White Roses Red
Or
Stop Killing the Children
Many things I've seen in my life,
Many stories I've told.
And after it all the sun, she shines.
With her shimmering rays of gold.
And on the water, she sparkles like diamonds,
Faceted and pure.
And on the trees she shines her light,
Glinting upon the summer leaves.
And on the grass, spikes of verdant colour,
The sun gleams in her fading tint of yellow.
After it all, there's more to come.
For only fools believe mine trickery.
Draco stood in the frame of his door, staring at his cousin in shocked horror. Deatheater. My cousin is a Deatheater. The same people whom…well…A Deatheater? Apparently, she wasn't an inside informant to both sides.
"Mr. Malfoy, I do believe you know Miss Cassandra Moon?" Dumbledore said severely, his old blue eyes flashing a dangerous midnight colour. The colour that you see in the angry seas; waves of dark blue water crashing upon the rocky shores of an unused beach.
So…he's mad. I didn't do anything! Why is The-Professor-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named looking at me like that?
Draco nodded and tried to read his cousin's facial expression; the girl was standing there looking like she was en route for the executioner's block. Her silver eyes looked from Dumbledore to Draco, her face paler then death. The Cimmerian hallway made her look like a disembodied head; inky robes melting into the shadows, her face a white oval.
"You see, when you incapacitated a number of the Deatheaters, you also rounded up Miss Moon here; one of Voldemort's newest recruits." Draco flinched. Not at the use of Voldemort's name but at the look in Dumbledore's eyes. One of pure, sick glee. Sadistic old man, Draco thought idly, his hand gripping the plain silver doorknob.
They had brought all of the Deatheaters up to the castle with the help of the Auror team that had finally arrived. But Harry and Draco hadn't received the chance to see the people under the masks. Professor I-think-I'll-keep-you-away-from-all-of-the-good-stuff-even-though-you-brought-them-in-and-won-the-battle-just -because-I-feel-like-being-an-evil-bastard-Dumbledore, had whisked them away to his office under the pretence of quality time together with the boys. Pft, quality time my arse, Draco remembered thinking as they had neared the old, stone gargoyle.
Draco stared at Professor I-can't-be-trusted blankly. "So you want me to do what, exactly? Tie her up then kill her slowly? I think that's a little harsh, don't you?" He kept his face dispassionate, his eyes flickering as Cassandra chuckled softly.
Dumbledore's eyes were fierce and very blue at that moment. Draco almost quailed. Repeat after me, almost. "I want you to talk to her. She might listen to you." Draco snorted at the likely hood of that happening. He could picture it now, 'Cassandra, we need to talk,' he would say, a brotherly tone in his voice. Then she would reply in a gentle and emotional voice, 'Get stuffed, Draco.' Definitely not going to happen.
Sick, sick old man, Draco thought, running a hand through his hair, the other still placed firmly on the doorknob.
Although, it would get Professor I've-got-something-nasty-up-my-sleeve away from him.
"Alright, whatever, just leave." Draco was in no mood to be polite with anyone, much less a Professor to whom he had acquired, just recently (three hours ago to be exact), a deep-seated hatred.
Dumbledore smiled and ushered Cassandra into his room, the twinkle back in his eyes. "Good, good. I'll be on my way then."
The second the door closed, Cassandra broke down into fits of uproarious laughter. She looked like a hissing snake, for all it was worth. Looking at her now, with tears of laughter running down her face, he wondered why, exactly, she became a Deatheater
"Cassandra, I'm going to be brutally blunt, like a Gryffindor even, what the hell are you doing and why the bloody hell are you a Deatheater?" Draco let himself cringe at his words.
Very subtle, Malfoy, I enjoyed it. He ignored the voice in his head for the time being.
At his sharp, clipped tones, Cassandra stood up straight and stopped laughing. "You honestly think that things haven't changed between the time that I sent you the letter and now?" she snorted and took off the robes and mask, leaving her in a white linen shirt and flowing green silk trousers. "Draco, I thought you were smarter then that. I joined, so what? Although, I didn't like kissing the ground that You-Know-Who walked on. I hated it actually. Not that I didn't like the torturing part I liked that, it was quite fun now that I think about it." Draco watched as his cousin's innocent features warped themselves into a thoughtful expression, followed by a very sadistic far off smile.
