A/N: Hey! God, I love this story! I seriously think it's my best one.
Anyway, I can't believe the end is coming (ahhh!). Thanks for your support
and all that good stuff. Climatic, aint it?
I have to ask: Do you all see Nar and Guy as two OC's? I mean, admittingly, when I read a fic sometimes I don't really give a flying shit about a character because it's an OC. Maybe it's because I'm the author, but I feel like Nar and Guy are as much as real characters as Dean and Seamus and Neville. Is it just me? Please, let me know!
Personally, I dislike this chapter. This chapter, well... it's this chapter.
Disclaimer: Mine=Guy Wimsdon, Nar Litkins, Daniel Chávez, Artura Alexis, the sitting room, aspects of the Manor, personalities, and the plotline. Not mine=Everything else.
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"This isn't enough," Seamus stated matter-of-factly, sifting his fingers through the fine grains of powder that he had scraped off of the lemon- scented wooden flooring. He was on his stomach, flat against the floor in front of the fireplace, trying to pick up every grain he could-but there were only so many.
"You're right," Dean nodded grimly, sweeping a few particles from his fingers and crawling into a sitting position. "This is futile. Each of us needs at least a pinch to hold between our fingers."
"What's a pinch?" Nar asked, scratching his forehead. Little silvery streaks were left behind on his temple from the traces of powder. "Ow!" he griped, grabbing for his backside. "Not that kind of of pinch, Seamus!"
"So how much do we have?" inquired Guy, pulling up and kneeling against the mantle. The front of his robes was coated with sheer silver sparkles that refused to be dusted off. A streak also appeared in the bangs of his shaggy caramel hair, but no one paid attention or characteristically sniggered.
Dean frowned, staring at the small pile he had collected in his hands, and then at the even tinier amounts that his friends held. "I'd say... well, there are five of us, right? We have enough for... for... three of us to go, I'd say."
"Why can't we all travel on the amount of one?"
Dean's frown deepened. "What do you mean, Nev?"
"Well," said Neville uncertainly. "If we all could've held on to one person with Malfoy blood, like you had first said, Dean, then why can't we do the same for Floo?"
Guy shrugged. "It's worth a try, I suppose," the sandy-haired boy said, biting his bottom lip with his clean white chompers. "I mean, what's the worst that could happen?"
The boys stared at him as if he had just declared his love for a rabid purple dancing monkey (a/n: hey, it could happen!). "Guy," Seamus said slowly. "Think about what you said."
Guy only blinked in response. "What?"
"I know you're Muggle-born," said Dean. "So am I. But honestly, Wimsdon, this is magic that we're talking about! The 'worst that could happen' could really, really be bad." Guy didn't seem convinced. "I mean, we could get lost forever or get really hurt or simply vanish into thin air."
Guy turned white.
"Well, I refuse to let anyone be left," Nar said stubbornly, folding his arms. Sprinkles of Floo powder drifted to the ground, and Neville eagerly scooped them up. "We're all going," he added haughtily.
Seamus rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Listen, we're wasting time and Nar's making an arse out of himself. Now, who's going, and who's staying here?"
The five boys looked around at each other nervously.
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"Ron?" Harry repeated, still flabbergasted as he sunk back down to the floor, his back still rigid against the wall. "Is that you?"
"No, it's Helga Hufflepuff. Of course it's me," Ron Weasley snapped weakly, his voice the only distinction of it being the truth in the darkness. "Unless, of course, you really were expecting one of the founders."
"Not funny," Harry croaked, his breathing ragged and uncollected.
"Honestly, Potter, you sound like a dog. Quit panting, would you?"
"Shut it," Harry grumbled, resenting Ron's attitude. "Anyway, why are you in here?"
No reply was heard.
Harry grinned in spite of the situation. "Oh, I see," he smirked cattily, relaxing his shoulders into a hunch. "Malfoy and the Death Eaters turned against you, eh?"
"It didn't happen like that," Ron insisted a bit too passionately. He paused, and Harry waited. "I didn't know I was intended to become one of them," Ron said quietly.
"Oh, honestly!" Harry snorted. "You mean to tell me that you thought you could be a virtual Slytherin, buddy up to Malfoy, praise Voldemort-" Harry could almost hear Ron flinch "-and insult Muggle-borns, and then they wouldn't expect you to become a Death Eater? That you were just heading to the Manor with Malfoy for a nice, countryside vacation?"
Again, Ron didn't respond.
"Oh. Oh, God. You did, didn't you?" Harry shuffled uncomfortably in the cell, stretching out his knees so that both hit against opposite walls. Something twanged in his heart, something that he hadn't expected to feel for Ron ever again.
Sympathy.
And then he scowled, forcing himself to not feel sorry for the callous person that Ron Weasley had become, and would have turned away if room had permitted. "That still doesn't excuse the way you acted," Harry said softly. As much as he tried, he couldn't fit anger into his voice.
"Do you want me to say that I'm sorry?" Ron's voice suddenly cut through the air like a knife, edgy and dangerously low. "Is that what you want, Potter? A goddamn apology? Would that make everything better?"
"No," said Harry simply.
"I was being sarcastic."
