other. "What is going on?"
"Nothing," her brother finally said, dropping his gaze with Hermione. His friend quickly regained her composure, shrugging off the moment with practiced ease. She would respect Ron's wishes for the time being, in light of all the harrowing news that seemed to continually be pouring in, but sooner or later Ginny and the others would want to see exactly what was going on. And they would have a right to; it wasn't as if they hadn't seen their fair share of gore and horror.
"First things first then: we need to bring Luna to Dumbledore," Hermione announced, turning right around and heading the exact way she had come, the others hurrying briskly beside her.
Despite their tiredness, all five friends kept up a determined run, scurrying up staircases and hurrying down corridors, Ron and Hermione knowing the quickest path back to the Headmaster. It was a lengthy journey, however. Some of the staircases that could have led them to their destination sooner had been in the process of changing when time had stopped, so many were left hovering in midair, their steps rising to nothing.
"This is the longest short route to the Headmaster's I've ever taken," Ginny commented, gasping, as they rounded a corner. She had to throw up her hands to keep from tripping over her brother.
"Come on, Gin. You're supposed to be a Quidditch player," Ron replied, sounding no less drained than she. "We athletes relish in this sort of vigor," he said sarcastically. Ginny shot him an annoyed smile.
"Whatever. The only one relishing in this vigor is Luna."
Sure enough Luna seemed barely fazed, keeping up with all of them although looking as if she were merely strolling across the grounds. Neville was amazed.
"You've been like that this entire time," he said to her. "Aren't you tired?"
She looked over at him and frowned slightly, her eyes puzzled. "Yes, of course." And that was it.
The group made it to the end of the corridor they had been overtaking and were about to climb the final staircase at the end. They were rounding the bend, one after the other, when Ron, who had been at the front, suddenly hurried onto the bottom landing, saw there was no stairway leading up and only empty space, screamed and skidded to a halt causing a chain reaction of collisions behind him. Ginny rammed into his back, Hermione slammed into Ginny, Luna toppled over Hermione. And Neville, simply out of surprise, fell down to the ground on his own accord. Moans and groans filled the air and everyone was rubbing some sort of bruise or ache on their body.
"Bloody hell, I forgot this staircase wasn't connected," Ron grumbled, pulling himself straight and staring at the air in front of him. He peered out over the edge of the landing and felt his stomach lurch. Seven stories separated him from the bottom level, and the vast expanse seemed to be pulling him right over the edge,
"Don't do that, Ron," Ginny exclaimed, tugging her brother backward by the collar. "If you slip over and die Mum will have a fit with me."
"Gee, thanks."
"Whoa! Will you look at that!" Everyone turned to see Neville pulling himself upright along the railing, his eyes trained on something around the disconnected staircases. All eyes fell on the Bloody Baron of Slytherin hovering in the expanse above the staircases, but he wasn't exactly frozen yet hardly free to move as he pleased. He was stuck in one position and was blowing about in the air, slowly tumbling and turning, like a leaf caught in a wind. He rippled his way towards Neville and he blew at the ghostly image, sending the Baron to drift downward towards a painting of a Parisian alchemist. "That's a bit odd, wouldn't you think?"
"Not at all," Luna quickly chimed. "Ghosts are caught between two worlds, so of course they wouldn't be frozen, like we are, but then they would be, like everything else." She leaned over the rail and watched as the Baron's frozen transparency passed right through the painting and into the corridor beyond. Next to her Ginny shivered involuntarily.
"He looks like Nearly Headless Nick did in my first year, when the basilisk petrified him."
"Downright creepy," Ron muttered, stepping away from the sight. "But come on, let's get going then." Once again Ron was leading them back the way they had come, Hermione keeping pace beside him. After a lengthy reroute they saw the stone gargoyle rise up before them once more, waiting at the end of the hall. But before they had reached their targeted destination they were cut off by Professor McGonagall and, to Ron and Hermione's surprise, Madame Tsion.
"Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger!"
"Professor! Your Grace!"
The five skidded to a less hazardous stop than before and faced the deputy headmistress and her companion. Behind the Gryffindor prefects Luna, Ginny and Neville eyed the tiny woman curiously, much in the same fashion as the trio had done when they first met her.
"Where are you five going?" McGonagall asked strictly, but more out of surprise than anger.
"We needed to see the Headmaster again, Professor," Hermione explained, turning to indicate their Ravenclaw companion. "Luna has something important to say to him."
"It's about the moon," she offered helpfully. Madame Tsion's interest suddenly peaked at this tidbit.
"The moon?" she repeated, pulling at her o's. Luna turned, smiled and nodded.
"I'm sorry, Miss Granger, Miss Lovegood, but the Headmaster isn't in his office."
"What?!"
McGonagall clasped her hands together and sighed wearily. "As you have noticed we are caught in dire conditions, and so Professor Dumbledore has gone to investigate these conditions further."
"He left Hogwarts?" Ginny blurted out.
"Yes, but only temporary and for good reasons," McGonagall defended. "So I suggest that you all return to your respective dormitories and not go wandering about the castle at this time. It's very dangerous and--,"
"The moon has been forced into a limbo," Luna suddenly said, her voice desperate yet her tone holding its airy quality. "Something very dangerous has happened, because although the moon circles the planet it has never heeded to its commands before." She looked between the two women. "Even if it is Midwinter Solstice." Hermione and Ron were looking at Luna with wide-eyed expressions, Hermione more impressed and Ron more astonished. Madame Tsion was intrigued.
