The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 36 (Domination)
October 7, 2000
The boy was right on time. Lucius liked that, the whole concept of punctuality; not enough people observed the protocols anymore. Sisidy bowed to her master and mistress, left Regulus standing in the doorway to the parlour, and trotted to the side table next to Lucius, where she poured him a goblet of thick red wine.
"Regulus, come in and sit down." Lucius waited for Reg to comply, as Sisidy dispensed a tall glass of apple juice for Narcissa.
"Don't I get any wine?" asked Reg, for the elf had ceased ministrations.
Lucius tilted his head slightly, gauging the youth through steel grey slits. "You're a lush, so—no."
"Lucius, he's our guest," Narcissa chided, patting Reg's arm and gesturing to the elf. "Try a little tact." Sisidy poured another glass of juice for Regulus.
"Dancing around the subject is what permitted him to become a sot in the first place, my darling," Lucius replied, unperturbed. He wasn't trying to be mean or snarky, he was merely stating a fact. Orion had virtually ignored his son's partying before Reg's death, and after his miraculous return to life it seemed no one had the fortitude to point out the kid's faults except himself, and then to be criticized for it.
"You are not seriously implying that I am to blame for his problem!" Narcissa gasped, holding a hand to her chest, stricken.
"No, not only you—"
"I'm right here," Regulus reminded them, feeling like a forgotten stick of furniture. No, not forgotten—broken and maligned. "If this is an intervention, I'm not interested. I've not got pissed for ages!"
Narcissa patted him again. She did love this cousin of hers. "Reg, I'm not sure what you mean by 'intervention', but we asked you here to…um…do us a favour." Her nose wrinkled a bit and she glanced at Lucius. "Lucius has your best interests at heart, although he exhibits the diplomacy of a troll where family is concerned."
"I like to think of it as being forthright," Lucius said, looking wounded.
"And I like to think if my husband can use finesse and courtesy with strangers and acquaintances, he can do the same with loved ones," Narcissa shot back.
"Please don't fight," Regulus said, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees, his glass of apple juice dangling from his fingers. "You've both got a point—I have made a habit of drinking too much in the past, and Lucius can be an insensitive lout. Why am I here?"
"A lout?" Lucius echoed, now more horrified than anything. "In what universe is a Malfoy a lout? Am I a clumsy, ill-mannered boor? Why don't you call me a churlish peasant while you're at it?"
"Because you'd kick my arse if I did," Reg responded, grinning. "From now on I'll try to make my insults more acceptable to your social standing."
"Children, do you need time in the corner to calm down?" asked Narcissa, scowling at them both. With a hard warning glare at Lucius, she turned to Reg. "You know your old friend Udo Nott is alive, although the wizarding world believes him dead; you're aware of Jorab and Wendolph Goodman's previous identities. You've proven you can keep a secret in important matters."
"I'm not sure where this is headed," said Regulus. It was true; he'd always been able to keep crucial information to himself. Perhaps the knowledge that those he loved could be harmed by his indiscretion fueled this ability. He only wished he had the same ability to control his mouth in less critical matters, which led right back to the drinking and loosening of his tongue.
"We're going to trust you with an enormous secret," said Lucius in a hushed tone. He paused to take a sip from his wine and to let the trust part sink in. "We've discovered where Draco is, and we'd like you to go there and find out what's happening."
Regulus' dark eyes widened. "Is he alright? Why can't you go?"
"He's being cared for," said Narcissa evenly, controlling her emotions. How she wanted to run to her boy's side! "Neither Lucius nor I can go because we're under surveillance. Being his godfather, even Severus is suspect."
"But it's highly unlikely anyone is monitoring you," Lucius added. "If you apparate away from Spinner's End, no one will think anything of it, and they can't follow you regardless. Are you willing to do this?"
"Yeah, of course I am!" Regulus burst out, excited and curious and relieved—and proud to be chosen—all at once. "I won't let you down, Lucius. You either, Cissy."
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Severus thumbed idly through the last in the series of diaries, not looking for anything in particular. Aline and Lucius had assured him that all he needed to do was keep reading the diaries; the content of the entries was irrelevant, and he could always go back and peruse them in order another time if he so chose. The desire—or rather the deep-seated need—had passed. However, until he felt no compulsion or drive to continue, he would not be fully healed, so he'd read them no matter how disturbing he found some of them to be. At least they were only recollections; Severus was no longer participating in the evil deeds.
His own name leapt out at him and he let the book drop open.