"So I noticed."
"Y'know," said Ron sharply. "Just 'cause we're stuck here together doesn't mean that we have to talk."
Harry agreed to this by not replying. He was angry, truly angry. The situation; perilous, the prospects of escaping; slim, the hope within Harry; fleeting, and now any help he could have gotten from Ron was diminished by the sore redhead who wouldn't let go.
"This is stupid," he suddenly said loudly.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know," said Harry. "It's just, well, here's the way I see it. You may insult the bloody hell out of her, but I doubt you want Hermione to die. Obviously, neither do I. The Death Eaters aren't too friendly with either of us right now, and it wouldn't hurt to get out of this little prison-thingy. Can't we just forget that you hate me with a passion just for an hour or so?"
He waited for a response, the tension in the tiny cell insurmountable. Finally, Ron grunted. "It wouldn't kill me."
Harry reached to shake Ron's hand, but missed in the dark. If not for the knowledge of what lay ahead of them, Harry would have blushed something furious.
"Harry?"
"You're calling me Harry."
"Yes, I'm aware of that."
"All right then. Go on."
"You love her, don't you?"
Harry blushed darker and pulled his jaw forward firmly. "Very much."
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"This won't work," Ron said, licking the blood off of his fingers that was slowly trickling down from the sides of his fingernails. "This is the Dark Lord we're dealing with, not Fisher Price."*
Harry scowled. "Well, when we tried to force ourselves through the bars, your oversized head nearly got stuck. I think trying to break through the wall is a better option."
"Yeah, a better option if you're choosing between being urinated on or tar- and-feathered," Ron snapped.
Harry tilted his head to side. "I'd pick tar-and-feathered."
"Again, sarcasm."
"Again, I noticed."
And in spite of it all, they chuckled quietly together, not truly understanding why, but knowing that it was quite possibly the last laugh they would share in a long time. And with that thought, they put everything they had into it.
When the laughter subsided, an unmentioned tension had been lifted, and they wordlessly got on their knees and resumed scraping at the cracks in the bricks. They ignored the dirtied blood that now ran down their palms and streaks their wrists, working diligently with a drive that only a life- or-death situation can bring about.
Given a few hours, it's remotely possible that they could have gotten somewhere, even if it was only enough to stick one's finger through. But an unseen door swung open and blinding light flooded into the room, silhouetting two dark, hooded fingers framed in the doorway.
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Dani and Lexa plodded quietly down the corridor, unsure of who or what they were looking for. They were, however, certain that they had ought to make getting to the Mors Mortis dungeon one of their top priorities, along with getting out alive and finding Harry-and Hermione. The custodians had talked of a traitor in the Mors Mortis dungeon, whose identity had gone unmentioned, but Dani and Lexa figured that the "death" dungeon was a good place to start out. Harry could be there with the "traitor," or they may be able to get information out of the side-switching chap.
There was one small problem, however.
"How are we supposed to find this Morrison Mort place, exactly?"
"Mors Mortis," Lexa corrected sternly, but she had no answer for her dark- haired accompaniment. The corridor was as dark as the emblazoned mark on her forearm, and the torches lining the walls did little to help. They had tread cautiously out of the closet once they were sure that the janitors were out of sight, and found themselves in an identical corridor to the one that they had fled from. Needless to say, it was a rather confusing situation.
"Haven't you been here before?" Dani asked impatiently, absently scratching at the imitation mark on his arm.
"Once," Lexa said quietly. Dani didn't pry; he sensed that the topic was closed.
"Well," he said, clearing his throat in a manner that Lexa found obnoxious. "We could ask someone."
Lexa shot him a cynical look. "Oh, right. That'll work."
"Why not, 'Desdemona'?" he smirked impishly, rubbing his stubble-covered jaw. "Who said that obvious is wrong? Look," he pointed as they turned the corner. A man was stepping out from a doorway, engrossed in flipping through a few papers he clutched loosely. And with a wink, before Lexa could part her lips to protest, Dani was striding confidently ahead of her and to the man.
The guy lifted his green-gray eyes up from the sheet of white paper upon hearing Dani approach without tilting his chin. He smiled lightly as a greeting, although seemingly eager to get back to his work, and peered at the Spanish young man whose face held a toothy grin. "Can I help you?"
"Hi," Dani said cheerfully, enthusiastically thrusting his hand to be shaken; the other man took the cue, briefly gripping Dani's hand in his own and then retreating it quickly. The man had dark brown, shaggy hair with light gray touches of age. He stared at Dani expectantly.
"My name is Mark Estefan, and this-" Dani beckoned to Lexa "-is Desdemona. We're, uh, Death Eaters."
The man narrowed his green eyes at Dani. "Uh, yeah. That is why you would be here, Mark."
"Right," "Mark" said, undaunted. "Well, we just got orders to head for the, uh, what was that dungeon called, Mona?" Lexa didn't say a thing. "It started with an 'M,' didn't it, Mona?" Again, nothing. Dani balled his fists and turned to Lexa.
He was surprised; she had gone white in the face and her jaw hung as if it had come unhinged from the rest of her mouth. "I don't know what's gotten into her," Dani said through clenched teeth.