"You know much on this subject," she said, stepping forward. Luna nodded.
"Yes, I've tried to find out as much as I could."
"And you know of the Solstice." Luna nodded again. Madame Tsion contemplated her for a moment before bending at the waist once more and bowing low to her. "I am Madame Tsion, Chieftess of an eastern gypsy tribe."
Luna bowed in return. "Pleased to meet you, Your Grace." The gypsy woman turned to McGonagall.
"Professor, would it be terribly against protocol if I stole a bit of time with this young lady?" she asked kindly. She glanced at Luna. "If that was all right with you."
"Of course," Luna assured her kindly. McGonagall looked subtly surprised.
"Oh, well, of course, Your Grace. If you wish too."
"I am impressed with your knowledge, and I'd like to hear more," the Chieftess said, extending a hand out to Luna, who took it without hesitation. "I would like to hear what you would have told Dumbledore, if you don't mind."
"No, not at all, Your Grace."
"Professor," Hermione began, pulling McGonagall's eyes away from the Chieftess and Luna.
"Yes?"
"Do you know where Harry is, Professor?" Ron looked at their head of house expectantly, his weight already shifting through his feet, ready to take off to find their friend.
"In the hospital wing, Miss Granger, taking care of the task Professor Dumbledore set for him. But I must say," she quickly added, holding up a finger to Ron, anticipating his impatience. "I do not like either of you entering the hospital wing, and I'd like Miss Weasley and Mr. Longbottom going there even less."
"Are we not allowed?" Hermione asked, crestfallen. Behind her Ginny looked as if she'd been snubbed.
McGonagall sighed. "Sadly, that decision was not in my power. The Headmaster said that, if you two wished to meet with Mr. Potter, that you were welcome. But only you two. I completely forbid anyone else going."
Ginny took this news as downright insulting and couldn't hide her outrage in time. But before she could protest Hermione and Ron simultaneously turned to quiet her words.
"Just this time," Ron said strictly. "Please Ginny. We just want to talk to Harry."
"I know you do, but I don't want to end up sitting in the common room doing nothing--,"
"Would you like to accompany Luna here?" Madame Tsion offered quietly, injecting herself smoothly into the conversation. "I'm sure she would enjoy the company and I, myself, would be honored to speak with members of Dumbledore's Army." She winked at them in a maternal sort of way and Ginny's frustrations were instantly quelled in light of being recognized as a D.A. member. "Of course, that is if your head of house allows?'
McGonagall stared at Ginny then at Neville and brooded over the answer for a moment. Then, with a purse of the lips that said she was really only doing this to be nice, she nodded once.
"I promise, if we end up charging head first into a full scale battle, you'll be the first one we'll call," Ron assured her. Ginny glanced at him, serious.
"I'm going to remember that promise," she said smugly. Her brother nodded.
"Right. 'Mione?"
And, once more, they separated, Ron and Hermione followed Professor McGonagall to the hospital wing and Luna, Ginny and Neville trailing with the mysteriously intriguing Madame Tsion.
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She was strong.
Harry was used to dueling; his reflects with a wand had grown extremely acute to the point where he'd last a good ten minutes with any grown wizard. He knew spells for the offensive and the defensive, and his mind worked fast under pressure.
He was a good fighter…
…when it came to wands.
When it came to actual physical contact, Harry wasn't at all trained, and even less so when dealing with a girl. And when that girl was supposed to be under his charge and yet completely insane at the same time, his knowledge on handling the matter was even less helpful.
Now, he was losing.
At the moment they were locked in a struggling standstill, Harry grasping both her wrists in an attempt to calm her down. She had already slapped him in the face and screamed enough obscenities to silence the entire infirmary, and she was slowly winning the struggle to break free from his grasp.
"What is wrong with you?" he cried, gaining a step against her. He was half a head taller but, apparently, neither his height nor his gender was counting for much in their battle. "You were stabbed with a dagger! You need to rest!"
"Don't touch me, you scar-faced bastard! Let me go!"
"No! You have to stay here."
"Like hell I will."
And hell she was creating. She was finally able to pull out of his grip, but Harry had had the advantage and she stumbled back against the bed, her hand lashing out to steady herself and knocking over the glass containing her healing potion.
"Be careful!"
"Shut up!" She picked up the tipped glass and threw it directly at his face. He narrowly dodged the attack and the glass bounced off the curtain and shattered on the stone floor. Harry was incredulous.
"You're mad, you know that?" he snapped at her, hardly in the mood to deal with a sociopath of a classmate. "I don't know why I'm here and, believe me, I don't want to be. But Dumbledore wants me here to take care of you for some reason or another, and what Dumbledore wants is what I will do, regardless of how much I hate the task. So you can scream and throw things all you want, Parkinson, but I'm not leaving and neither are you."
"Spare me the hero's speech, Potter," she spat, saying his name as if it were the worst kind of insult. "It may work on your pathetic, little friends but it won't work on me. I don't care that your precious Dumbledore sent you here; people need me and I intend to do my own duties, even if it means breaking your perfect, heroic record--."
"You're not going anywhere," he repeated, more firmly this time, and blocked her way, interpreting her threatening step correctly. Pansy glared fire at him, but he did not budge.
"Get out of my way," she growled. He frowned at her as if her threat were insignificant.
"You're weak and you're tired. Just get back into the bed and go to sleep."
"Get out of my way or I'll kill you," she emphasized, exaggerating the threat so that it sounded so ridiculous that it seemed legitimate. He held his ground.
