The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 54 (The Game)
February 12, 1938
Tom waited till the rest of the students had handed in their potions to Professor Slughorn and vacated the room, then he left his bag of books on the table when he came up to offer his own brew. He started to put the vial into the holder along with the rest, but the teacher took it from his hand and held it up to the light. A low whistle reverberated through the room.
"Tom, I'm surprised at you. This is not only the wrong color, it's not even the right texture; it's too thick and gloppy. See how the sheen on top of yours is yellow, and that on my demonstration vial is orange?" said the professor, still studying the potion. He sniffed it, immediately thrusting it away from himself. "Yes, indeed, this has got to be the worst you've ever done. I regret to say, Riddle, that these past few classes your marks have been far below your potential."
"I'm very sorry, sir," said Tom, looking contrite. He almost laughed out loud at how easy it was to feign contrition to this man. So far so good, he'd got Slughorn to look at the concoction and deem it unacceptable. "Is there a way I could make up the points…an essay, maybe?"
Slughorn peered at the youth before him, wrinkling his brow. When had he ever had a child ask for extra work? He was used to begging, pleading, even the occasional tear of a student hoping to get their way, but he truly could not recall a time a pupil had requested more work. If he assigned it, most of them had done it…but this was so unusual it touched him. And poor orphaned Riddle, who had spent Christmas holiday at the school because he had no one. Perhaps he was simply feeling lonely, that's why his grades were slipping.
"That's an excellent suggestion, my boy. An essay would really help you sort out what's what so you don't fall behind the class." Slughorn nodded along with himself. "Since you've got more than one class to make up for, how about three feet of parchment detailing why henbane surpasses mandrake in every brew of this nature?"
"That sounds fair," said Tom, startling the old teacher. He'd expected a protest at such an extensive paper. "For that length, though, I'd need to go into the various types of potions using henbane and mandrake, and compare the composition of each herb in order to discuss how and why their properties react as they do. For example, they both have hallucinogenic and psychoactive properties, and can be poisonous."
"That's exactly right, you would need to do that," Slughorn agreed proudly. He was right, Tom wasn't a slacker at all, he'd just had a bad couple of weeks.
"Um…sir," said Tom shyly, ducking his head and lifting only his eyes to the old wizard. "I don't recall seeing many books in the library that address this problem. "
Ah, true, true. Slughorn leaned in close to the lad, so close his mustache tickled the boy's cheek, and said softly, "I can help you there. I'll write you a note to get into the Restricted section of the library. There are several books devoted to potions there, and I'm sure they hold everything you need."
"Can you do that? Let me in there?" asked Tom, wide-eyed.
"Of course I can, I'm a teacher," responded Slughorn, winking. "It's highly unusual to permit a firstie in there, so mind your manners, Riddle, or I'll take note not to allow it again."
"Yes, sir!" Tom waited patiently while Horace scribbled off a note, then he hurried out, grabbing his book bag on his way. A smirk escaped him as he headed out the door. That had been easier than he'd anticipated, and now he'd be able to get into the Restricted section under the pretext of looking for potions books. Yes, he'd need to look at those, too, but what other wonderful things might he find there?
He made a beeline for the library, presented his note to the librarian, and was soon strolling along the long shelves laden with ancient, heavy tomes. Magical Beasts of the Underworld. How anyone knew what was in the Underworld escaped Tom. Creatures Great and Small. Why did that sound familiar? Now he passed the creature section into the Dark Arts. He stopped and just stood there, taking in the splendour of it.
At last he shook himself out of the trance to peruse the titles briefly. Desires of the Dark. Sounded more like a silly paperback novel than a serious manuscript. Unknown Calamities. If they were unknown, how did they write a book about them? Riddle moved slowly along between the shelves, studying book titles up and down as he went. Grotesque Oddities of the Wizarding World. That sounded promising. He pulled it from the shelf and shoved it into his bag. Light, Dark, and In-Between. That, too, went into the bag. No one would miss them, and he'd be sure to sneak them back when he returned the potions books he'd yet to come across.
Wards. Simple enough title, sounded dull, to say the least—but it was in the Restricted section. Tom removed it from its place, dropping it loudly to the floor; he'd not realized how heavy it was. Kneeling down beside it, he began to read where it had fallen open.