"You mean the Mors Mortis dungeon?" the man said to Dani, though his eyes were focused past him on Lexa. His head was tilted to the side in thought, and Dani was confused. But he knew that he didn't like it. He didn't like it at all.
"Yes, the Mors Mortis," Dani said loudly, aiming to break the connection and mildly succeeding. The man's eyes flashed back to Dani.
Those very eyes had a suspicious demeanor about them, and Dani's blood ran cold. Why would this man have any reason to doubt them? What was wrong with Lexa?
"Why do you need to go there?" the man asked sharply, tucking the leaflets under his arm like he had all the time in the world for an explanation.
"Aimes and Abrahams told us that the traitor was being kept there and we should check on his consciousness," Dani heard Lexa say in a strong, unwavering voice that didn't match her shaky stance and blanched face. He turned, surprised, to find that some of the color had returned to her complexion and her fists were balled as tightly as his own. Realizing, he relaxed his fingers and felt the blood flow throughout them.
The man's eyes flickered back to Lexa's, holding the fierce gaze with curiosity that Dani couldn't quite understand. "Robert Aimes and Leon Abrahams?"
"Right," Lexa said confidently, and Dani couldn't believe his ears. What the hell was she talking about?
"I thought Abrahams had returned to Israel to tend to his sickly wife."
"All I know is that we saw him a few minutes ago in the Nyquist Room," Lexa said coolly.
"All right then," the man said with matching intensity, only blinking curtly and then pointing his eyes at his papers. "Down the hall, third right, down four stairwells, down the corridor, fourth left."
Dani eyed him warily before turning back to Lexa, whose line of vision still ended on the man's face. "Let's go, Desdemona," he said forcefully, taking a step back and grabbing her hand up from her side. "Thanks, Mr...?"
"Riddle," the man said. "Call me Tom."
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"Ready?" said Guy, cupping a pinch of Floo powder in the palm of his hand.
"All set," Dean replied in a hard voice. "Sure there's no hard feelings, Seamus?"
The Irish boy just grunted and folded his arms tightly across the front of his robes.
"I'm ready," Nar said shakily, his tone contrasting with his words. "Are you guys sure I have enough powder?"
"No," Guy said simply. Dean gave Guy a look.
Dean Thomas, Guy Wimsdon, and Seamus Finnigan had rolled lots to see which two of the three would be accompanying Nar to the Manor, and they had done so in a hurry that pressed upon the situation at hand. It had been decided that Nar would definitely go because of his internal Malfoy blood-in case that was, in fact, necessary-and that Neville would not be attending because of, well, his fear and protests of, "Don't make me go! I can't do it! I'll bloody faint!" And, well, who can argue with that?
Dean had rolled first, triumphant with his ten that practically guaranteed him a spot on the Hogwarts Three Rescue Team (a nifty little name that Nar had thought of while Seamus followed to roll a two, much to his blatant chagrin). Guy went on to roll a seven, and he, Dean, and Nar found themselves standing in front of the fireplace that two of their professors had recently departed from with a tiny amount of powder in each of their fists.
"Go on." Nar nervously nudged Dean, who shot the pale-faced boy a resentful glare.
"Why do I have to go first?"
"Oh, for crikes sake!" Guy cried out. "The Manor!" he yelled as he tossed the powder into the fire before a word could be spoken and jumped after it into the fizzing flames. Nar and Dean watched him disappear, while Neville fidgeted behind them beside an indignant Seamus.
"That guy's got balls," Nar said with awe.
Seamus shook his head. "Nah, nothing too impressive."
A round of "what-the-hell?" looks was tossed in his direction.
"Oh," said Seamus suddenly, blushing deeply. "Was that meant to be a euphanism?"
Dean shook his head disgustedly. "I won't even ask." And he jumped into the fire after Guy.
Nar shot a timid look back to a terrified Neville and embarrassed Seamus, and then reluctantly followed suit. Droplets of blood from his neck splattered against the floor as he jumped.
Seamus leaned against the desk, exhaling and closing his eyes tightly. He heard Neville speak cautiously from across the room.
"What do we do now?"
Seamus sighed, jamming his hands into his pockets. "We wait."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~I almost stopped here. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Harry tensed, and looked to Ron. He squinted. The light let him make out the youngest Weasley male's features, and it frightened him. The blood staining from the tips of his fingers to his elbows seemed more real in the light. His skin was pasty, making his freckles appear darker. He had gotten skinnier, too, and these were differences that Harry knew couldn't have developed only in the past day. *I wonder why I never noticed the physical changes in him. They must have been clouded over by the internal differences.*
But that was only the start. Ron had been beaten, apparent from the dark, gruesome bruises in the hollows of his cheeks and surrounding his narrowed brown eyes. There was blood on his disheveled, ripped robes that couldn't have come from his hands, and though hand-me-downs, Ron's robes were never in that shape.
There was something else about Ron that Harry couldn't quite put his finger on. His expression seemed so different from not only the best friend he used to have, but the Ron that had called him "scar face" and Hermione a Mudblood in class as well. He seemed... callused. And Harry could understand why.