"Will you just stop it? This is a pointless argument. You don't have the strength to fight me."
"Want to bet?" She kicked at the armchair he had been sitting in and it flew off the ground towards him, banging into his leg. Harry cried out and pushed the armchair away, his hip and knee bruised painfully.
"Stop that," he screamed, his green-eyes staring at her widely, wondering if she were real, regretting the fact that she was. "You are the most…." He trailed off, too angry for words. He gritted his teeth and pulled out his wand. In pure retaliation, Pansy laughed at him.
"What are you going to do, stun me?" she mocked.
"If I have to."
She laughed outright. "You couldn't do it." Her laugh got stronger, more insulting. "You're such a little bitch."
Harry's grip on his wand tightened, his anger on the verge of snapping. "Get back on the bed, Pansy."
She narrowed her eyes, her coy smile more menacing than suggestive. "Is that an invitation? I never thought the famous Harry Potter to be so perverted."
He raised his arm, ready to not only stun her but seal her filthy mouth shut for the rest of her young life. "Get on the bed now."
"Go ahead, stun me, petrify me, curse me and jinx me to your hearts content." She opened her arms wide, the drooping sleeves of her white dress dragging against the edge of the bed. Her dark hair spilled around her exposed shoulders, tangled and wild from her thrashing. She looked almost like a haunting ghost, with her pale skin and black eyes; someone who had passed over looking beautiful to be fearfully ominous. "Let out all that bottled up anger and frustration; vent out on your rival's ex-girlfriend. Go on, I wouldn't blame you if you did."
Harry's arm was still, his vice-like grip unmoving. "It's sounds like your talking more about yourself than about me. I'm not the one who needs to vent out a little angst."
"Angst," Pansy repeated, saying it breathily, laughing lowly to herself. "You think this is angst." It wasn't a question, it was a dull, surprised statement.
"I think you're delusional and that you need to lie down, close your mouth and go to sleep." His shifted his weight through his feet, his leg aching dully where the chair had struck. This girl was far more work than she was worth.
"Just shut up and stay low," she muttered. "Do you say that to all the girls?"
"You're starting to try my patience," Harry replied, his voice a low baritone; a voice thick with restrained frustration.
"Now I'm trying your patience?" Pansy exclaimed, gleefully surprised. "Only now? Not when I threw the glass at you, or kicked the chair at you, or called you a little bitch?" His jaw clenched and she saw the twitch, knowing that his ego was bruised. "Famous Harry Potter and his ever present aura of patience. Goddamn, you are the perfect hero, aren't you?" she scoffed. "No wonder it was always easy for Draco to get under your skin."
That was the breaking factor. Harry's wand hand shook only the slightest bit, but it was enough to push Pansy's bed backward a good foot or two, the sudden movement knocking her backward onto the tumbled sheets. She gasped out loud, caught off guard. She looked back at Harry, the smile gone.
"Losing control, are we?" she mumbled. He didn't even try to respond, instead focusing his attention on keeping his magic in check. He refused to lose his controlled countenance because of a few taunting words from a schoolyard bully.
"Back off, Parkinson," he practically growled. "Back. Off."
"Harry?"
The curtain was pushed aside and Hermione and Ron came through, stopping short when they saw Harry's wand pointed at a tousled Pansy Parkinson.
"That's your charge?" Ron blurted out, his transparent face staring, almost disgustedly, at Pansy. She glared right back at him, hating him from his disrespectful expression to his hideously red hair. "Parkinson?!"
"Oh look, if it isn't the Potter fan club," she snarled. "Could my life get anymore shitty?"
"What are you guys doing here?" Harry asked, his eyes never leaving Pansy. He knew he sounded angry but, in truth, he couldn't have been happier to see them. Hermione crossed over to him and rested a hand on his wrist, the light touch enough to lower his wand hand.
"Calm down, Harry. We know you're not going to use that on her."
"Want to bet?" Ron grumbled, crossing over to Harry's other side. "I'd use it on her, and I haven't even been here to hear the majority of the row."
"You never help," Hermione shot at him as she pulled Harry's wand free from his fingers and tucked it into his pocket for him.
Ron clapped his best friend on the shoulder, shaking the tense hardness out of him. "You okay, mate? You look a little angry?" he said, half-sarcastic, noting Harry's furrowed brow and balled fists.
"Fine, Ron," he automatically said. "Perfectly fine."
On the bed Pansy rolled her eyes dramatically. "I just hate you," she said plainly. "I just hate you all." Her proclamation was heartfelt, but she obediently crawled back onto the bed without any more fuss, lying atop the covers and curling up on the farthest side, her back to the three friends.
"Oh, now you listen. When you're outnumbered," Harry grumbled.
"Shut up. I was never going to try and leave anyway, you idiot," Pansy snapped over her shoulder. "That was my version of venting. You're just so easy to rile. Pathetic coward."
"Just like Malfoy," Harry mumbled under his breath before turning on his heel and striding out to the other side of the curtain. With a quick glance at Parkinson's back both Ron and Hermione followed after him.
"Are you okay, Harry?" Hermione ventured, coming to stand in front of him. He was leaning against the window beside Pansy's area, the dark night outside unmoving, it's stationary stars halted mid-twinkle. "It's been a while since I've seen you this angry."
"It's been a while since I've run into Malfoy," he grumbled back. "She's almost worse than him."
"The girls usually are," Ron commented off-handedly. Hermione glared at him. "Hey, it's a compliment."