There are several sorts of blood wards, among them the Sacrificial Blood, Family Blood, and Fidelius Charm. Variations exist among the Family and Sacrificial types, making the list far too long to address in this simple volume, though we shall go in depth on the basic, core wards and how to cast them.
In contrast to the Family Blood Ward, which requires the creator to use a measure of his own blood in the spell, and cannot be broken by anyone outside the direct family, the Sacrificial Blood Ward demands a sacrifice of blood from whoever wishes to break the curse. This is particularly useful when one desires to keep a person or persons away from a certain location; if said person is determined enough, he must then weaken himself by spilling a portion of his blood—
"Riddle, are you nearly finished in there?" called the librarian.
"Not yet," he called back, pushing the book into his sack in a panic. "I've not yet found the potions books."
"Do you need help?"
"No, thank you, I'll sort it out." He scurried down the row, frantically looking for titles
that seemed related to plants.
"You've got another ten minutes, then I must ask you to leave," she replied.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, his voice sounding strange to his ears. He had better hurry. She'd expect to see the books he was taking, meaning he'd need to put them in plain sight as he came out so she didn't suspect he had more hidden away. Potions, potions—there they were! He yanked all of them off the shelf and began to leaf through to see which he might be able to use.
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Feb. 15, 1937
A few days ago Professor Slughorn allowed me into the Restricted section of the library, where I found a most amazing assortment of books on Dark Arts. I had never really thought much about wards until I found this incredible volume that details every type imaginable. I've already learned some of them, and I plan to learn loads more before returning this book. There are even several types of blood wards. I don't know what I'd ever use them for, but it's best to be prepared, I think.
I completed the essay I owed Slughorn, and of course I received an Outstanding. Now that he's given permission once for me to enter the Restricted section, he may do it again without my having to resort to trickery. I noticed today a box of crystallized pineapple on his desk; I get the feeling he may be fond of it. That may come in handy later.
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December 17, 2000
Frigid wind gusted down Diagon Alley, and Daphne pulled her deep blue cloak round her shoulders as she shuddered. She'd like to think it was only the cold giving her chills, but naturally there was more to the story. There always was. Biting her lip in that nervous tendency Sirius liked to tease her about, she passed by Peak's Portraits where Snape's daughter worked. She'd never got on with Jacinta, especially after finding out she wasn't pureblood, but that was neither here nor there. She wasn't here to talk to Jacinta, she had a mission.
Several storefronts down, she paused, drew a deep breath, and pulled open the door. Warm air rushed out to envelope her, and she hurriedly stepped into its welcoming arms. Shaking the slush from her shoes, she entered and then slid her feet over the meter-long doormat for a semblance of dryness. All around, the shop hummed with people, but there was only one she was interested in. She walked slowly down the main aisle, glancing left and right each time she neared an intersection.
"May I help you?"
The voice came so unexpectedly from behind that Daphne feared she'd have wet her knickers had she not relieved herself mere minutes ago. She whirled to face Regulus, dressed in the standard scarlet Weasley work robe. "Ah—Reg. You scared me!"
"Hey, Daphne!" he smiled back. "I didn't know it was you. You seemed lost."
"No, uh….I was actually looking for you."
A dark cloud of suspicion fell upon them almost instantly. "Why?"
"Can we talk in private?" Daphne gestured at the throng of people milling about.
Regulus hesitated, then shrugged. "I guess I can take my break now." He pointed toward a door in the back of the shop. "Let's go in there."
It turned out to be a fair sized room, not the broom closet Daphne had expected. Apparently it was used as an office, for it held a desk scattered with numerous piles of papers and various other strange items she assumed were merchandise of some sort. She sincerely hoped none of it was going to jump up and bite her.
She waited till the door had closed, then piped up, "Sirius told me you'd cut your hair. He hates it, of course, but I think it looks superb."
"Thank you." Regulus came over and leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his visage set in a world-weary pose. "I doubt you came to compliment my hair, Daphne. What does he want?"
"Who?"
"Do we have to play the game? Sirius sent you; what does he want?" repeated Black in an irritated tone.