In order to keep abreast of my Death Eaters' activities to which I am not made privy, I have decided to randomly single out one or two men every so often and sift their minds. I read Snape's memories today, and I came across something interesting. It never fails to astound me how history repeats itself in even the most mundane fashion, right down to individual choices. They're all so alike, these humans who go about their pitiful lives believing themselves to be unique. I refuse to be mastered by the chains binding them, forcing them into preconceived notions and repetition of events: love, a desire to impress others, fear. No, I am above them, and will remain so.
To Severus' absolute mortification, he was there at the lake, that day of the O.W.L.s…the day of his abject humiliation at the hands of James Potter and Sirius Black while a crowd of students looked on, laughing. To make matters worse, he was seeing the event from Voldemort's perspective, observing himself being tormented while feeling not only his own anger and humiliation, but the dark lord's perverse enjoyment of his torture. It was all Severus could do not to throw up as he relived the awful incident yet again, as Lily stormed off, as Potter viciously attacked the unarmed boy.
Abruptly the scene changed. He was still at the lake, but the students now paid him no attention, save the little gang surrounding him, looking to him with reverence. He was Tom—or seeing things as Tom Riddle did all those years ago, at any rate. Lewis Mulciber and another boy, a Gryffindor with close-cropped black hair, stood a short distance away, wands at ready for a duel, while the Slytherin group watched intently on one side, a second group of Gryffindors and assorted others on the opposite side.
The two young men, both of whom seemed about seventeen, bowed in the traditional way. Wearing a fiendish sneer, Mulciber shot his first hex before he'd straightened from his bow. It struck the Gryffindor on top of his head, propelling him backward, where he landed near the water's edge and threw a wild curse that missed Mulciber by a wide margin.
"Is that the best you've got, Potter?" Mulciber taunted.
His second jinx sent the black-haired youth tumbling into the water, and shoved him roughly out into the lake so far that his feet didn't reach the bottom. He immediately sank below the surface, to the consternation of the Gryffindor pack, who made to rush to his rescue en masse.
"Not so fast," drawled Lestrange, his voice carrying over their shrill cries. He cast a line of roaring fire along the bank, precluding entry without dousing the flames first, and his wand turned on them, halting them in their tracks. In a heartbeat all of Tom's gang—Tom himself excluded—were on their feet, wands drawn and aimed at the Gryffindor throng. "He's fighting with Mulciber, and he started it. Mulciber will decide when to end it."
Potter's head popped above the surface, along with flailing arms splashing at the water as he choked and sputtered, "I—can't—swim!" With that, he promptly sank once more. Furious shouts rang out among his friends, who charged the bank and the Slytherins, to be met with a crescendo of stupefies that leveled several of them. The rest stopped, but screamed at Mulciber to do something.
Heaving a martyr-like sigh that didn't suit him at all, Mulciber pointed his wand, and the sodden figure rose to hover over the water, dripping and coughing and panting. His wand was no longer in his hand, presumably submerged in the lake. Mulciber steered the Gryffindor to the shore, though a glint in his eye signified he wasn't through yet. He released Potter, who dropped like a rock to land on his back in the grass.
"Shivering, huh? Guess it's cold in there," Mulciber said, smiling wickedly. "Best get those wet clothes off." A flick of his wand accomplished the feat very neatly, leaving the boy nude and everyone stunned. The Slytherins burst into raucous laughter, as did a few from the opposing camp. In a blink, before Potter could cover himself, let alone run away, Mulciber cast an immobulus on him, then sneered, "Let this be a warning to you, Potter. Stay the f—k away from my girl." His eyes quickly scanned the other, and he scoffed maliciously, "Doesn't look like you've got much to offer a woman anyway."
With that he turned his back and strode to his friends, who received him with acclaim, all the while guarding him and keeping a wary eye on the Gryffindors racing to throw a cloak over Potter and reverse the charm on him. Another accio'd the boy's wand from the lake, and the crowd moved toward the castle with a multitude of evil glares at the Slytherin troupe.
"Well done, Lewis," said Tom, nodding in approval. "You not only made your point, you humbled him in the process. Claudius, excellent tactic to support your comrade. You've all demonstrated a fine example of teamwork."