Harry's eyes darted back to door, where the two Death Eaters entered. Only, they weren't Death Eaters. One held a broom, and the other's belt held his wand and a few Muggle tools: a wrench, a hammer, and a handsaw that Harry found extremely daunting. He heard Ron's breath catch in his throat, and Harry knew Ron's expression of panic was mirrored by his own face.
The two men lowered their hoods. They really weren't that intimidating looking, really. One was very short, and one was very tall. The shorter one advanced first, looking curiously through the bars of Harry and Ron's captivation. Harry knew without moving that the man was inches away from where his arm would stretch. No strangling for today. *Damn.*
"Which one of yuh is the tray'er?" the shorter one asked. He still kept his distance, lingering at the doorway.
Ron smiled weakly and sarcastically raised his blood-soaked arm at the elbow. "That would be me. Nice to meet you. I'm the traitor."
" 'Am Joel Mayberry. Nice ter meet yuh." The taller man wasn't exactly the brightest crayon in the box. "I'd shake yer hand, but y'know..." He chuckled, whereas Harry and Ron could only look at him dryly.
" 'Ait just a darn secon'," the shorter man said raspily, taking a step closer and peering at Harry, who flattened his bangs against his forehead instinctively. " 'At's 'Arry Potter! Look, Joel, ah can see 'is scar!"
"I'll be darned," Joel said, putting his hands on his hips. "Won't Voldy- mort be happy to see that 'Arry fell right into his trap?"
"Quite," the other man said, grinning to reveal a full set of yellow teeth. "C'mon, yeh get the tray'er. I'll get the Potter boy."
Harry and Ron exchanged nervous glances. "I don't have my wand, do you?" Harry whispered.
"If I had my wand, would I be faint from blood loss?"
"Point taken."
And they fell into a body bind as Joel flicked his wand. They watched, helpless and taut, as the two men greedily advanced on them.
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"Weird fellow," Dani muttered as Tom Riddle disappeared down the hallway. He pulled on Lexa's hand, but she didn't move. "¿Qué pasa? (What's up, what's wrong?)"
"Dani, that was Tom Riddle," she said numbly, her hand going cold in his.
"Yes, that's what he said," Dani said gruffly, yanking on her hand once more. Still, she refused to budge. "Come on, we need to find Harry."
Lexa took a deep breath, let go of Dani, and then took both of his hands in her own. "Daniel, if you want to find Harry...." She looked distantly down the corridor that Tom had disappeared from. "Then let's go."
He blinked. "Go where?"
"Daniel," she said, blinking in rhythm. "We're going to have to follow Tom Riddle."
"Why?" Dani sounded annoyed.
"Because Tom Riddle is Lord Voldemort."
The man with an answer for everything couldn't think of a thing to say.
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"Oh, and I was supposed to know that we'd land in Malfoy's bedroom?!" Dean cried, folding his arms uncomfortably across his chest as he quickly closed the door behind Guy, Nar, and himself. They found themselves in a long corridor much like those at Hogwarts.
"Well, Malfoy wasn't lying when he said he wasn't a virgin," Guy said, and then cringed at his own words. "Oh. Oh, God. Ew, ew, ew."
"What, Guy?"
"Girls have actually slept with Malfoy," Guy spat as if the words tasted unpleasantly sour.
Dean shrugged. "Maybe it was involuntary."
Guy considered this. "I guess that makes it a little better. How are you holding up, Nar?"
But Nar Litkins was cringing against the wall, his left eye twitching and his hands shaking. "I," he announced slowly and painfully, "am scarred for life. May my eyes never see again." He did the wizard's equivalent of crossing himself and reluctantly opened his eyes to find that his sight was, indeed, fully intact.
"Did Malfoy see who we were?" Dean asked with urgency, twiddling his thumbs nervously.
"He called me 'Butler,'" Guy offered.
"That's a negative." Dean began pacing a short length of the corridor and looked up sharply at Nar and Guy. "We'd better find Harry. You heard what Professor Alexis said. 'Right into the hands of the Dark Lord himself.'"
Nar shivered. "I would have preferred that to... to... there," he shuddered in the direction of the bedroom door.
"That's funny, I don't see the 'This way to your group photo with Uncle Voldie' sign," Guy drawled disagreeably.
Nar twitched again.
"Right," Dean sighed, pressing his back against the corridor. "If I was an evil snake-like guy bent on world-domination and the prosecution of Muggle- borns, what room would I hide out in?"
"Try the Neiman Drawing Room," drawled a cold, familiar voice.
Dean, Nar, and Guy spun around in horror to come face to face with none other than Draco Malfoy, completely in the buff except for a white towel tied loosely around his waist.
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*This isn't my first pen name, in a previous story of mine under a diff pen name I used this line. Just wanted to clear that up.
A/N: Okay, that's enough. LET IT BE KNOWN THAT I HAVE NO OBJECTIONS TO DRACO MALFOY IN THE NUDE. But, I imagine Dean, Nar, and Guy would, y'know? Right? Right. Okay. It's four in the morning, but good citizen Tori is going to post anyway. I'll have my thankyous when I wake up tomorrow... which should be 2-ish. But thanks so much for all of your reviews! You guys kick ass. Arse. We're speaking British. You kick arse.