"Sirius didn't send me, Reg." She pushed a pile of empty boxes off the chair beside the desk and seated herself with a sigh. "He told me how he acted to you in Bulgaria, and then two days ago he showed up at my doorstep bruised and bloody, and he said you'd done it." Noting the expression on Regulus' face, she added, "I don't blame you. I'd be mad, too. It's just—he didn't do it to hurt you, or for glory. I doubt he even understands why he did it."
Lifting his brow, Regulus smiled derisively. "Oh, well, that makes everything alright. As long as Sirius hasn't got a clue why he acts like an arse, that makes it okay."
"You don't have to be sarcastic."
"What do you want, Daphne? You're obviously here trying to patch things between us. You want me to welcome him with open arms so he can stab me in the back again?" asked Reg incredulously. It would be like Sirius to send her with such a ludicrous request!
"No," she replied, keeping her voice low. She had to ask herself, what was she doing here? Sirius would have a conniption if he found out, and Regulus was certainly being uncharacteristically antagonistic. Nevertheless, they were both so very unhappy with the way things were, and it broke her heart for them. She heaved another sigh. "I wish you'd try to understand. All his life, Sirius was the 'bad son'. You were the 'good son'. He felt like he had to compete for your parents' love, only he couldn't win, and finally he stopped trying. He appointed himself warrior against all things Black—that predictably included all things Slytherin."
"Including me," said Regulus quietly. He recalled all too well the fights they'd had in school, the bad blood between them even when they attempted to be friendly. "What's your point?"
"He's not one to overanalyze, but I am. I think when you two were flying, he reverted to the competitive mentality of trying to 'beat a Slytherin'—the enemy."
Regulus rolled his eyes. Daphne did the same, adding, "Yeah, I know."
The wizard shook his head. "So in his mind, I'm the enemy?"
Pause. "I think, maybe, sort of. Not consciously, though. Sirius really does love you, yet he spent many years hating Slytherins and Death Eaters. And you were both."
"I guess you get a pass because you weren't a Death Eater," Reg snarled, grinding his teeth. It was literally a lifetime ago, and Sirius still couldn't let it go! Maybe Severus was right when he called Sirius 'Dog-boy', since the mutt was like an animal with a bone he refused to relinquish.
"I haven't tried to compete with him." She gave a weak, dry laugh. "I'm a terrible flyer, he'd likely knock me off the broom first thing."
"Why do you stay with him?" asked Reg suddenly.
Taken aback, Daphne shifted in her seat. "What?"
"He's obnoxious, rude, opinionated…dangerous," he went on, studying her for a reaction. "What do you see in him?"
"He's also gentle and kind—he is, Reg! He's a good listener, he's funny and talented—"
"And handsome, don't forget that," Reg interrupted, scowling. "All the ladies think he's something special; they don't realize what that smug exterior is covering up. Oh sorry—you were saying he's a sodding star from heaven, bright as the sun. Do go on." He snorted and rolled his eyes again.
Daphne looked back at him, her chin quivering slightly, and if she'd burst into tears she'd have won the argument by default, but she did not. "Now you're just being mean."
"No, I'm protecting myself," he answered softly, shaking his head. "You should take note; just like a star, if you get too close to Sirius, you get burned. I have to get back to work." He lurched upright from his leaning position on the wall and headed for the door.
"He cried, Reg."
The man stopped in his tracks, not sure he'd heard what he thought he had. Sirius tried? Pried? Fried? None of those made sense, and yet Sirius wasn't one to weep or be a crybaby; in fact, as far as Reg knew, the last time he'd shed tears had been when Reg died. After Lucius brought them both back through the Veil and they'd been revived, they'd talked a lot, they'd been as close as Regulus ever remembered, and Sirius had confided that he'd come to Reg's funeral under cover of Potter's invisibility cloak. He turned to Daphne with a quizzical expression.
"Yesterday he was in his room at Grimmauld Place, and I came to visit. I went up without announcement, so he didn't see me." She truly seemed upset now, and not because Reg was refusing to cooperate. "I've never seen him cry. It kind of scared me."
Reg swallowed through a tight throat. He'd opened himself up to Sirius so many times, only to feel betrayed in the end. "I punched his face in. He was probably in pain."
Daphne lifted her eyes to him, eyes so heavy with anguish it radiated toward him. "I'm not stupid, and neither are you! He realizes he's hurting you; I believe he's afraid of losing you forever. Do you really want him out of your life, Reg?"