Cassandra had always looked very young for her age. Her height was that of an average third year and her large, innocent, eyes had fooled many a Professor. At the moment her light brown hair was hanging limply around her round cheeks, the ends jagged and sharp like knives. She had the lips of a child; heart shaped cupid's bows, pink as rose petal lips. Damn, she looked like she was eleven. The dim light in the room made her look very much like a wraith; a shadow swathed in shadows. He shook his head and scowled at her.
"I'm not even going to ask what happened to you. I don't really care. But a Deatheater? Honestly, why don't you just hang a sign around your neck that says that you are the Dark Lord's sex slave!" Draco was referring to the fact that there had only been three female Deatheaters before. Two of them had carried heirs that would ascend to Voldemort's throne of darkness if anything should happen him. But they were killed weeks after their births for Voldemort was a stickler for perfection. Draco would often laugh at this while thinking sarcastically, Voldemort is really nice looking too. Draco didn't like to think about the other female, for she was vile and retched: Nox. Draco decided, whilst considering those facts, that looking at Cassandra wasn't the smartest thing to do, for he was liable to kill her at any given moment.
She snorted and crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes very, very calm. "Draco, I am not, and never was, You-Know-Who's sex slave! And forgive me, but I think that I might disembowel you; very soon. Then I'll make you make you eat said disembowelments; forget the fact that you wouldn't even have bowls anymore."
Draco glared at Cassandra and was about to say that she sounded like a particularly stupid Gryffindor, when there was a sharp knocking at the door. Draco, who thought it was Dumbledore, rolled his eyes and flung open the door, only to come face-to-face with an annoyed looking Harry Potter.
"Potter, what are you doing here? Did you get lost on your way to your room? Or do you just love me that much?" Draco jibed sarcastically, not aware that Cassandra had backed into the shadows of his room in fear. The boy at the door looked very frightening, and she didn't hear Harry's name. He gave off this sense, an aura if you will, of dark foreboding power. The aura leeched onto her skin and made her shiver with the raw pleasure and fear she felt just by being near his feeling.
"Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy." Harry said with the slightest rolling of his eyes, a bored expression replacing the angry annoyance that had consumed Harry's strong features when Draco had opened the door. "I'm here because Professor I-can-make-you-do-what-ever-I-want-just-because-you-trust-me, decided that you needed help with your situation. Only God knows why, but here I am." Draco couldn't help but notice the way Harry said it; like he would rather be fighting Voldemort (again) then helping with the 'situation.'
Harry stood there for a few seconds, looking like a creature lost among shadows. Then, the dull light in the corridor suddenly turned to a bright shade of red, the torches lighting, and Harry was bathed in a crimson fire. The reddish light played off of his features and Draco thought that the red of Harry's shirt made the black haired boy's eyes look very bright and very searching.
The Slytherin shook himself out of his daze and stepped back into the room, sitting on a dark green chair. He wished desperately, in that moment, that he could sink into it and out of existence. Sure, he didn't like Potter, but what would the black haired boy do when he saw the Deatheater robes? Nothing good, to be sure, he'll probably fly off into a blind rage. Draco shuddered at the thought. Somehow he thought that this Harry might be more explosive than Voldemort when in a rage.
He found out a few moments later when Harry picked up the robes and threw them into the corner, much to the surprise of Cassandra, who got hit on the nose by the plain, white mask.
"Bloody hell!" she shouted, tossing the garment back to Harry and stepping out of the shadows, "I have a headache you know. Not very sensitive of you to go throwing great, ugly masks at me."
Harry rolled his eyes and sat in the black chair adjacent to Draco, who was watching the exchange with much wide-eyed amusement. "Potter, meet my cousin, Cassandra Moon. Cassandra, meet Harry Potter, my tormentor."
Harry obviously knew who she was from school and such, so he waved slightly, but Cassandra must have been surprised by this revelation.
"Potter?! What, how-uhm, oh my." Draco surpressed a chuckle at the girl's attempts at Slytherin eloquence. She must not have been expecting Harry Potter, of all people, 'to be helping with the situation.' The shock written all over her features was enough to make Harry laugh, a sound that made both Draco and Cassandra shiver with delight.
Harry's laugh, a sound so rarely heard, was like the sound of pouring rain: pleasant to the ears, yet powerful and simple all at the same time. It made heads dizzy and tongues wet with the rolling timbre of his chuckling tenor voice. Draco found himself laughing along with Harry. And the infectious laughter of the bonded set three things into motion.
The rust coloured light in the room, via the large orange flames in the fire-place, bathed the three of them in its blood like luminescence. The two boys barely noticed the ripping sounds and the wings issuing fourth from their backs. This was the first happening.