"I take it you guys are here because you heard of the task Dumbledore gave me?"
Ron nodded. "Yeah. When—what was her name?—Madame Tsion took Luna away, she told us where we could find you--,"
"Wait, what?" Harry instantly perked up. "Why was Luna taken away?"
"She was amazing, Harry," Hermione exclaimed. "Ginny and Neville found her and she'd uncovered the most amazing things about why time has stopped!"
"It was pretty impressive," Ron admitted. "Apparently she'd known these things for awhile, or something."
"She knows why it's happened, how it's happened and how to fix it," Hermione went on. At the surprised look on Harry's face she launched into the full explanation.
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Pansy
I listened quietly, making my breath as shallow as I possibly could so that I wouldn't miss a single word. I gripped the pillow beneath my head, my fingers digging into the feathery down.
So…
A genocide of 'my kind'; the pure bred. The Purebloods. And in order to make it come to pass he used the planet's own magic against it. Stop time in Britain; extract it from the known world and place in an alternate stand still for a grand Holocaust; the likes of which had been unknown: the death of wizards and witches.
I found my arms and my legs shaking. I thought it was from fear, but it wasn't.
Anger.
It gripped me.
I had only realized it in the last moments before the gypsies had taken me away, but now that the idea had time to settle and register in my mind I found an undiluted anger build in my chest. What had we become, merely fodder for his grand scheme? We, who had suffered so much under his rule, were so easily expendable.
I pressed the heel of my hand against my eyes, frustration building. Then what was the point of the Indian Lotus? What was the point of bartering my soul for a life if life was so easily extinguished?
Draco…
I blocked out that part of my thoughts, deciding not to dwell on useless causes.
I knew that I didn't have to worry about Draco. Of all the things I was angry and worried about, I knew that Draco didn't fit into any of them.
Because no matter what anyone said or claimed, no one really knew the true power that Draco bore with the Malfoy name. No one knew how absolute and sure his future was. But I did. I knew. Lucius didn't have to be alive to protect him. Neither did Narcissa. He had the surname of Malfoy, and that was all the protection he needed to survive on the dark side of magic.
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Draco
I followed Mr. Machiavelli up to the third story of the castle. He searched through various doors and finally found a simple room furnished with only a fireplace and a queen-sized four-poster bed.
"She will take the bed," the wizard said, tearing away the comforter and laying Blaise gently on the soft blue linens. "Here, lay my son in front of the fire on the floor. His back aches him sometimes, and hard surfaces are better for him." He laid the comforter over the cold stone slabs in front of the fireplace and I deposited Christian's burdening weight on the floor, trying to set him down as softly as I could. Meanwhile, Mr. Machiavelli drew out his wand and pointed it to the grate and conjured a roaring fire that, not seconds after it appeared and crackled once, went instantly still. Quickly, as if he'd expected such a result, he drew out a paper packet from his pocket and tore it open. It held a reddish brown powder inside and he poured the contents in front of the grate, fashioning a careful semi-circle. Immediately the fire began to roar once more and the heat from the flames slapped my face both soothingly and uncomfortably.
"I will send someone up with food and drink," the man went on, his words heavy with his accent. He rose form the floor and walked to the door, his eyes lingering fleetingly on Christian and then Blaise. "You will stay here with them."
I didn't argue; I couldn't argue. For all I knew they were orders given by the Dark Lord himself, and I had had my fill of displeasing him that would last for a good, long while.
Instead I just nodded and watched Mr. Machiavelli slip through the door, leaving me behind with two lifeless shells and a burning fire.
It wasn't until I heard the door click shut did I collapse to the floor purely out of exhaustion. I felt like I couldn't breathe, then I remembered that I was wearing a ridiculous costume for a ball that seemed eons ago. With a groan I pushed myself to a sitting position and undid the heavy cloak, tossing it aside. I took off every unnecessary accoutrement, including the belt that held the scabbard. My sword was safely sheathed within it and I took the needed pains to lay it delicately on the floor, the jewels embedded into the leather twinkling in the firelight. Soon I was comfortable in my own skin and a black shirt and trousers, something that was thankfully familiar.
It was as if the costume were a dreadful portal into another world; a world where the people I knew lost their souls, were tortured and killed.
In those moments, where I sat silently by the fire, virtually alone, I can honestly say I finally felt like crying. I was tired and, low and behold, almost bursting with emotional baggage. It would have been a relief to cry, and as an added bonus no one would see and no one would know. But even after I thought about it I never did. Crying in itself seemed like too much work, and I was not going to expend any more energy on something I would probably be ashamed of in the end.
So I just sat there, not really thinking. I fell into a stupor bordering on sleep. But I was aware enough to notice a small detail: the crackling of the fire was the first natural underscore in the unmoving night, and it was absolutely mesmerizing.
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There is a state that people tend to fall into at the most serene and boring of times. It is a state between being awake and asleep. We stare off into space, lost not in thought but in whatever it is that we are staring at. We don't close our eyes, we don't slip into slumber, but seconds later we find our selves snapping back to attention and realizing that quite a while has passed without our knowing it.
We don't remember what happened or remember dreaming. We don't remember thinking about anything or doing anything else. We are not sure if we were asleep or awake.
That was the feeling Christian felt when he suddenly blinked his eyes in full awareness. He was no longer just looking but actually seeing: seeing the ceiling above him, seeing the flicker of firelight on the stones, seeing dark blue draperies out of the corner of his vision. He breathed in slowly and then let the air seep out through his nostrils, taking his time.