And the vision ended. Severus snapped the diary shut, unaware of his trembling hand, though his pounding heart was impossible to ignore. Try as he might to elude that damned memory, it followed him like a lost puppy, hounding his steps. So, James Potter's father had got a taste of what his bully of a son later dished out, proving yet again that Fate is a fickle bitch. To Severus' dismay, he couldn't even find satisfaction in the spectacle of Potter's father tortured, not when he knew so intimately how the boy must have felt. Had it been James himself…well, the shoe would be on the other foot, and rightly so, but this was a man he knew nothing of and wished no evil upon. Had James known what happened to his sire? Would the elder Potter have warned his son against bullying if he'd known what James was up to? It was pointless to wonder, he supposed. The father likely was every bit as much a git as his son; for all Severus knew, he may have encouraged violence against Slytherins as an act of belated revenge.
As for Lewis Mulciber, he'd been an arsehole of grand proportions from his youth, evidently. He'd grown to be a cruel, hateful man to his only son, Jack, and his victory over Potter gave Severus no pleasure. How had Jack turned out so differently from his father? Certainly he'd become skilled at Dark Arts, and used them at school on more than one occasion, but if he'd been in the vicinity when Potter and Black had been torturing Severus, it would never have happened. He'd have made short work of the bastard Potter while Severus gave Sirius Black what he had coming. Or better yet, Severus would have ripped Potter a new one while Black dangled at the end of Jack's wand; either way worked.
"Severus?" Aline waited for her husband to lift his head. "You've been in here a long time."
"So I have," Severus answered softly. He reached out for the baby in her arms, brought him to his chest, and cuddled him close, looking down at the darling tyke and stroking the black down on his head. "Adriel, my son. I love you so much."
The baby cooed and swatted at his nose.
"Is something wrong? You seem sad." Aline came round to place her hands on his shoulders, to lean down with her chin on his silky black hair.
Severus hesitated. For most of his life, he'd kept his emotions and thoughts to himself, with only occasional breaches with Lucius or his mother. He hated to unload the mire from his mind onto the ones he loved, yet it would do no good to lie or evade with Aline, as time had taught him. Eventually his wife would see for herself.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'd forgotten how many memories of mine Voldemort raped over the years. I had to leave them open to him in order to make him believe I was hiding nothing." Another pause. "He liked seeing my anguish, my debasement. The whole thing stirred up a lot of bad memories for me…a lot of disquieting thoughts."
"Of what?" slipped out before Aline even thought the words. If it was about that Lily bitch, she wasn't in the mood to hear it. Then again, when was she ever really in the mood to discuss Lily?
"About Dumbledore."
Okay, that was unexpected. "What about him?"
Severus sighed, stood up, and began to pace as he rocked his son. "Where's Aidan?"
"Sleeping. You're avoiding the question, honey." Which had to mean that whatever he'd been pondering seriously bothered him.
"The incident with Jonathan Avery at Hogwarts started it," Severus confessed, not looking at her. "Then, reading this entry in the diary, I can tell from the total lack of concern that even in Tom Riddle's school days, bullies and those who degraded others weren't punished, just as they weren't in my time. How many pupils over the years suffered for the negligence of their headmasters? Not only Dumbledore, but Dippet, and who knows how many others."
"I don't know, Severus. Not too many, I hope."
Had Severus not been one to obsess, she'd have thought it odd for him to dwell on it now, but she knew her husband. He'd suffered at the hands of the Marauders; he cared about the students even if he pretended not to; he cared about fairness and dignity…but there was more. This was Severus; there was always more. If he was reading about the terrible event at the lake, and she was pretty sure he was, and he was thinking about Dumbledore, it had to be on all the ways the old man had failed him.
She'd witnessed enough of Severus' run-ins with the Marauders—and accompanying lack of consequences, discipline, or attempt at reparation—to formulate a clear picture of the hell her husband had endured as a student, and later as a teacher/spy. What should have been a haven for him as a boy had been a battleground, with those in authority standing idly by. The subsequent mental trauma alone had been a monumental burden to bear, without considering the way his troubles and questions had been trivialized, dismissed, or simply ignored by Dumbledore and the perpetrators.
When this aloof attitude from the authority figure had pushed him into the arms of Voldemort in hopes of achieving justice and respect, he'd been sorely awakened to the reality of who the dark lord really was. Despite the very real possibility of death for his betrayal, Severus had approached Dumbledore to save Lily Evans' life—and had been treated to an icy reception, condemnation for his Death Eater association, and the extraction of the vow to serve the old wizard. What kind of man interested in changing the life path of a wayward son would treat him this way? What kind of man who cared for the welfare of the people in his Order would demand such a promise before making a move to help his own, when his priority should have been to willingly protect the Potters? What kind of man shamed and manipulated his spy, heaved insults at him even as he grieved the loss of the woman Dumbledore had failed to protect?