Cassandra, however, did. Her eyes became wide for a fraction of a second before she fell backwards in a dead faint. Hitting the ground with a dull thump, it occurred to her, as she slipped into blissful, ignorant unconsciousness, that the two who had saved the old woman that she was subjecting to the Cruciatus curse, were they. This was the second happening.
The third, was something that had only happened one thousand years ago. The flames in the blackened grate rose to astonishing heights. Bathing the cold room with its warm, reddish-orange glow. They stopped laughing, as the flames went a pure white colour. Like new snow, or the feathers of a dove, or an angel. The empty souls of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were filled with a vast newness, a realisation of greatness and power. Like a flood of memories, of truths and of falsities. They knew. With out a doubt, they knew.
The words came swiftly, like an invisible hand scrawling upon enchanted flames with a quill made of freshly spun sugar. The words were sweet and bitter, a taste of past remembrance and of things long forgotten.
Beware the souls of those forgotten.
Beware the minds of snakes and faith.
Things come swiftly after battle,
Things they come, things you hate.
Beware the sons of onyx and silver.
Those bonded under our other names.
Keep safe to yourselves your thoughts and actions.
Your beliefs of he who tricks are true.
Hold true to you and only you.
Those who read this now.
The two.
A bond.
Hold true to yourselves.
One entity in two.
Keep safe, forever, your wilted hearts.
Never give them away.
The fire of death burns in one's eyes.
The ice of forever in the other's.
You shalt never truly die.
You will taste the blood of trueborn life.
Taste the blood.
Of life.
And from these cryptic words of olde,
Defy the trickster bold.
We shalt come to you in some time.
'Til then, drink your fill of the vine.
They sat in a type of shell-shocked silence as the last letters ran past their eyes. The omen, words from the first bonded, were right, you really couldn't trust anyone in these dark times.
But that was just the tip of it all. Oh yes, the tip of everything. The rest of the bleeding ice burg had yet to surface. And when it did…
And when it did, Indeed?
*
Voldemort glared at the wall from under his strands of greenish black hair. Blood was dripping from pale white wrists. Blood that was black as night, cold and dead. A knife, poised by Nox, held in her reptilian grasp. Tongue licking, teeth biting. Cold, cold blood.
If any one found out that he wasn't who he said he was, a whirlwind would be set in motion.
But.
There will always be those who know your secrets. There will always be those who can exploit you for what you really are.
And when Harry Potter knows the truth; a whispered voice, a soft touch…the knife itself begins to bleed.
*
Harry touched the feather that had swept to the ground. A black feather, the colour so deep that it drew in the hues of blue and green. Why feathers? What happened to the semblance of black leather? The demonic thirst for blood that rose in him quelled as he stroked the feather softly. Its down was like none other, a soft evil. Soft bliss. Touching ignorance. The rich, supple hide had fallen off in large strips, exposing black as night feathers to the world.
Draco stood beside him in the black of night, his own 'molting' leaving him with soft white down. Pale, like every thing else about Draco. Soft to touch; yet underneath - cold, piercing and hard. Snow is white. And if you are left long enough outside in the snow, destitute, abandoned, frostbitten- you die. Just like that. Draco is like snow.
They had gathered up the folds and strips of the leather-like material, and placed them in the wardrobe in Harry's room. The fine, supple material might be useful. Harry remembered Draco saying that Harry himself should make some leather pants. Harry had scoffed (while telling Draco that he already had a pair of leather pants) and charmed his half into a coat. The coat which he wore now, with holes for his wings. Draco had laughed at his pile and waved his wand lazily. The scraps had formed into a very similar jacket. Ankle length; smooth lines and tailored cuts. Yes, Malfoy and Potter did strange things when spurred.
They had tried their absolute damnedest to get rid of the newly shaped wings, but to no avail. They didn't know what they would do when school came in a month, but figured that they could at least play a very fierce game of Quidditch if no other solution could be found. They hadn't gone to Professor Trust-me-when-I give-you-the-puppy- dog-eyes-Dumbledore because of the fire omen. If that was indeed what it was.
Draco had placed Cassandra on his bed, saying that she didn't need to be surrounded by the angels of Life and Death (as he had taken to calling himself and Harry, respectively) when she woke up. Harry had thought at the last second to write a note, saying that she could go to Dumbledore (or as Draco had put it in the letter, 'the old codger who you should hold no trust for, whatsoever') and ask him about accommodations for the rest of the summer.