Adios~Escritora
I have to ask: Do you all see Nar and Guy as two OC's? I mean, admittingly, when I read a fic sometimes I don't really give a flying shit about a character because it's an OC. Maybe it's because I'm the author, but I feel like Nar and Guy are as much as real characters as Dean and Seamus and Neville. Is it just me? Please, let me know!
Personally, I dislike this chapter. This chapter, well... it's this chapter.
Disclaimer: Mine=Guy Wimsdon, Nar Litkins, Daniel Chávez, Artura Alexis, the sitting room, aspects of the Manor, personalities, and the plotline. Not mine=Everything else.
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"This isn't enough," Seamus stated matter-of-factly, sifting his fingers through the fine grains of powder that he had scraped off of the lemon- scented wooden flooring. He was on his stomach, flat against the floor in front of the fireplace, trying to pick up every grain he could-but there were only so many.
"You're right," Dean nodded grimly, sweeping a few particles from his fingers and crawling into a sitting position. "This is futile. Each of us needs at least a pinch to hold between our fingers."
"What's a pinch?" Nar asked, scratching his forehead. Little silvery streaks were left behind on his temple from the traces of powder. "Ow!" he griped, grabbing for his backside. "Not that kind of of pinch, Seamus!"
"So how much do we have?" inquired Guy, pulling up and kneeling against the mantle. The front of his robes was coated with sheer silver sparkles that refused to be dusted off. A streak also appeared in the bangs of his shaggy caramel hair, but no one paid attention or characteristically sniggered.
Dean frowned, staring at the small pile he had collected in his hands, and then at the even tinier amounts that his friends held. "I'd say... well, there are five of us, right? We have enough for... for... three of us to go, I'd say."
"Why can't we all travel on the amount of one?"
Dean's frown deepened. "What do you mean, Nev?"
"Well," said Neville uncertainly. "If we all could've held on to one person with Malfoy blood, like you had first said, Dean, then why can't we do the same for Floo?"
Guy shrugged. "It's worth a try, I suppose," the sandy-haired boy said, biting his bottom lip with his clean white chompers. "I mean, what's the worst that could happen?"
The boys stared at him as if he had just declared his love for a rabid purple dancing monkey (a/n: hey, it could happen!). "Guy," Seamus said slowly. "Think about what you said."
Guy only blinked in response. "What?"
"I know you're Muggle-born," said Dean. "So am I. But honestly, Wimsdon, this is magic that we're talking about! The 'worst that could happen' could really, really be bad." Guy didn't seem convinced. "I mean, we could get lost forever or get really hurt or simply vanish into thin air."
Guy turned white.
"Well, I refuse to let anyone be left," Nar said stubbornly, folding his arms. Sprinkles of Floo powder drifted to the ground, and Neville eagerly scooped them up. "We're all going," he added haughtily.
Seamus rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Listen, we're wasting time and Nar's making an arse out of himself. Now, who's going, and who's staying here?"
The five boys looked around at each other nervously.
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"Ron?" Harry repeated, still flabbergasted as he sunk back down to the floor, his back still rigid against the wall. "Is that you?"
"No, it's Helga Hufflepuff. Of course it's me," Ron Weasley snapped weakly, his voice the only distinction of it being the truth in the darkness. "Unless, of course, you really were expecting one of the founders."
"Not funny," Harry croaked, his breathing ragged and uncollected.
"Honestly, Potter, you sound like a dog. Quit panting, would you?"
"Shut it," Harry grumbled, resenting Ron's attitude. "Anyway, why are you in here?"
No reply was heard.
Harry grinned in spite of the situation. "Oh, I see," he smirked cattily, relaxing his shoulders into a hunch. "Malfoy and the Death Eaters turned against you, eh?"
"It didn't happen like that," Ron insisted a bit too passionately. He paused, and Harry waited. "I didn't know I was intended to become one of them," Ron said quietly.
"Oh, honestly!" Harry snorted. "You mean to tell me that you thought you could be a virtual Slytherin, buddy up to Malfoy, praise Voldemort-" Harry could almost hear Ron flinch "-and insult Muggle-borns, and then they wouldn't expect you to become a Death Eater? That you were just heading to the Manor with Malfoy for a nice, countryside vacation?"
Again, Ron didn't respond.
"Oh. Oh, God. You did, didn't you?" Harry shuffled uncomfortably in the cell, stretching out his knees so that both hit against opposite walls. Something twanged in his heart, something that he hadn't expected to feel for Ron ever again.
Sympathy.
And then he scowled, forcing himself to not feel sorry for the callous person that Ron Weasley had become, and would have turned away if room had permitted. "That still doesn't excuse the way you acted," Harry said softly. As much as he tried, he couldn't fit anger into his voice.
"Do you want me to say that I'm sorry?" Ron's voice suddenly cut through the air like a knife, edgy and dangerously low. "Is that what you want, Potter? A goddamn apology? Would that make everything better?"
"No," said Harry simply.
"I was being sarcastic."
"So I noticed."
"Y'know," said Ron sharply. "Just 'cause we're stuck here together doesn't mean that we have to talk."