He knew better than to just start flailing around in blind panic.
He tried wiggling his fingers and found them to be too heavy to lift. Instead he concentrated on his head, gently forcing his muscles to let his neck swivel and twist. The movement started out slow, but soon his stiff tendons got used to the movement and began to loosen. He felt his hair tousle against a soft comforter beneath him but it did little to relieve him of the hardened stone beneath.
He paused, took a moment to breathe in deeply, and, with a low groan, turned his head to the side, eyes squeezed shut in effort.
"Ugh…." He felt his chest twist painfully at the movement. "Never…again…," he murmured to himself, his breath escaping him. "Never…ever…again…." Christian opened his eyes then, let his vision adjust to the brightness of the fire glowing next to his head, and was dully surprised to find the infamous Draco Malfoy sitting on the floor near him, stripped of his black cloak and his 'pristine' hair looking frightfully disheveled.
"Hi," he said glumly, the sarcasm dripping from the singular word enough to choke any other human being. Christian, despite his unorthodox state, despite his near death experience and despite his supine, damsel-in-distress pose, found that the only proper response one could give to Malfoy was one that was just as sarcastic, if not more cheeky.
"Good God," he half-whispered. "I think I've died and gone to Hell."
Draco smiled, tiredly and menacingly. "Oh, you have no fucking idea."
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Draco
So Christian Machiavelli wasn't dead.
'Yay'.
That meant that the Dark Lord wasn't going to kill me.
Bigger and more enthusiastic 'yay'.
But that also meant Christian Machiavelli was now my only company for who knew how long we were supposed to stay in that room.
Lesser and more miserable 'shit'.
I wasn't crazy about the idea. I would have been more than willing to have even Blaise wake up rather than Machiavelli. She probably would have been completely hysterical and panicking and overdramatic, and I would have had to explain everything to her and exert too much energy to calm her down, but I would have preferred that over the solemn-faced, depressing shadow boy.
As it were, it was a bonus that he could barely move. And I felt no obligation to help him.
"I can't feel the rest of my body," he grumbled. I shrugged.
"Then don't move."
"No, no, don't bother helping me. I wouldn't want to put you out."
I shrugged. "Thanks."
The glare he shot me was remarkably potent, despite his recent awakening, so I had to silently give him credit for it. Not even Potter, on his best day, could look so cruel. Machiavelli had potential.
The hand with the garnet shards in it twitched and he winced at the movement, craning his head slowly to see what was paining him. "What's all over my hand?"
"Shards of a ring," I replied, leaning back on my hands and stretching my legs out towards the hearth. How had I become so calm all of a sudden? When had the fear and helplessness melted away? "Although the process as to how those shards appeared is beyond me."
He frowned, thought a moment, and then his brow relaxed. "Oh. I remember."
I raised an eyebrow. "Do you now?"
"I remember crushing the ring in my fist. I was angry…or was I desperate?"
"Why did you crush the ring?"
"Or was I sad?" He took in a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and tried to sit up. He failed miserably and did so in the most painful manner I had ever seen. He ended up collapsing back onto the comforter, gasping for breath.
"Please, don't try that again," I said to him. "It makes me uncomfortable."
"Well, how terribly rude of me. I promise to think more of your well-being in the future." He turned his head and fixed his godforsaken eyes on me, the power of his gaze searing onto my skin. I glared back.
"What?"
He waited a moment. "Please. I've been lying on my back for who knows how long and I'm very stiff. I'm desperate. So desperate and in pain, in fact, that I'd lower myself enough to ask you for help." He took a breath. "So just prop me up against the bed. Really, if you do me this one favor I promise to put in a good word about you with the boss and we'll all live happily ever after."
I admit, I was blanking out during the beginning of his little spiel, but near the end he caught my attention and I had to actually think about keeping my face blank and schooled.
A word with the boss…
"Fine," I grumbled, and pushed myself to my feet, groaning and moaning like I was wont to do. Propping Machiavelli against the bed was harder than I had thought, however. He kept complaining about his body being in pain and his chest hurting, and he wouldn't stop whining about how I wasn't careful while I ignored him. Eventually he ended up leaning heavily against the foot of the bed, his legs sprawled out in front of him and his cloak splaying about his trousers. I frowned as I stared down at him. He looked paler than I ever could.
"Are you okay?" I asked, attempting to sound concerned yet failing dashingly. He only sighed, which was really starting to get on my nerves.
"No, but at least I'm sitting up. It's easier to breathe this way."
"It's also easier to breathe when you're not half dead lying out on the coast in the middle of winter." I nudged his leg with my booted toe, probably adding more force than what was terribly necessary. "Which again brings me to wonder how you got into that state by crushing a ring."
I was curious. More curious than I ever remembered being in my life. I suppose that was where the energy of my fear had gone to, fueling my need to understand anything and everything that had happened throughout the night. And, as I had begun to notice, I had one of the most ideal people in front of me who could explain most of it.
"I'm not really up to a lengthy conversation right now," Christian replied, his head lolling back onto the footboard. "Give me a few hours to recuperate and then we can have a lovely heart to heart and become lifelong friends."
"No." I kicked him in the leg again, coaxing a satisfying wince from his face. I never understood what was so wrong about being a bully. It was fun. "We're going to talk now. I don't have time to wait."
Machiavelli reached forward slowly and rubbed his leg where I'd kicked him. "If I'm not mistaken, you've got all the time in the world," he mumbled. I started to open my mouth in a quick and witty response but then I stopped short, looking down sharply at his jet black head.