When at last Severus had been made privy to 'the plan', and had confronted Dumbledore about using him, at risk to his own life many times—and using Harry Potter like a 'pig for slaughter'—the old Headmaster had turned it back upon Severus with a depth of manipulation worthy of envy by the most heinous of villains. Never in the course of their relationship did he strive to ameliorate the young man's pain; he'd continually played on Severus' emotional vulnerability, twisting each situation to his own advantage regardless of the ravages left in its wake. Severus had clung to Dumbledore as the only one with power that he could trust, and Dumbledore had repeatedly abused that trust. How could Severus not feel betrayed and angry every time he thought of it? It made Aline sick, furious.
"Dumbledore was a bully," she said at last. "That's why he saw nothing wrong with it."
"What?"
"He used manipulation of your emotions, and insults when you craved understanding and humanity. He denigrated you at your lowest moments, to the point that you felt you had to be his lap dog to gain any semblance of value. He exploited your trust in him as a good person to get you to do what he wanted. What else would you call it?" She couldn't recall ever seeing her husband staring slack-jawed precisely that way before. But she was right: no doubt existed in her mind that he understood this as well. "Given his level of actual power, a more appropriate label may be tyrant, I suppose."
"I—I wouldn't have phrased it like that," Severus uttered in a measured, low tone. "But you're not wrong."
"I know I'm not," Aline answered, feeling another rush of warm anger to her cheeks. She put her arms around him as he adjusted the baby to accommodate her. "I wish I could take away your awful memories and heal your pain."
Severus kissed the top of her head, then rested his cheek there. "The memories make me who I am, but you've done more than you realize to heal me, Aline. Your love is a balm to my soul, and our beloved sons like sunshine bursting through the clouds."
"That's very poetic," she murmured.
"No, it's not," he grumbled back. "It's truth."
"And poetic," she insisted, smiling. She didn't need to look to know he would be smiling, too.
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Night of October 7, 2000
By the time Regulus had apparated from Spinner's End to the northern tip of France, to Munich, to Budapest, he realized he was getting off course. One more gigantic leap southeast landed him outside Samovilla, with Durmstrang castle practically a stone's throw away. Taking in a huge breath to try quelling the nausea, he made one final apparition and ended up on the flagstones in front of the heavy wooden gate. Exhausted and sick, he fell to his knees, puking until he quite literally felt like his guts were being wrenched out.
A teacher, alerted to his presence by an alarm placed on all entrances to the castle, hauled open the gate and stood looking down at the lad in disapproval, his arms crossed over his chest. This was all he needed, another drunken student back from revelry in town—which would be offensive enough without the added repulsion of displaying his stomach's contents for all and sundry to enjoy. Tanassov would teach the brat a lesson.
"Kakvo si mislish che pravish? Pak piyanstvane, da? Tova che e sabota vecher ne e iizvinenie za takova losho povedenie! Izchisti vsichko!" (What do you think you're doing? Out drinking, were you? Just because it is Saturday night doesn't give you an excuse for this vile behaviour! Clean it up!)
Regulus raised his head and blinked his bleary eyes. "Sorry, I don't speak Russian. Or Bulgarian…or whatever." He spit one final time, took out his wand, and scourgified his face and clothes, then vanished the puddle of vomit. It would be rude to leave it there. He stumbled to his feet, barely supported by rubbery legs. I've got to stop apparating so far after I eat. "Could you please take me to Dimitar Tanassov? It's important."
The professor, whose English was not nearly as proficient as the Headmaster's, nevertheless understood the bulk of the boy's ramblings, and was only too happy to take him to Tanassov. He led Regulus down hallways, and up stairs, and around a turret—seriously, Reg began to wonder if he was getting the full tour. Finally they halted in front of a sturdy oak door and the professor knocked.
They entered with the teacher shoving Regulus ahead of him. "Gospodin Directore, tova momche iska da govori s Vas. Kazva che e vazhno. I mi se struva che mai e bolen." (Mister Headmaster, this boy wants to speak to you. He says it is important. And I think he may be ill.)
"Blagodarya Vi, gospodin Zlatev," (Thank you, Mr. Zlatev) said the Headmaster, beckoning the youth forward. "Are you not one of the Black brothers?"
"Yes, sir," Reg answered, extending a hand. "We met when you came to help us destroy the demon amulet. I'm Regulus."