"Maybe," responded Reg flippantly. Then he frowned and slumped against the wall once more. "No. But I can't take it anymore, trusting him when he says he's going to change, and being let down over and over. I love him, too. But I need to know I can trust him, Daphne. I need to know he's got my back. Right now, I don't know that. If you were smart, you'd dump him and—"
"I'm not going to do that! Can't we help him, Regulus? It's evident he can't do it alone, but he's not all bad, is he? He's trying," she pleaded with him.
Regulus ducked his head to stare at the floor. He couldn't bear looking at that accusing face, which bothered him all the more because he wasn't the one who'd done anything wrong! He hadn't nearly knocked Sirius out of the air, had he? No. He hadn't been the one all those years in school making trouble for the Gryffindorks, had he? No, Sirius and his cronies had been the ones out to get the Slytherins. He hadn't told everyone how stupid and pitiful his little brother was for becoming a Death Eater, for being his parents' favorite, for getting himself killed… Reg ground his teeth until his jaw ached.
At last he said, "If Sirius wants my help, he can come ask for it himself. You asked me to try to understand him; well, I do understand. It was hard for him growing up, but it was no picnic for me, either. I became a Death Eater so my parents wouldn't turn against me like they did him—I had to prove to them I wasn't like Sirius." He stopped, one hand rising to cover his mouth as the words caught in his throat. He thought he'd never have to revisit that time of his life, and here it came following him like a bad penny.
"I'm sorry, Reg," said Daphne, barely audible. That decision to join the Death Eaters had been what ended up getting Reg killed…and he'd made that decision at least in part because of his brother. Despite the fact that he seemed very reluctant to discuss it, she'd discovered a lot about it from Draco, such as Reg had died while stealing a locket horcrux from the dark lord. He'd been trying to bring down Voldemort, even as Sirius lambasted him for his association with the wicked group. Could she honestly blame him for being resentful? "You don't…you don't blame Sirius for your death, do you?"
Regulus lowered his hand and cleared his throat. "No, I knew what I was doing. This is about a whole lot more than that, Daphne. It's about Sirius and his blasé attitude, always expecting everyone to cater to him. It's his turn to hold out the olive branch. If he can't lower himself to apologize to me for the way he's treated me—not only now, but in the past—and really mean it, I don't want any part of him. I have to go now." He walked out before she had a chance to speak again.
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Two days after reading the diary entry, the question still boiled in Severus' mind. Why hadn't the most talented and powerful wizard in the world broken the curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post? Surely Dumbledore recognized that it existed, and he undoubtedly had the skill—or if he'd said the word, a team from Gringotts would have come running to break it for him. Had he enjoyed the stream of nitwits and incompetents that paraded through every year, wreaking havoc on the student body and denying the children adequate defenses for themselves, only to be gone by the following semester? He certainly must have, since he'd not only failed to remove the curse, he'd also steadfastly denied Snape the opportunity to teach in that capacity. Or were those two somehow connected?
Time to get some answers. He spun round in his chair to face the old Headmaster's portrait, his countenance blank as a sheet of parchment. "Albus, I read something in one of the diaries, and it preys on my mind. Perhaps you could clear things up."
"What is it, Severus, my boy?" asked Dumbledore, in the chipper fashion that frequently made Severus want to ram a fist into the portrait's mouth on general principles.
"Were you aware that Tom Riddle had placed a curse on the Dark Arts position here at Hogwarts?" inquired Snape.
The portrait twitched ever so slightly, and the twinkling eyes lost a bit of their luster, then Albus said, "I had my suspicions. Why do you ask?"
Severus shrugged his thin shoulders in the I'm-pretending-not-to-care-but-really-can't-wait-to-hear-your-pathetic-excuse way he had. "I merely wondered why you—the most powerful wizard in the world—didn't ever try to reverse the curse."
"Why didn't you?" Albus shot back, catching Snape off guard. "You saw the same things I did, and I happen to know your mind never rests. You must have speculated on the possibility."
"Don't you dare throw this onto me," Severus began in a growl. "It wasn't my place. And even if I tried, I wasn't yet Headmaster. The castle's relationship with you would probably have been necessary for such an endeavor."