Harry agreed to this by not replying. He was angry, truly angry. The situation; perilous, the prospects of escaping; slim, the hope within Harry; fleeting, and now any help he could have gotten from Ron was diminished by the sore redhead who wouldn't let go.
"This is stupid," he suddenly said loudly.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know," said Harry. "It's just, well, here's the way I see it. You may insult the bloody hell out of her, but I doubt you want Hermione to die. Obviously, neither do I. The Death Eaters aren't too friendly with either of us right now, and it wouldn't hurt to get out of this little prison-thingy. Can't we just forget that you hate me with a passion just for an hour or so?"
He waited for a response, the tension in the tiny cell insurmountable. Finally, Ron grunted. "It wouldn't kill me."
Harry reached to shake Ron's hand, but missed in the dark. If not for the knowledge of what lay ahead of them, Harry would have blushed something furious.
"Harry?"
"You're calling me Harry."
"Yes, I'm aware of that."
"All right then. Go on."
"You love her, don't you?"
Harry blushed darker and pulled his jaw forward firmly. "Very much."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"This won't work," Ron said, licking the blood off of his fingers that was slowly trickling down from the sides of his fingernails. "This is the Dark Lord we're dealing with, not Fisher Price."*
Harry scowled. "Well, when we tried to force ourselves through the bars, your oversized head nearly got stuck. I think trying to break through the wall is a better option."
"Yeah, a better option if you're choosing between being urinated on or tar- and-feathered," Ron snapped.
Harry tilted his head to side. "I'd pick tar-and-feathered."
"Again, sarcasm."
"Again, I noticed."
And in spite of it all, they chuckled quietly together, not truly understanding why, but knowing that it was quite possibly the last laugh they would share in a long time. And with that thought, they put everything they had into it.
When the laughter subsided, an unmentioned tension had been lifted, and they wordlessly got on their knees and resumed scraping at the cracks in the bricks. They ignored the dirtied blood that now ran down their palms and streaks their wrists, working diligently with a drive that only a life- or-death situation can bring about.
Given a few hours, it's remotely possible that they could have gotten somewhere, even if it was only enough to stick one's finger through. But an unseen door swung open and blinding light flooded into the room, silhouetting two dark, hooded fingers framed in the doorway.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Dani and Lexa plodded quietly down the corridor, unsure of who or what they were looking for. They were, however, certain that they had ought to make getting to the Mors Mortis dungeon one of their top priorities, along with getting out alive and finding Harry-and Hermione. The custodians had talked of a traitor in the Mors Mortis dungeon, whose identity had gone unmentioned, but Dani and Lexa figured that the "death" dungeon was a good place to start out. Harry could be there with the "traitor," or they may be able to get information out of the side-switching chap.
There was one small problem, however.
"How are we supposed to find this Morrison Mort place, exactly?"
"Mors Mortis," Lexa corrected sternly, but she had no answer for her dark- haired accompaniment. The corridor was as dark as the emblazoned mark on her forearm, and the torches lining the walls did little to help. They had tread cautiously out of the closet once they were sure that the janitors were out of sight, and found themselves in an identical corridor to the one that they had fled from. Needless to say, it was a rather confusing situation.
"Haven't you been here before?" Dani asked impatiently, absently scratching at the imitation mark on his arm.
"Once," Lexa said quietly. Dani didn't pry; he sensed that the topic was closed.
"Well," he said, clearing his throat in a manner that Lexa found obnoxious. "We could ask someone."
Lexa shot him a cynical look. "Oh, right. That'll work."
"Why not, 'Desdemona'?" he smirked impishly, rubbing his stubble-covered jaw. "Who said that obvious is wrong? Look," he pointed as they turned the corner. A man was stepping out from a doorway, engrossed in flipping through a few papers he clutched loosely. And with a wink, before Lexa could part her lips to protest, Dani was striding confidently ahead of her and to the man.
The guy lifted his green-gray eyes up from the sheet of white paper upon hearing Dani approach without tilting his chin. He smiled lightly as a greeting, although seemingly eager to get back to his work, and peered at the Spanish young man whose face held a toothy grin. "Can I help you?"
"Hi," Dani said cheerfully, enthusiastically thrusting his hand to be shaken; the other man took the cue, briefly gripping Dani's hand in his own and then retreating it quickly. The man had dark brown, shaggy hair with light gray touches of age. He stared at Dani expectantly.
"My name is Mark Estefan, and this-" Dani beckoned to Lexa "-is Desdemona. We're, uh, Death Eaters."
The man narrowed his green eyes at Dani. "Uh, yeah. That is why you would be here, Mark."
"Right," "Mark" said, undaunted. "Well, we just got orders to head for the, uh, what was that dungeon called, Mona?" Lexa didn't say a thing. "It started with an 'M,' didn't it, Mona?" Again, nothing. Dani balled his fists and turned to Lexa.
He was surprised; she had gone white in the face and her jaw hung as if it had come unhinged from the rest of her mouth. "I don't know what's gotten into her," Dani said through clenched teeth.