"What did you say?"
He looked up at me, frowning in polite confusion. "Pardon?"
"What did you just say?" I repeated, my words coming out clipped. Machiavelli stared at me and shrugged.
"I don't know, what did I just say?"
I dropped down in front of him, squatting on the balls of my feet. "You just said I had all the time in the world," I said evenly. "Which means you know that the night has frozen over." When he didn't say anything and just stared on blankly I knew I was right. "But," I went on, "how could you know if you've been knocked out since the beginning of everything? I was lugging your dead weight back to the castle when time stopped."
I saw a definite, absolute flicker of surprise pass across his face before he quickly masked it and cocked his head to the side. "You carried me all the way back? How sweet."
I was all out of patience. I reached forward and grabbed Machiavelli by his lapels, yanking him forward forcibly so that he could understand how frustrated I was. I ignored his twitch of pain. I wouldn't find out until later just how much pain he was in, but at that moment I couldn't have cared less. "What's going on, Machiavelli?"
He narrowed his eyes at me, a respectable cover up for how agonizing the yanking had been. "I really didn't think it was going to be this difficult," he finally said, muttering more to himself than to me. "I thought this would be simple and detached, just how I liked it." He glanced up. "I only ever agreed to mess with you because that was just supposed to be fun."
I was making that face again. That face that everyone knew me for. The face that simply said 'I hate you'. It was a good face.
"You better start explaining things before I kick you in the mouth. And believe me, I will do that." I grinned, imagining my booted heel smashing against his teeth. "I've wanted to do that since the moment I saw you."
"And I don't blame you," he replied good-naturedly. He cocked an eyebrow at me and I released him, letting his lifeless weight fall back against the bed. He lifted his gaze and smiled, his blue eyes twinkling with possessed knowledge. I hated his eyes. People with too bright of eyes were just asking to be hated, like Potter. "I'd probably hate me too. I already do."
I was growing impatient. "You're self-esteem is astounding, but I really must insist that you make your presence useful and explain to me what the fuck is going on."
Christian, like all well-experienced pricks, noted my impatience and took a moment to 'contemplate' the situation. I could feel the blood begin to boil in my veins, my frustrations remounting. And I had found so much relaxation in front of the fire only moments prior.
"You know," he finally said, "it astounds me how many people seem to desire Draco Malfoy's recognition when you seem to lack anything that could remotely be acquainted with being charismatic, charming or appealing."
I reached into my repertoire and shot him the blandest glare I could muster. "People like me for my body."
"Oh yes. How could I have possibly overlooked that?" He blinked slowly and sighed dramatically. Honestly, just being in his presence made me feel lethargically annoyed, like making people feel uncomfortably murderous was a natural talent of his. "Now, what was it that the great Malfoy wanted to know?"
"Let's start with the same question I've already asked twice now: why did you crush that bloody garnet ring and how the hell did it leave you practically dead?"
He glanced down at the particular subject, wiggling his fingers minutely as he stared at the dried flecks of blood. "Well, I--." Christian's eyes suddenly went dark, so dark that they made me uncomfortable. I frowned deeply and he clicked his teeth. "I don't…I don't actually know," he said, and by the tone of his voice I could tell that he wasn't lying. "Which can't be at all good."
"Things like that tend to not be." I tugged awkwardly on the collar of my shirt, the heat of the fire finally seeping in. "Red said that the family ring that you crushed wasn't exactly a family ring," I explained, then suddenly realized that I had called Blaise by the nickname so exclusive to Millicent. It had surprised me, and it momentarily reminded me of the strange gypsy attack that had occurred not but a little over an hour ago, at a time that seemed painfully distant.
"Red said…what?" Christian narrowed his eyes at me. "Family ring?"
"Red rose, golden band? Horrifically reminiscent of Gryffindor colors?" I tried. He frowned at his knees, his eyes shaking, as if he were searching for the answer somewhere on the floor.
"I know what you're talking about, sort of" he said. "But I don't…I don't know why I'd have done something else tonight. Especially when so much was already supposed to happen--,"
"Which I'd like very much for you to explain, seeing as you're so knowledgeable." He looked up and met my eyes. I waited.
"So absorbed in your own personal life to figure out anything that's happening around you?" he quipped darkly, suddenly reverting to a much more sinister, much more serious Machiavelli; a Machiavelli that was much more the son of the Russian gentleman and the pale woman. But I didn't much feel like being bullied into a corner. I had had enough of inferiority for one night.
"We had tried--,"
"We?"
I felt the same, telltale click at the back of my head as I felt my insides already twist before I had even said the name. "Pansy…and myself." I expected this new, darker Christian to take the name of Parkinson and use it as an advantageous barb, so I was surprised when he simply skimmed over the entire thing. I guess everyone is endowed with their own reserve of mercy.
"You tried…?"
"And failed to come to the conclusion of any of this," I spat out. "Sorry, but a mass disposal of pureblood lines was very far from any conclusions I would have come to. A mass disposal of everyone else besides us would have been more likely."
He was shaking his head, unsatisfied with my deduction. "But that does not aid the bigger picture," he said tiredly. "You did not think beyond the point of no return. What good would that do? What would anyone benefit from something like that? What would He benefit from something like that?"
I could suddenly feel it in the air. This was the beginning of the conversation; this was the beginning of the full explanation, the start of my understanding of everything. A part of me, the part of me that was used to getting its way at Hogwarts, wanted to beat the answer out of him. But another part knew that patience would give me more information, and I suppose the weary way Christian was tweaking his stiff neck touched some part of my conscience.