Dumbledore didn't answer for a long spell, during which he rummaged through his little bowl of gumdrops. Hadn't it been taffy yesterday or the day before? Snape had long suspected the old coot used that tactic to buy himself time, for he frequently found himself searching for just the precise candy at the most inopportune moment.
At last Albus said, "It wasn't that big of a deal. It wasn't worth the trouble."
"We suffered through innumerable dullards and shysters," Severus countered, jogging Dumbledore's memory. "I could have taught the class, but you'd have none of that. And don't give me the 'I was worried it would be too much of a temptation' bullshit. If working as a Death Eater for the darkest wizard the world has ever seen didn't permanently scar me and send me over the edge, I doubt teaching about spells would have."
"And who would have taught Potions?" asked Dumbledore. "Your talent is unequalled in that position."
"Hardly," remarked Severus, surprising himself. Only a few years ago, he may have agreed with that assessment. Since then, he'd learned many valuable lessons. "Aline is every bit as qualified as I am. Somewhere, others must exist."
The old wizard let out a long, defeated breath of air. "I didn't want you to get hurt or killed or driven off if I gave you the job."
"Afraid you'd lose your spy?" Snape asked, curling his lip into a precursor to a sneer.
"Don't be so cold, Severus. I care for you, no matter what you may think."
"And yet," Snape pushed on, "I get the feeling there is more than that. If you do truly care for me, stop jerking me around, Albus! Be straight with me for once. Haven't I earned that?"
"That's hard to do when you interpret everything in a manner highly unflattering to me," Albus retorted, sulking. "You want the truth, here it is: I was apprehensive of losing you, as a teacher and a spy. More importantly, I did not attempt to break the curse because it was the one sure way I had of knowing Voldemort was still alive. If he'd died, the curse would have disintegrated with him. Happy?"
"Positively elated," drawled Snape in a deadpan voice. He could not have looked less elated if he tried. "So the glaring brand on my arm…what about that?"
"Lest you forget, Severus, it disappeared when Voldemort nearly died many years ago. It wasn't until he began regaining strength that the Mark returned and grew darker." He shrugged lightly. "It was unreliable."
Although he disapproved of the method, Snape couldn't directly fault the logic. It made sense to keep tabs on the dark lord, to know what he was up to…particularly the knowledge of whether he were alive and may return to fight for power. He had to admit, Dumbledore was a wily old wizard, always keeping his options open. What if Dumbledore had removed the curse? If Severus were to leave or die—and considering how precarious his line of work, it was highly probable at some point—Albus would lose his only means of knowing what Voldemort was up to, or if Voldemort were even alive, unless he had access to another Death Eater whose Mark he could read. It always came back to the 'greater good', didn't it?
"Thank you for finally being honest with me," said Severus, in a genuine display of sincerity. "Although I can't say I appreciated being the pawn always left in the dark. I could have done so much more, so much better, had I known things you held back. The horcruxes, for example."
Dumbledore wagged his head gravely. "Please, don't start on that. I regret many things, Severus. Among them is my lack of faith in you, despite the hardships you endured, the sacrifices you made. I am sorry."
Now what was he supposed to say? He couldn't argue with that. Damn it, he hated it when people insisted on being conciliatory when he was in the mood for a quarrel. "It's done. There's nothing for it now. I've a meeting."
"On Sunday?"
"It's not school related. Goodbye, Albus."
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"Is this it?" Lucius stood outside in the chilly wind, his cloak whipping about him, as he stared in fascinated horror at the cubby of a store they were about to enter. Merlin's beard, he could fit the entire shop into his main sitting area!
"I assumed you'd been to such a store before, Lucius," said Severus, his black mane swirling in the breeze, slapping his face at intervals with stinging precision. He opened the door and stepped in out of the cold. "You have a mobile, don't you?"
"Romulus gave it to me," Lucius explained distractedly. Ugh, the bricks were filthy, the paint peeling from the sign. Had these muggles no pride in appearance? Need he ask? What a silly question! Was their hideous clothing not proof enough of that? Adjusting his navy blue robes, he followed Snape into the store, careful not to touch anything with his bare hands. "Why are there so many muggles milling about? Haven't any of them jobs?"
"Shut up and get in the queue," said Severus, pointing to the short line in front of a tiny podium-like stand in the middle of the floor where names were taken to be called in order.