The thought passed Harry's mind, momentarily, that perhaps with his new found understanding of the bond, Voldemort, and Dumbledore, he should stop going to Hogwarts. But his soul, the entity within him, shot that idea down.
After all, You and Draco couldn't raise the Dragon in the Chamber of Secrets if you were off in France or Canada.
The voice startled him and he opened his eyes to see Draco looking at him knowingly. "You've heard them too, haven't you?"
"Them who?"
"The voices. You know. The whispers and gentle breezes…no, I'm going to stop right there. I sound like I put St. Mungo in business."
Harry chuckled slightly and watched as Draco's eyes lit up momentarily. "And here I thought that I was going insane!"
"Too late." Draco jibed, eyes sparkling with mirth.
"Shut it, Malfoy. As I was saying, do you think that it is Heron and Domonik?"
Draco closed his eyes, colourless lashes blending with colourless skin, "It's so weird to hear you refer to him by his first name. I'm so used to the second one."
Harry nodded as Draco opened his eyes. "I know, I'm still getting the feel of it. After all, he couldn't be my soul if he didn't have my name, now could he?"
Draco shook his head. "Domonik- that's my second name. It explains a few things. I had always wondered why I had an exotic second name."
Harry snorted, "And Draco isn't slightly exotic?" Harry turned away from Draco, his expression suddenly thoughtful. "He's coming you know? He wants us." A sigh escaped his lips, thoughts of bright eyes and friendship passing his vision.
"In a month and one day, Potter. Take what comes as it comes."
Harry smiled; remembering words spoken and faded memories. He hadn't thought of Cedric or of the Triwizard Tournament. He didn't intend to. "I suppose we should."
*
Draco watched as Harry's eyes closed, black strands of silk imprinted upon frosty cheeks. Harry Potter is an Enigma. He thought, a slight summer breeze wafting through his silk spun hair. They stood in silence, the night like a long lost lover. Embracing them both in her arms, holding them, singing.
A soft murmur.
"What was that, Potter?" Draco inquired, still not turning to face the black haired young man.
"Stop killing the children, you're getting blood on the roses." Harry's voice replied, even toned and completely serious. Draco was probably the only person who truly understood his meaning; he continued the train of thought:
"Indeed old man, stop killing the children. Spirits are long dead, white roses red. Stop killing the children, the angels hath said." (For Atawalpa, she who loves Imagery)
*
Harry frowned; he could see the roses.
"Oh, and Potter?" Harry heard Draco intone.
"Yes."
"Happy Birthday."
"Indeed, Malfoy. Happy Birthday, indeed."
They stood there for hours, each contemplating the other. Roses dead. Blackened with red blood.
'Stop killing the children, old man. Spirits long dead, white roses black. Stop killing the children, even the demons want them back.'
*
And as all things, hours passed into days, which passed into weeks. And soon, a month and one day later, school began a new. The tittering of first to seventh year girls. The blind naïveté of the students was surprising the two. But the school was quiet in its blissful ignorance. Quiet in its silent biding of time. Classes started; the same teachers, the same mundane pattern. Of course, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor was a tad flamboyant, but these days, who isn't? Snape was still mean and sarcastic: a shade of the man he once was. McGonagall was still strict: a force not to be reckoned with on the best of days. Sprout was still flyaway and kind: a Hufflepuff to the end. Flitwick was still small and energetic: half goblin some supposed. Trelawney? Well, neither Harry nor Draco resumed her class in Fifth year. Hooch was as athletic as the day they met her: ever the professional they say. Hagrid was still monster crazy: some things will never change. And Dumbledore? He was as crazy and untrustworthy as they had ever seen him. Hermione and Ron lived for him, the Prefects of Gryffindor tower.
Harry would later resolve this issue. How? I won't say. But the issue was this: Ron and Hermione came back to the school and started to nag. And worry, and pinch, and prod, and stick their noses into places where they didn't belong. They assumed Harry was changed because of the Triwizard Tournament. If they only knew. (If YOU only knew, hehehe) Hermione was as intellectually based as always: trying to find a sound reason for Harry's behaviour. Ron was as he always was: hotheaded and Gryffindoric. He assumed that the Slytherins had corrupted Harry. Pft, Harry remembered thinking as he overheard this conversation, like I'm going to be around those who would hate me if they knew. He noticed Ron and Hermione talking in hushed tones many times, whispers and murmurs escaping their quiet corner. Heads bent in thought and suspicion. Yes, they would hate me if they knew.