"Why did Voldemort just unleash a horde of Dementors onto a group of people who are nothing but faithful to him?" I prodded.
Christian tried to lift his left arm once, failed, and then tried a second time, achieving success in lifting it a few inches from the floor. "Not purely faithful, Malfoy, or weren't you listening? They were faithful in their words, not their actions."
"But they were still on his side," I pointed out, leaning forward onto my knees. Christian sighed as his arm dropped back down.
"Yes."
"So why them?"
He looked up at me with a condescending look. "Pure blood," he replied simply, speaking to me as if I were acting stupid just to aggravate him. "I swear, he was supposed to explain all of this to everyone beforehand--,"
"Yes, I know he needed pure blood, you annoying prick. What I want to know is what he needs the pure blood for." I knew I wasn't committing to our agreement; I could already feel my impatience building. Christian, meanwhile, finally managed to raise his arm and hold it there, circulating his wrist joint and working out the kinks.
"For a miasma," he said, distracted. I tapped my finger on my knee.
"A what?"
He sighed, again. "See? Another reason why I don't understand your popularity: you're an idiot. You know nothing."
I over-passed his judgment and raised an eyebrow at him. "What the hell is a miasma?"
"A demonic vapor. An aura, if you please, that is more potent than a potion, is less traceable and can infect a multitude of people with just one concoction." He glanced at me through his tired lids. "Standard fifth year knowledge," he added with a heavy smartass tone. For a moment he reminded me of Granger, and I abhorred it.
"Sounds wonderful," I shot back, leaning back heavily on my hands and stretching out my numbing legs. "So the Dark Lord wants to create a miasma. Does it require pure blood?"
"No, it's not required." Christian raised his arm higher, testing his shoulder joint. "But it makes it more powerful. Near impossible to cure."
"So what the hell is the Dark Lord's miasma supposed to do?"
He shook his head impatiently then, rubbing his other shoulder with his now mobile arm. "You're not asking the right questions, Malfoy. If you want this conversation to tell you the right things you have to ask the right questions." He met my gaze and over-passed my surprised look. "Now I want you to think of what happened tonight. Don't waste your time trying to figure out the conclusion, decipher the formula first and then the answer will be waiting for you at the end. Concentrate. Think about the oddities that you don't understand; the ones that already happened."
I glared at him as an initial instinct but I tried listening to his instructions, reluctantly delving back into the past hour. I watched the events skim through my mind at hyper speed, trying to pick out the 'oddities' that I knew Christian would be able to answer. That left out anything to do with the gypsies, as they had had no part in the Dark Lord's plans, and anything to do with him and Blaise Zabini, seeing as he was more or less a little dim on that subject. So I went, instead, to the disgusting Dementor feeding frenzy, and I suddenly remembered throwing myself over Blaise's limp body. And, for some reason, it connected to my memory of the Dark Lord kneeling over Christian, asking me what had happened to him with Aunt Bellatrix's voice repeating "his favorite underage wizard".
"We were spared," I said out loud, plainly and dully. But he nodded approvingly, so I knew I was on the right track. "We weren't spared on a whim or on accident, like…" I shot a glance to the bed, remembering how the Dark Lord unceremoniously treated Blaise's survival and yet had expected—had known—mine. "Why?" I asked, hoping for the sake of my patience that this was the right question. "Why were we spared?"
"Because of our names," he said simply. I waited for more, for more than just a name, but he didn't feel a need to add anything just yet.
"Our names? What's so bloody significant about that?"
I knew the authority I had with the Malfoy name, I had used it to my abusive advantage many times in the past, but for something as gargantuan as this it seemed almost comical. Christian, however, greatly disagreed.
"Neither of us have very common surnames, if you haven't noticed, O wise one. Machiavelli is an exclusive title, and those who bear the name are all descendents of one man--,"
"Niccolo Machiavelli."
His eyes went wide, although I didn't know if he was mocking or not. Loathe as I was to admit it, he was a lot better at distorting his feelings than I was. "Dear God, I think I might die from shock. You actually know something?"
"I remember learning about him from my tutors," I shot back. "I rather like the bloke. He wrote The Prince, right? The basics towards modern day politics, with all that back-stabbing and selfishness so nicely worded?"
His surprise turned bland. "Yes, to put it in lamens terms."
"So you're a descendant of that Machiavelli?"
"Yes."
I frowned. "Then why does your father have a Russian accent?"
"You've spoken with my father?" His demeanor had completely changed. He suddenly sat up straighter, fighting against his sore muscles, and looked towards the door, as if expecting his father to be standing there, waiting for his recognition. "He's already here?"
"He brought us to this room." I watched carefully as Christian absorbed my answer and then quickly receded into his own mind, harboring the information, hoarding it almost. I watched him for a few seconds, wondering where I had seen that strange look in his eyes before, wondering why the sudden countenance he had adopted was familiar. And then I realized that I had seen it in myself whenever my own father was mentioned. I supposed it was that deranged way we were obsessed with them, wanting to please them, fearing their disapproval, anticipating their presence. It was the one thing that I couldn't mock him for, so I just waited until he had emerged from his own thoughts and squared his eyes with mine once again.
"My father is Russian: a descendent of Rasputin, which is why we live in Russia, but also why he took my mother's Italian surname of Machiavelli instead. As is widely known, Rasputin is not exactly reputable, if not still stunning. But father's lineage was of a bastard birth, so he had no real wealth or power attached to his bloodline like my mother did."