"At least they painted in here," Lucius observed, scanning the walls and ceiling. It actually looked clean, and the store was practically bare except for a few shelves stocked with items along two walls, which made his complaints harder to formulate. "The things I do for my family. Narcissa will be the death of me yet."
"I just talked to Albus. He had the nerve to tell me he knew all along about the curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post," Severus said, changing the subject.
"Smells like a pigsty in here," commented Malfoy, moving up one slot. The woman ahead of him glanced back, then did a doubletake; he stared back unabashedly. He was not going to apologize for long, well-kept locks, nor for expensive, tailored clothing. "Not that I've ever smelled one, mind you, but I can imagine. I did smell Aberforth's goat pen."
Snape ignored his rant and continued, "And he didn't do it because he was making certain to keep me around."
"My darling wife had better appreciate this."
"Oh, sure, he claims he needed to know if Voldemort was alive, but what good did that knowledge do him since he refused to trust me?"
"What in bloody London are you blathering about?" demanded Lucius, narrowing his eyes to grey slits. "Aren't you even listening to me?"
"About as well as you've been listening to me," Severus shot back. "Here, sign your name, then wait to be called."
Lucius picked up the ballpoint pen and lifted it to the light to examine it. How very quaint…oh, why be kind when he meant 'how very pedestrian'. No feather, no ink well. Ugly little things, if utilitarian. Oh, but it did have this first-rate chain hooking it to the podium as though anyone might be tempted to nick it. He snorted under his breath. He had heard of these devices—pins, he believed they were called. Not wanting Snape to think him a total rube, he put the object to the paper and signed his name with a flourish, then thrust the thing down and rubbed his fingers on his pantleg.
"Now what?" he asked as Severus pulled him out of the way so the next person could sign in.
Not a minute had passed before they heard a name announced over a gritty speaker. "Lucius." It sounded like Loo-shus.
"He's calling you," said Snape, elbowing him in the side.
"That's not my name," Lucius maintained serenely.
"Loo-shus Malfoy."
Lucius involuntarily raised a hand when he recognized his surname; Severus gave him a shove to indicate he was to go meet with the man. He sauntered over and gave the representative a cool once-over, deliberately snubbing the fellow's attempt at a handshake. Enunciating slowly, he drawled, "The name is pronounced Loo-see-us. You may call me Mr. Malfoy."
The salesman smiled politely, his brows quirking a tad. "Sure, Mr. Malfoy. Right this way. What can I do for you today?" He led the wizard to a tiny booth and seated himself on one side. Lucius pulled a face before seating himself on the opposite side, straight-backed, scarcely perched on the obviously contaminated chair.
"I'd like to purchase a mobile phone for my wife. A nice one, not one of those cheap pieces of rubbish they're hawking over there." He indicated to his right with a twist of his wrist holding his cane. The serpent head stared unrelentingly at a group of young people chattering away. "Blue, if you've got it. And not just any blue—it's got to be vibrant like the very sky on a cloudless day, reminiscent of my lady love's delicate blue eyes."
"Yeah, I'll see what we can do." He took a brochure out of the desk drawer and presented it to the weirdo in opera costume and wig. "The price range is quite extensive—"
"Money is no object. I'd also like a rundown on all the functions each of your wares is capable of," stated Lucius, smirking. This ragging-the-muggle game had the potential for being kind of fun…in the way that playing Russian roulette was fun. When it came down to it he was, after all, stuck here conversing with a muggle.
The bloke motioned to another man across the shop. "Phil, I'm gonna need some help over here."
Severus covered his face with one hand and groaned. This was going to be a long, dismal day for all involved. Maybe if he sneaked out now, no one would realize he'd come with Lucius….
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Sitting on the bare dirt in a section of the camp without any dry grass—lest it be accidentally burned—Draco shoveled the last bit of tenderized raw meat into the upturned mouth of the little black dragon. She made a few attempts at chewing, then swallowed it in one lump that moved slowly down her esophagus like a rat through a snake. After a minute she hiccupped a feeble stream of fire that missed him by inches.
"Alright, it's time to get some exercise, lazy one," he cooed at her.