Hermione never ceased in telling him to stop blaming himself. She just didn't seem to understand the fact that he wasn't blaming himself for anything. That was the first part of the summer. He remembered the guilt and the pain, but he got over it. He knew who's fault it was. He knew.
Oh…he knew.
He would get a far away look in his eyes when he talked with the voices. Ron and Hermione seemed to get it into their heads that he was thinking about Cedric when he did this. So, naturally, he was assaulted with a barrage of, "Oh Harry, it isn't your fault"s and, "You-Know-Who did it"s. Upon which he would shake his head at their fear of the name and leave to go to his oft used flat.
Dumbledore had decided that Harry and Draco both needed 'retreats' to think about their growing bond and strengths. What his ulterior motive was, it was anyone's guess. Draco had suggested, when they were outside walking around the lake, that Dumbledore had 'snitched' the rooms. 'Snitched' was the wizard term for bugging. Harry had laughed at the image of many little golden balls squirming between his mattresses. He remembered the conversation as going something like this:
"I don't see why the Devil's Potato (as they had taken to calling Dumbledore, whom, they agreed, was Satan himself) let us have the privacy of those rooms if he's so untrustworthy." Harry said, his hands pushed into his pockets, wings draped around him like some gaudy jacket.
Draco looked thoughtful for a second, his own wings like a coverlet of snow. The leather of his coat underneath gleaming in the summer sunlight, "He probably snitched the rooms."
Harry, who was still getting used to the wizarding world five years later stopped and stared, "What? Snitched? Like, telling on someone? Or the golden balls?"
Draco chuckled slightly, "Potter, you ignoramus, telling on someone might be right, but Quidditch has nothing to do with it. It's a method of espionage. You know, spying."
Harry rolled his eyes, "Like bugging, I get it now. And I'm not that stupid, I know what espionage is."
Draco nodded and said mockingly, "Of course you do…"
"Shut up."
Draco pouted.
"And who uses the word ignoramus?! Please, first nude, then this. I swear, you are from the sixteenth century."
"Better the sixteenth century then Muggle-ville." Draco pointed out.
It had gone downhill from there.
The wings, they discovered, would be there forever. During the feast in the Great Hall, on the first day back, the students had looked at them as if they were the bringers of life and death. As if they were anyone but who they said they were. This was of course heightened by the fact that Harry looked more like a Vampire then he did Harry Potter. The girls had swooned, fawning over his wings and slender form. Ginny Weasley in particular had blushed and hidden underneath the table, scared that he might look at her and the rather large red spot on her nose. That had gone something like this:
Harry and Draco walked into the hall, chatting amicably, their long coats and wings brushing against the floor as they glided along innocently, talking of Dragons and Quidditch. Neither had noticed the dead silence, but they did notice when the screams started.
"Bloody hell, Potter, what are they screaming at?" Harry started as he heard Draco's voice over the din.
"Us, I suppose, why do you think that is?" He replied offhandedly, leaning against the wall and chuckling as Hermione and Ron came forth, their wands in their hands, whispering to each other.
"Oh, gee, just possibly the wings, or you know, the fact that we look like Vampires!" Draco's whisper was soft and sounded as if he was trying to hold in laughter. Harry could bet that Draco was enjoying the pandemonium. "Oh, Potter, look, your fan club."
"Don't talk about Hermione and Ron like that, Malfoy, they've done nothing to warrant your or my abuse." He heard rather than saw Draco sniff.
"That's what you think." But they couldn't continue their conversation as Hermione and Ron had stepped up to Harry, glaring and muttering to one another.
"…evil…"
"…look…dark…You-Know-Who…" Harry rolled his eyes, and glanced at Draco from underneath his slightly curly curtain of hair.
Typical, go for the one with black wings, the dark one. Otherwise know as your best friend, Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Die. As Harry thought this, Ron shouted something akin to, Petrificus Totalus to which, Harry and Draco laughed.
"Honestly, Ron, is that any way to greet your best friend?" Harry's eyes danced with mirth as he watched the anger on Ron and Hermione's faces turn to confusion and then relief, finally settling upon anger again. Harry smirked as Ron advanced upon him.