"It is a pleasure to see you again. What can I do for you? Are you ill?" Tanassov shook his hand and settled back in his chair as Regulus flopped into the chair on the other side of the desk, pulling a face at the odd question.
"Um, no—well, I was barfing, but that was from apparating so far. Lucius Malfoy sent me." Regulus noted how the bearded wizard raised his chin a touch in recognition. "He sent this letter for you." Reg dug into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a parchment that had seen better days. He handed it to Tanassov.
The Bulgarian unrolled it and read a short, cryptic message introducing Regulus as 'an ambassador in the ongoing exchange concerning the gem of great worth'. Obviously Draco—or not so obviously for anyone who wasn't aware of Draco's presence and who knew Durmstrang held an abundance of valuable gems throughout the castle, molded into walls, woven into tapestries, and incorporated into several rare amulets and talismans.
Tanassov nodded and rose to his feet. "Come. I will show you to Draco, but he may be asleep. You are welcome to spend the night and visit him tomorrow."
"Thank you," Reg answered, jogging to catch up. As much as he wanted to see Draco, he really could use a good night's sleep.
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October 8, 2000
One week ago today, Oksana had disappeared. Not that Dragomir was cognizant of the number of days that had gone by, though he understood the longer she was gone, the worse Bori felt. Personally, if he never saw that yellow-headed, bed-stealing, squalling human again, it would be no scales off his back. Nonetheless, Bori was miserable; he never wanted to play anymore, he barked at the other men when he spoke at all…he was plain no fun. Drago had tried to get him to follow to the special place, with no success, so he resorted to the only thing left to him: he ran away again.
He was beginning to think he'd be stuck in this thicketed area beneath the trees forever when he heard Borimetchka's soothing, deep voice calling to him. He answered with a snort of fire into the air, followed by a whinnying rumble in his throat that exploded into a shriek when he opened his mouth.
"Dragomir, come here," Bori called. He was much closer now.
The dragon steadfastly refused to obey, instead waiting for the man to plow through the underbrush to where he sat on his haunches. At last the huge wizard burst through into the little clearing, caught sight of his apparently unharmed pet, and breathed a sigh of relief—right before dipping his brows crossly.
"Why do you keep doing this? I'm tired of chasing you all over the countryside!" he snapped. He'd been fearful of never finding the petulant creature, and if Viktor hadn't told him where he'd found Dragomir last time, he very well may have never looked here.
When he reached out to grab the animal, Drago bolted away further into the clearing, turned left, and…disappeared. That is, his head disappeared, to Bori's shock and revulsion. He tore after the dragon, his heart skipping every other beat, and stopped cold. Dragomir's head wasn't missing, he'd thrust it through a hole in the wall of an invisible structure—from the looks of the twig and mud construction around the opening, an ancient, tiny cabin.
Bori drew his wand. No one charmed a home to be invisible from the outside unless they had something to hide, and invisibility charms had to be reapplied frequently, meaning someone was likely still here, or had been very recently and may return. A fugitive, perhaps. He tapped Dragomir's back and motioned for him to move away. The dragon withdrew his head from the gaping hole, pulling some loose sticks and muddy straw along with him. The wizard cautiously peered inside. It consisted of a single room with a washstand at the far end next to the fireplace, and a bed taking up the greatest portion. And there was a man on the bed.
Wand first, Bori stooped down, put one foot inside, and entered. His black hair brushed the low ceiling when he stood up to approach the bed, where a man he'd seen a few times on visits to Ukrainian camps lay spread-eagle, his wrists and ankles bound to the four posts of the bed. Oleksandr…Sashko.
"Bori! Help me!" Sashko pleaded, struggling at the ropes cutting into his flesh.
The big man glared down at him. "Where is Oksana?"
"I don't know. She tied me up and left last night."
Bori's heart did a flip and skip. That meant she was alive! "Why would she do this?"
"I don't know," moaned Sashko. "I think she's gone crazy. I…I think she killed Draco Malfoy."
Damn it, why couldn't anything ever be easy? Because he didn't know anything for sure, Bori didn't know what to believe. Oksana had left her wand and run off to meet Sashko? It didn't make sense. If she'd killed 'Draco', why hadn't her wand said so? And why leave through a hole in the wall instead of through the door? And yet, Sashko was bound to the bed and Oksana was gone. This wasn't the end of it. If Bori could be sure of one thing, it was that Tanassov could get to the bottom of it, could wring the truth from Sashko without lifting a finger to harm him. From there, Bori would decide what to do.