From behind his back Draco drew out a very lifelike facsimile of a fish attached to a string. He stood up, now towering over the beast squatting in the dirt, and dangled the fish over her head and in front of her face. Eyes alight, she let out a high, piercing shriek and lunged clumsily. Missing it by a mile, she waddled unsteadily toward it, mouth open, only to have it snatched from her jaws at the last second. She screamed her displeasure and flapped her wings, and before Draco realized what she meant to do, she'd emitted a deliberate rush of flame that engulfed the toy, destroying it.
"Well, that wasn't supposed to happen," he mumbled, looking at the charred remains. "You've ruined your plaything."
Sineglazka glared imperiously at him. She actually rather looked like she was smirking, though he wasn't entirely sure a dragon could smirk. She then waddled in a small circle two or three times, curled up, and flopped on the ground as if to say she'd had enough of this human invention of exercise.
"She killed the fish?" asked Oksana, who'd been watching from the porch.
"Yes. I guess she doesn't like to be teased." He bent down to scoop her up. He waited for Oksana to put on the leather sling, then handed over the dragonette for her to carry. "Do you mind if I go talk to Dragomir for a while?"
"I think he is in the kitchen," she answered, pointing for him to go in the cabin. She followed him in, where Bori was waiting for her to return. They'd been having a lovely conversation about nothing in particular, and she'd been enjoying it immensely.
Bori's gaze landed on the young woman holding the dragon to her bosom and rocking it softly. His heart fluttered like a tiny pair of dragon wings in his chest, and he rose to his feet. "Sineglazka." (Blue-eyed girl.)
Oksana looked up at him with eyes every bit as bright blue as those of the animal she held, and smiled coyly. "Na men li govoris ili na drakoncheto?" (Are you talking to me or the little dragon?)
"Kak mislish?" (What do you think?) he said softly.
The witch adjusted the sling, more to take her gaze from him than out of necessity, and the wee creature murmured its disapproval at being disturbed. "Kakvo ima, Borimetchka?" (What is it, Borimetchka?)
In two strides of his long legs he'd crossed the room, his boots thumping loudly on the wooden floor in the silent air. He stopped in front of her, hesitating as if he hadn't a clue what he intended to do now, then tentatively reached out to grasp her arms in his huge hands. Gently he pulled her in to him, the dragon in the pouch nestled between them. Wistful, longing dark eyes met hers as he bent in close and murmured, "Mozhe li?" (May I?)
It wasn't as if Oksana hadn't known how he felt—he'd made it perfectly plain quite some time ago, after all. It was…well, she was used to a man being more forward, seizing what he wanted. And then with a sickening thud in her stomach she understood: Bori may be a dragon trainer, but he was still a gentleman; after what had happened to her with Sashko, he'd go out of his way to show her he'd never take anything from her without her consent. The revelation felt strange, yet nice.
She lifted her chin to him. "Da. I za tvoe svedenie—za v badeshte niama nuzhda da pitash." (Yes. And for future reference, you don't need to ask.)
He touched his lips to hers, and they were every bit as soft as he'd thought they would be. When she kissed back, he found himself pressing his body to her, curtailed by the squawking baby being squished between them. He chuckled and pulled back a tad, just as Draco reentered the room from the kitchen. Seeing them in a semi-compromising position, if snogging could be categorized as such, Draco coughed lightly.
Telegraphing his awkwardness by looking everywhere but at the couple, he chattered, "I'm still here. Dragomir is sleeping against the back door, and I can't get out without using magic to move him, and then he'd get upset."
Oksana turned halfway round, smiling at his discomfort. "Is okay, you can go out the front." She'd noticed the flustered expression on Bori as well, and the image tickled her.
"Did you want me to take Sineglazka?" asked Draco, extending his hands for the bundle.
"No, I will keep her," said Oksana, stroking the dragonette's head. It cooed in return.
Draco moved on past them, and as he neared the threshold he paused to say, "I'm glad you two finally stopped the dance."
"Ve vere not dancing," said Bori. How had Draco mistaken what they were doing for dancing? He had a girlfriend himself, he ought to know better—and there wasn't even any music.
"Playing the game," Draco said, which apparently didn't clear up much. "It's obvious you want each other."
"Game?" asked Bori. What did dancing and games have to do with wanting each other?
"A figure of speech, my good man," said Draco, grinning. Oksana could explain the idiom to him later. "I'll come by tomorrow before I leave for home. Goodnight."