"What has happened to you, Harry?" The red-head spat, glaring at the wings, absence of glasses and school uniform, a green cloud obscuring the natural ice blue hue of Ron's eyes. The prefect badge glinted upon his robes. The entire hall seemed to breathe just a bit easier, that is, until Draco raised his wings and growled. Ron turned to Draco and Harry watched as he snarled, "And why the hell are you with Malfoy?!"
"I grew up. Honestly, Ron, put petty house rivalries behind you and grow up." Harry rolled his eyes and winked at Draco just as Hermione came forward and touched his cheek.
"Harry, what are you?" She asked, tears in her eyes.
Draco, Harry noted, had been silent long enough. The blond seemed to think the same and spoke up, "He's what he was-is- meant to be, Granger. If you can't see that, then you are not as smart as you boast to be." At this, the occupants of Hogwarts came out of their stupor and looked at the two. The males looked repulsed and slightly jealous. The girls began to swoon, sighing at their appearances. Harry rolled his eyes as Ginny ducked under the Gryffindor table.
Harry sighed and glanced at Ron and Hermione with what he hoped was a convincing regretful eye. Hermione was beginning to cry and Ron looked betrayed. The tension mounted and Harry spoke to them in a voice so soft that he assumed only Draco, Ron, and Hermione could hear.
"When and if you grow up, talk to me. But, I don't know if you really ever will."
"That's low." Ron said, glaring at Harry, his blue eyes flashing.
Two sets of eyes looked up at him, one set was green: The colour of emeralds, black flecks of knowledge and power shining deep with in. Eyes so like the killing curse they could make Voldemort shudder. The other set, the colour of silver, or unpolished diamonds, glinting under the dim light of the Great hall. Eyes so like storm clouds that people shielded themselves against them like they would lightning.
"No, Weasley…" Draco began.
"…that's life." Harry finished, following Draco to the Slytherin table.
"Do people ever grow up, Malfoy?" Harry remembered asking Draco when they sat down a voice akin to a child asking why the world is round of their parents falling from his lips.
"Some, do. Others-" Harry remembered Draco inclining his head toward the Gryffindor table, a serious yet amused expression glancing his features. "-never do and never will."
Draco, of course, was lapping up all of this attention. His Slytherin friends laughing at the outtakes of the female population of Gryffindor. Harry would oft sit with the Slytherins and sup, the astonished looks on the Gryffindors' faces priceless every single time. The first time he had sat over with the 'fanged fiends (as the Gryffindors said behind his back)' they had also stared at him. First, murderously, then incredulously, then, in respect for the sheer will power that it took to sit with mortal enemies. Cassandra Moon was particularly respectful after an episode that summer that involved flames, a Deatheater costume, blood, and Cassandra. But why sweat the details. Harry didn't plan to go back to when the walls bled fire, and neither did Draco or Cassandra.
There was still animosity between Harry and a lot of the Slytherin house, namely Cassandra, as she was still, technically under the service of Voldemort. To which, Harry scoffed, 'Who cares?' He remembered pointing out, 'Its not like you've tried to kill me in my sleep, and…now that I think about it, I did remove all sharp objects from your reach.' Miss Moon was in no way happy about that.
Harry was still sarcastic, cheeky and Slythafied around Dumbledore. A surprising thing to most of their classmates. But as Harry saw it, what could Dumbledore do? Throw him out of Hogwarts? No, the old man needed him too much for that.
The Gryffindors had decided that Harry was a traitor two weeks into the year (though the girls still swooned behind the boy's backs). Though the red haired Weasel and Hermione Granger had decided that Harry was just feeling guilty. Still, Harry never slept in the Gryffindor dorms and only went there to make sure he hadn't left anything behind on his commute between his flat and said dorms.
The Quidditch team, however, was a different story. He loved Quidditch, but he couldn't play any more. People saw his wings as an advantage or a disadvantage. Either way, he and Draco had been sacked from their House Teams. He remembered talking to the blond haired young man about it, one garnet-esq tear making its way down each of their cheeks. They had to put it behind them, shortly. And they did, taking to going flying every night. Draco, like a spot of light in the withering darkness. Harry, like the night itself, dark, smooth, and free.
During the summer, they had discovered two things. The first being the fact that their tears had a red tint to them. Like the crystal sparklings of rubies and garnets. Tears of the Bonded, was what the fire omens had called them. The second, being the next contact from the realm of souls. Or from deep inside of Draco and Harry themselves.
It went something like this:
Come lo, thou children of the night.
Come lo and take up our earthly fight.
Hide not, behind thine wings of down.
Hide not, behind your grassy mounds.