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Bori arrived at Durmstrang carrying a petrified Sashko over his shoulder as if the man were a sack of potatoes. In Tanassov's office, he watched as the Headmaster dosed Oleksandr with Veritaserum, then stepped back a couple of paces.
"Do you speak Bulgarian?" asked Tanassov.
"Yes," answered Sashko dopily. "Pretty well, not as good as Ukrainian."
"Where is Oksana?"
"I don't know. She ran off, left me." He looked ready to cry.
"Tell me what happened on October first at Borimetchka's camp," Tanassov instructed him.
Sashko blinked a few times and his gaze drifted to the ceiling. "I went to see her, to take her with me. But I saw Malfoy in that expensive cloak, the hood pulled up against the cold, and I got so angry. The rich bastard tried to steal her from me; I hate him. I hit him with a dark spell my grandfather taught me…probably killed him right off. The dragon pen was open, so I figured he'd let it escape. I may as well make it look like the dragon did it, so I burned him and the ground, but I had to hurry before anybody saw me. Oksana came out of the big cabin, and I shot an expelliarmus, grabbed her, and disapparated. I thought we were happy, and then she left me…" Here he burst into tears.
Bori, giving a disgusted, fierce look, growled, "You raped her, didn't you?"
Sashko raised his disheveled head, sniffled, and glanced the big man's way. "No…not really. She said she didn't want to, but she loves me, I know she wanted me—"
He quit talking very abruptly when Bori's massive hands wrapped around his throat, choking the life out of him. Bori refused to desist at Tanassov's shouted direction to do so, and only a stupefy that sent him crumpling to the floor spared Sashko's life.
"I won't have you going to prison on his account," Tanassov explained to Bori after he'd secured Sashko in another room of the castle and sent for the aurors. "What he did is horrible, but he honestly believes he did no wrong. He's unbalanced. The law will decide what to do with him."
"And what about Oksana?" Bori choked out.
"Yes, what about her? She's undoubtedly distraught, frightened. You need to talk to everyone you know, try to find out where she might have gone." He laid a comforting hand on Bori's shoulder as he might do to a distressed student in his charge. "You'll find her. If I may make a suggestion, Viktor Krum's girlfriend works for the Ministry, doesn't she? I suspect she may have access to information and channels that we do not."
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This was more like it. Safe and warm in the cheery big room with loads of beds—none of which the mean man in black let him use—Dragomir huddled next to Draco's bed, purring as the wizard stroked his snout.
"Can I pet him?" asked Regulus, eager yet wary. He wasn't in any hurry to lose a hand or end up with a charred face.
Draco nodded. "Dragomir, this is Regulus. Be nice to him."
The dragon cocked his head as if to say he didn't appreciate the implication that he wouldn't be nice. He was always nice…except when he pouted or threw a tantrum, and that only happened when humans weren't kind to him.
"He saw Oksana!" Draco blurted as Reg tentatively drew his fingers along the animal's hide. "Dimitar Tanassov said that Oleksandr was found in a little cabin. I got an image of Dragomir seeing Oksana there. He led Bori there to find her."
"But Tanassov said the cabin was under an invisibility charm," Regulus argued.
"I guess dragons can see through that magic." Draco bent over to place his cheek on Dragomir's, and the dragon's purrs resounded through the room. "He doesn't know where she is now," he added glumly.
"You can't figure out everything, Draco. They'll find her."
For a long moment the other youth said nothing. Quietly, almost guiltily, he murmured, "Artem was wearing my cloak. I had set it down on the fence when I approached Omen because I didn't want it to get dirty. Artem must have taken it. He was probably only trying it on, and he died for that!"
"It's not your fault," Reg said softly.
Face averted so the other couldn't see the tears forming in his eyes, Draco replied, "Oleksandr wanted to kill me. How can I think it's not my fault that a good man died in my place?"
"Because it isn't!" Regulus snapped, immediately sorry for the harsh tone. "Draco, you can't control what other people do. That guy is a crazy git."
There was no answer from Malfoy, who seemed to be finding the sheet very interesting all of a sudden.
"At least one good thing came out today—Oleksandr confessed to murdering that bloke, so you're off the hook," said Reg, trying to cheer him up. "There shouldn't be an arrest warrant now—speaking of which, I'd better get back to Malfoy Manor. Your parents will be thrilled to hear this."
"Yeah, you'd better go," Draco agreed, attempting a smile. "Send them my love." As Reg left the room, he failed to see a tear slipping down his cousin's cheek.