I felt smug and pissed off, like when I was a kid and the other stupid brats at the park had better toys then me. "How wonderful. You, with all your famous blood ties." I rolled up the sleeves of my shirt, the room no longer chilly but the perfect temperature. "You're not going to bore me with an entire history lesson, are you?"
"No," he replied, rather annoyed. "But allow me to give some semblance of understanding. She was a descendent, and he took her name. In Niccolo Machiavelli's time he made close friendships with some of the most powerful people in Italy, this not excluding the most powerful man not only in Italy but in the major European countries." He looked up at me through lidded eyes. "The Pope."
I raised an eyebrow. "Impressive, though I hate to admit it."
"The Pope at the time was Rodrigo Borgia. Through history the time of Pope Borgia was difficult, laden with scandal and manipulation and rumor."
"You can't blame people talking. The Pope had four proclaimed children from a number of mistresses."
Again, Christian looked gently surprised. "How--,"
"The scandalous parts of history were always my personal favorite," I interrupted, which was true enough. "Anyway, go on."
"The Borgias, with all their corruption, were well-known for a particular menace, one that, ironically, was the cause of their family's fall from power in the end. The Borgia Fever."
"Fever."
Christian started to work at a stitch in his side and suddenly looked down as his fingers passed over the hilt of his dagger. "It is a poison called canterella whose formula was known only to those of the Borgia bloodline: slow, deadly and undetectable," he explained, fingering the hilt. I glanced back at my own blade resting closer to the fire, the antique scabbard boasting its jewels.
"Slow?" I asked, dragging my eyes back to Christian. He nodded knowingly.
"One of the many symptoms is bleeding from every orifice of the body."
"Ew."
"Precisely. No outsider to the family has ever even seen the bottled poison…save for two."
"I think I might know one of them," I snorted. Christian smirked right back.
"Cesare, the Pope's eldest son, and Niccolo were close comrades with each other and Da Vinci as well, although if I had to guess, I'd say Da Vinci's friendship was somewhat forced. Anyway, there are no truly legitimate or proclaimed descendents of the Borgia line, so the closest handlers to the canterella are us, the Machiavellis."
"And that's what the Dark Lord wanted," I finished off, trying remember everything he had just said. "That's why you're spared."
"Yes."
But Aunt Bella's words still echoed in my head. "But why you? Your mother is a true blood Machiavelli, so she knows the formula as well."
"Yes, of course."
"So why the hell are you the favorite?" I snapped, and then checked myself right away. There had definitely been jealousy in the remark, and Christian had noticed it as well. We stared at each other for a long time: one trying to hide their thoughts, the other trying to pry, both refusing to look away. Had he known how to use Legilimency he would have known that I was jealous of his good-standing with the Dark Lord. He would have known that, although I feared the man more than death, I wanted his approval and his recognition more than anything.
"I am many things to the Dark Lord," he finally said and I blinked, pulled out of my own mind. "But I am not his favorite." He pulled in a long inhale and then let it out slowly, falling back into his easier, more relaxed demeanor. "But that was not the topic under discussion."
"No," I agreed, suddenly wanting to push as far away from this subject as possible. 'We were talking about…so by combining the Borgia Fever into a miasma he can poison a larger amount of people. And by creating the miasma with pure blood it'll make it stronger. So he has a powerful and rare weapon. Who is he unleashing it on, Dumbledore and his stupid Order?" I said, comfortable with familiar ground. The idea suddenly struck me as perfectly ideal and I could almost imagine the bottled miasma exploding amidst those who had gotten my father thrown into Azkaban in the first place. But Christian's sardonic and cruel laugh shattered that distant fantasy.
"Oh come on, Malfoy. I know you're dim but I'd like to believe that you have some cunning in you. What did I just say at the beginning of all this? Think of the big picture. This has nothing to do with just killing off His enemies, because the Dark Lord's ambition reaches farther than that. For a—being—who has such a deadly weapon in his arsenal and a burning desire to recreate the world…don't you think he would?"
"He wants to play God, I understand that much!" I growled in frustration and jumped to my feet, raking my hand angrily through my hair. I was getting restless, impatient. Our discussion had gone far beyond what I had wanted; we had been delving into personal matters instead of just scratching surfaces, and instead of getting answers I was playing with riddles! "He wants to do the whole routine, straight out of the Bible: create the world in seven days, make man in his own image, be the most powerful, the deity of all those in existence!"
"Exactly."
"But He can't! This world was already made! He'd have to wipe the slate clean if he wanted to start over again--." I suddenly stopped, my eyes having strayed to the only window in the room. Outside I had a clear view of the moon and with that sight I heard the entirety of the Dark Lord's speech, precise to every last word that I had made myself memorize.
"You've got to be shitting me."
Christian looked up and I was surprised to see nothing on his damn face: no fear, no horror. It didn't matter that he already knew what was going on, only a fool wouldn't be scared. "Why, do you think, did he need so much blood? Why, do you think, has this escalated to such a grand scale?"
"But all humanity? He's going to…to kill everyone?!"
"Wipe the slate clean," he said, using my own portrayal of words.
I felt my throat go dry and whatever was left of my energy zap away into nothingness. My shoulders suddenly went stiff and there was a large bubble in my chest, making it very, very difficult to breathe. "He really…He wants to play God?" I half whispered. Christian grinned a ghostly grin, rubbing his neck gently.
"Who ever said that he was playing?"