Find safety with each other now.
Find love with no one new.
Do not forsake your cause of now.
Do not forget your roots.
Beware the childe of the night.
Beware the end of fifths.
Hold safe to what will happen now.
Hold safe to what you believe.
Forget the teachings of your youth.
Forget the friends you had.
Remember the souls you have inside.
Remember snakes and faith.
The immortal soul is in you now.
And immortal you shall be.
Blood falls from walls.
It drowns the halls.
It bathes the streets in crimson.
The little girl, she is the key.
Take care and always listen.
It seemed, though, that there was more to the whole situation then that which met the eye.
*
Draco sighed and looked over to where Granger and Weasley had taken up accosting Harry. He could tell that the other boy wasn't going to be holding his annoyance in much longer. Yes, he could tell. The ebony feathers cascading down the ridged wings were one sign; bristled and sharp looking. The furrow in his dark brow was another. But the most tell tale sign was the voice yelling in his head:
He's going to blow!
I know that, you know that, he knows that.
Of course I know that.
Potter?
Who were you expecting? There's more then one voice in each of our heads, Malfoy. Mine just happens to be one of the ones in yours. Sort of a mind link that goes along with this bond thing.
Fun, now you're with me where ever I go! A basilisk could see the sarcasm.
And you think I enjoy you in my head?!
Well…no.
Then shut it and let me handle this.
Well said.
Hmm…not very Slytherin of you.
Shut up, Domonik.
Draco couldn't be sure if it wasn't all in his head, but Harry seemed to have warded off the terrible twosome and was stalking his way over to Draco, an irate look upon his strong features. Harry had taken to looking like his face should have been profiled upon a silver Roman coin. His jaw line was strong and well set, and his nose was neither too short nor too long for his face. His expressive mouth and pink lips never truly smiled anymore, and his eyes were clouded with a dark green fog. Flecks of blackened colour spattering his iris. The longish black lashes contrasted severely with his pale features and his hair had grown and now reached his chin. (That's for perionan, she who enjoys my Harry and my Draco)
"Strange occurrences, these." Harry said when he was three feet away from Draco's 'person.'
"Hmm, so we're all in the same loony bin then?" Harry nodded.
Looks that way.
Draco started, "Don't do that!"
*
One month and Two weeks earlier…
Luscinia glared at Blaise, her red eyes like a bleeding wound, the colour of blood spreading to the farthest rims of her iris, the black of her pupil contrasting slightly.
"Naughty, Naughty, you got caughty." She said spontaneously. Flagro (remember, this is Blaise in vampiric form) looked at her in surprise.
"What?"
Luscinia laughed a harsh, hissing laugh that would do Nox proud. "I've found you, Blaise."
"Flagro." The black haired youth preened.
She snorted, "Oh, is that your prize for changing little old me? A new name?" Her emotionless voice became childish and young.
"Luscinia…don't you like your new form?"
"Well…yes." She seemed to waver slightly from her hold upon his neck.
"Then why am I held up against a wall?" He waggled his eyebrows at her suggestively.
"Because I want to kill you." She said simply, a look on her face that said anything but.
Blaise chortled and pried her fingers away from his shirt, "I'm your sire, Luscinia, you can't hurt me, I can hurt you. Don't you know the mythology of your own kind?"
Luscinia snarled, "You are not my kind."
Blaise chuckled, just wait and see. "Have you killed yet, childe?"
"Yes."
"Human?" Blaise let his voice remain calm as he took a step nearer to Luscinia, a thought niggling at the back of his head.
"Y-no." Luscinia looked shocked at her own revelation.
"Nuh-uh, can't hurt the sire, can't lie to the sire. Would you like to know what it is like to kill a human? To taste the one sweet life essence that will forever run down the tongues of the immortals?"
Luscinia remained silent, Blaise took it to mean that yes, she did want it. She wanted it so, so bad. A sire always knows his fledgling. Always. He snapped pale fingers and a young man was thrown into the room. Light blonde hair, blue eyes and pale skin. Luscinia looked at him hungrily. "Now who does this-" he kicked the human, "remind you of?"
"You know damn well who he reminds me of." A soft groan from the human caused her eyes to glow brighter in colour.
Blaise said one simple word, a word that set the world in motion, "Eat."
And she did. He watched as she attacked the pale, graceful neck with a sick glee that is brought on by the first execution. By the first bite. Blood dripped down the white neck in ribbons of crimson. He watched hungrily. Like a voyeur of the most sadistic intent. When she was done, he gathered her up in his arms and forced her to look at him. She did, her eyes a dull violet colour. He saw that the blood traced her lips and made her tongue red. And he did what came naturally.