"You mean the Mors Mortis dungeon?" the man said to Dani, though his eyes were focused past him on Lexa. His head was tilted to the side in thought, and Dani was confused. But he knew that he didn't like it. He didn't like it at all.
"Yes, the Mors Mortis," Dani said loudly, aiming to break the connection and mildly succeeding. The man's eyes flashed back to Dani.
Those very eyes had a suspicious demeanor about them, and Dani's blood ran cold. Why would this man have any reason to doubt them? What was wrong with Lexa?
"Why do you need to go there?" the man asked sharply, tucking the leaflets under his arm like he had all the time in the world for an explanation.
"Aimes and Abrahams told us that the traitor was being kept there and we should check on his consciousness," Dani heard Lexa say in a strong, unwavering voice that didn't match her shaky stance and blanched face. He turned, surprised, to find that some of the color had returned to her complexion and her fists were balled as tightly as his own. Realizing, he relaxed his fingers and felt the blood flow throughout them.
The man's eyes flickered back to Lexa's, holding the fierce gaze with curiosity that Dani couldn't quite understand. "Robert Aimes and Leon Abrahams?"
"Right," Lexa said confidently, and Dani couldn't believe his ears. What the hell was she talking about?
"I thought Abrahams had returned to Israel to tend to his sickly wife."
"All I know is that we saw him a few minutes ago in the Nyquist Room," Lexa said coolly.
"All right then," the man said with matching intensity, only blinking curtly and then pointing his eyes at his papers. "Down the hall, third right, down four stairwells, down the corridor, fourth left."
Dani eyed him warily before turning back to Lexa, whose line of vision still ended on the man's face. "Let's go, Desdemona," he said forcefully, taking a step back and grabbing her hand up from her side. "Thanks, Mr...?"
"Riddle," the man said. "Call me Tom."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Ready?" said Guy, cupping a pinch of Floo powder in the palm of his hand.
"All set," Dean replied in a hard voice. "Sure there's no hard feelings, Seamus?"
The Irish boy just grunted and folded his arms tightly across the front of his robes.
"I'm ready," Nar said shakily, his tone contrasting with his words. "Are you guys sure I have enough powder?"
"No," Guy said simply. Dean gave Guy a look.
Dean Thomas, Guy Wimsdon, and Seamus Finnigan had rolled lots to see which two of the three would be accompanying Nar to the Manor, and they had done so in a hurry that pressed upon the situation at hand. It had been decided that Nar would definitely go because of his internal Malfoy blood-in case that was, in fact, necessary-and that Neville would not be attending because of, well, his fear and protests of, "Don't make me go! I can't do it! I'll bloody faint!" And, well, who can argue with that?
Dean had rolled first, triumphant with his ten that practically guaranteed him a spot on the Hogwarts Three Rescue Team (a nifty little name that Nar had thought of while Seamus followed to roll a two, much to his blatant chagrin). Guy went on to roll a seven, and he, Dean, and Nar found themselves standing in front of the fireplace that two of their professors had recently departed from with a tiny amount of powder in each of their fists.
"Go on." Nar nervously nudged Dean, who shot the pale-faced boy a resentful glare.
"Why do I have to go first?"
"Oh, for crikes sake!" Guy cried out. "The Manor!" he yelled as he tossed the powder into the fire before a word could be spoken and jumped after it into the fizzing flames. Nar and Dean watched him disappear, while Neville fidgeted behind them beside an indignant Seamus.
"That guy's got balls," Nar said with awe.
Seamus shook his head. "Nah, nothing too impressive."
A round of "what-the-hell?" looks was tossed in his direction.
"Oh," said Seamus suddenly, blushing deeply. "Was that meant to be a euphanism?"
Dean shook his head disgustedly. "I won't even ask." And he jumped into the fire after Guy.
Nar shot a timid look back to a terrified Neville and embarrassed Seamus, and then reluctantly followed suit. Droplets of blood from his neck splattered against the floor as he jumped.
Seamus leaned against the desk, exhaling and closing his eyes tightly. He heard Neville speak cautiously from across the room.
"What do we do now?"
Seamus sighed, jamming his hands into his pockets. "We wait."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~I almost stopped here. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Harry tensed, and looked to Ron. He squinted. The light let him make out the youngest Weasley male's features, and it frightened him. The blood staining from the tips of his fingers to his elbows seemed more real in the light. His skin was pasty, making his freckles appear darker. He had gotten skinnier, too, and these were differences that Harry knew couldn't have developed only in the past day. *I wonder why I never noticed the physical changes in him. They must have been clouded over by the internal differences.*
But that was only the start. Ron had been beaten, apparent from the dark, gruesome bruises in the hollows of his cheeks and surrounding his narrowed brown eyes. There was blood on his disheveled, ripped robes that couldn't have come from his hands, and though hand-me-downs, Ron's robes were never in that shape.
There was something else about Ron that Harry couldn't quite put his finger on. His expression seemed so different from not only the best friend he used to have, but the Ron that had called him "scar face" and Hermione a Mudblood in class as well. He seemed... callused. And Harry could understand why.