He kissed her, drinking the blood that was upon her lips, biting her own with undaunted fervor. They licked and tasted and bit and sucked. The blood exchange of Vampires is something perfect and beautiful. Something secretly masochistic.
You see, Vampires are not as you and I. Teenage hormones are nothing. They have the mindset of one hundreds of years older. They do not breathe; their hearts are dead. But their bodies…well, that is another story. Another story all together. One that can not be posted at this level of rating.
*
Lucius Malfoy sighed as he looked at the dead body in front of him. He enjoyed this gift. This pleasure of partaking the blood. But those two…he thought back with a shudder to Voldemort and Nox. Those two would kill everyone, whether they stole the blood or tortured their victims. Those two will kill us all.
*
With a sigh and a soft chuckle, Harry landed next to Draco Malfoy. The two had been joking about what Hermione and Ron had cooked up to bring him back to 'the right side of things.' It was everything to killing the Hogwarts cheese ('does Hogwarts even have cheese?') to joking about whips and handcuffs ('kinky Gryffindors') (that's for you, VM, she who kills cheese and Draco…he who is obsessed with whips and handcuffs).
The soft surrounding night kissed them soundly as they made their way back to the castle wings like gaudy jackets.
Once in the safety of their own, 'snitched,' rooms did they realise that they shared dreams. Yes, dreams. They both dreamt that things were different. That under any other circumstance… but things are impossible this day and age.
Night, Potter.
Shut up, Malfoy.
You too, Scar face.
*
Things shall come and things shall go.
Friendship blooms.
Rightly So.
Blankly things will stare you in the eyes.
Truthful thoughts, ought but lies.
Things I tell you, I say them now.
Turn back, beware, before it all comes down.
Brave souls shall fight thee, brave souls shall win.
And still beauty remains, unhindering
Those who wish it to be as it was,
Yes beauty remains, a beauty few can claim.
Boast, sir not. Keep safe thine choice. Beware, beware.
For you shall die.
Eventually.
Remember the souls, they can not speak.
Remember the choices, we have to make.
And as love lost sails on open lakes.
Remember, your love, of all you shalt take.
Remember your hate, thrice your pain shalt wake.
Author's Maunder: Dear look at this chapter! 6 684 words! That's a record for me. YAY. I know that it's confusing, Heron and Domonik and the omens and such, but everything will be explained in the end. I bet there are a few things that you didn't expect in this chapter. Suicidal!Voldemort for one. But I must confess, I'm boosting this story up to an R; it only gets worse from here on in. Vampires are sexual/violent and sexually violent creatures! Not to mention the blood and pain only escalates. Yes, it does. *rubs hands together in secret sadistic fashion* I'm very excited to say that this should be 25 chapters long. BUT I don't really know that for sure, it could be shorter if I keep turning out chapters like this. I've tried to establish the fact that my OC's are just that, but not Mary-Sues or Gary-Stues. I know that Harry is OC, but that's the point. You'll understand when I explain the bond or the link and WHO exactly Heron is and why people are used to referring to him by his middle and last names. I've given many hints throughout the first four chapters and many in this one. I'll understand if you flame me, really I will. I know that it is VERY difficult to understand, but trust me, everything WILL be explained. No one really got the fact that I wasn't going to leave Harry and Draco with demonic wings. I just couldn't do it! So, I changed it on a whim… yes a whim! Anyway, I must take my leave as it is late, my head is sore and my cat is mauling me!
Shireen Mclean.
Ps: I'm going to ask a question, Who do YOU think Heron and Domonik are? They are HP related…so, they are not from other books. Domonik is a character of my own making, sort of. His last name is not mine. Heron has already been mentioned in the HP books many times, but by his middle and last names. Spot the clues. Spot yon clues.
PPs: Uh…that last poem thing is not a prophecy of sorts, just a foreshadowing to things that may or may not arise.
Next Chapter: More Blaise and Luscinia. A talk with Lucius, Nox, and Voldemort . Harry and Draco semi bonding. Ron and Hermione- brazen Griffindoric-ness. Professor Snape. Hagrid. And more of Dumbledore's unpleasantness. All that and more in the next episode of, "Roses Black" "The Number of Deception" In other words, the chapter will commence on the sixth of October, six being the evil number.