Harry's eyes darted back to door, where the two Death Eaters entered. Only, they weren't Death Eaters. One held a broom, and the other's belt held his wand and a few Muggle tools: a wrench, a hammer, and a handsaw that Harry found extremely daunting. He heard Ron's breath catch in his throat, and Harry knew Ron's expression of panic was mirrored by his own face.
The two men lowered their hoods. They really weren't that intimidating looking, really. One was very short, and one was very tall. The shorter one advanced first, looking curiously through the bars of Harry and Ron's captivation. Harry knew without moving that the man was inches away from where his arm would stretch. No strangling for today. *Damn.*
"Which one of yuh is the tray'er?" the shorter one asked. He still kept his distance, lingering at the doorway.
Ron smiled weakly and sarcastically raised his blood-soaked arm at the elbow. "That would be me. Nice to meet you. I'm the traitor."
" 'Am Joel Mayberry. Nice ter meet yuh." The taller man wasn't exactly the brightest crayon in the box. "I'd shake yer hand, but y'know..." He chuckled, whereas Harry and Ron could only look at him dryly.
" 'Ait just a darn secon'," the shorter man said raspily, taking a step closer and peering at Harry, who flattened his bangs against his forehead instinctively. " 'At's 'Arry Potter! Look, Joel, ah can see 'is scar!"
"I'll be darned," Joel said, putting his hands on his hips. "Won't Voldy- mort be happy to see that 'Arry fell right into his trap?"
"Quite," the other man said, grinning to reveal a full set of yellow teeth. "C'mon, yeh get the tray'er. I'll get the Potter boy."
Harry and Ron exchanged nervous glances. "I don't have my wand, do you?" Harry whispered.
"If I had my wand, would I be faint from blood loss?"
"Point taken."
And they fell into a body bind as Joel flicked his wand. They watched, helpless and taut, as the two men greedily advanced on them.
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"Weird fellow," Dani muttered as Tom Riddle disappeared down the hallway. He pulled on Lexa's hand, but she didn't move. "¿Qué pasa? (What's up, what's wrong?)"
"Dani, that was Tom Riddle," she said numbly, her hand going cold in his.
"Yes, that's what he said," Dani said gruffly, yanking on her hand once more. Still, she refused to budge. "Come on, we need to find Harry."
Lexa took a deep breath, let go of Dani, and then took both of his hands in her own. "Daniel, if you want to find Harry...." She looked distantly down the corridor that Tom had disappeared from. "Then let's go."
He blinked. "Go where?"
"Daniel," she said, blinking in rhythm. "We're going to have to follow Tom Riddle."
"Why?" Dani sounded annoyed.
"Because Tom Riddle is Lord Voldemort."
The man with an answer for everything couldn't think of a thing to say.
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"Oh, and I was supposed to know that we'd land in Malfoy's bedroom?!" Dean cried, folding his arms uncomfortably across his chest as he quickly closed the door behind Guy, Nar, and himself. They found themselves in a long corridor much like those at Hogwarts.
"Well, Malfoy wasn't lying when he said he wasn't a virgin," Guy said, and then cringed at his own words. "Oh. Oh, God. Ew, ew, ew."
"What, Guy?"
"Girls have actually slept with Malfoy," Guy spat as if the words tasted unpleasantly sour.
Dean shrugged. "Maybe it was involuntary."
Guy considered this. "I guess that makes it a little better. How are you holding up, Nar?"
But Nar Litkins was cringing against the wall, his left eye twitching and his hands shaking. "I," he announced slowly and painfully, "am scarred for life. May my eyes never see again." He did the wizard's equivalent of crossing himself and reluctantly opened his eyes to find that his sight was, indeed, fully intact.
"Did Malfoy see who we were?" Dean asked with urgency, twiddling his thumbs nervously.
"He called me 'Butler,'" Guy offered.
"That's a negative." Dean began pacing a short length of the corridor and looked up sharply at Nar and Guy. "We'd better find Harry. You heard what Professor Alexis said. 'Right into the hands of the Dark Lord himself.'"
Nar shivered. "I would have preferred that to... to... there," he shuddered in the direction of the bedroom door.
"That's funny, I don't see the 'This way to your group photo with Uncle Voldie' sign," Guy drawled disagreeably.
Nar twitched again.
"Right," Dean sighed, pressing his back against the corridor. "If I was an evil snake-like guy bent on world-domination and the prosecution of Muggle- borns, what room would I hide out in?"
"Try the Neiman Drawing Room," drawled a cold, familiar voice.
Dean, Nar, and Guy spun around in horror to come face to face with none other than Draco Malfoy, completely in the buff except for a white towel tied loosely around his waist.
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*This isn't my first pen name, in a previous story of mine under a diff pen name I used this line. Just wanted to clear that up.
A/N: Okay, that's enough. LET IT BE KNOWN THAT I HAVE NO OBJECTIONS TO DRACO MALFOY IN THE NUDE. But, I imagine Dean, Nar, and Guy would, y'know? Right? Right. Okay. It's four in the morning, but good citizen Tori is going to post anyway. I'll have my thankyous when I wake up tomorrow... which should be 2-ish. But thanks so much for all of your reviews! You guys kick ass. Arse. We're speaking British. You kick arse.
Adios~Escritora
