Dance with the Devil and His Daughter
1. Rain
"Not the wolfsbane, you stupid brat! Doesn't it say clearly in the instructions that you should use dragon blood instead? Huh?"
"Y-yes, s-sir. Sorry, sir."
"Now drag your lazy ass down here and get the proper ingredients, before you make a complete fool of yourself, Abercrombie!"
"Yes, sir!"
It was a rainy Wednesday morning. Draco Malfoy strode about his classroom, snarling and swearing at his students, being even more frightening than Professor Snape had ever been. He was now having a group of sixth year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs under his surveillance, and he was close to strangling each and every one of them. He would have been almost happy to have even one student with brains, but it seemed that he was doomed to suffering from brainless idiots during the whole double lessons of Potions he was teaching.
"Zeller, what exactly do you think you are brewing here?" he scowled at one of the Hufflepuff girls. "Have I not told you that Confusing Concoction should be silver green, and not pink?"
"Oh… yes… I'm sorry, professor. I just thought…"
"Obviously you did not think anything at all –except that ruddy Valentine's ball next week. Ten points from Hufflepuff."
Rose Zeller sank back in her chair, and Draco Malfoy continued seething around.
Oh, how in Merlin's name had it all ended up to this? Wait –Draco knew exactly how it had all ended up like this. He was the new Potions professor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry solely because of the circumstances that had taken place three years ago –Harry Potter beating Lord Voldemort in the final battle.
It had been a long and hard war, and many witches and wizards had died. His parents, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were dead. His aunt Bellatrix was dead. His friends, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle were dead. Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson were dead. Lord Voldemort was dead.
And damn it, Professor Snape was dead, which made Draco Malfoy the only person in the Northern Britain who could master at least some amount of the Potions knowledge that Snape had.
Draco threw a distasteful look at Gabrielle Delaour's badly chopped mandrake roots and ignored her apologizing glances. In his mind he sometimes cursed Dumbledore for taking him in. Despite the fact that he was only twenty years old, he was already a Potions Professor and the youngest Head of House in history. He had inherited that title from Severus Snape, too. Twenty rapid years, and he was already the Head of Slytherin house, with all the worries and responsibilities and advantages included. The only thing he did not regret was that he had gotten out of Azkaban.
Draco held the urge to massage his temples as he heard Abercombie's cauldron explode behind his back.
"Twenty points from Gryffindor," he sighed, and strode over to his desk.
There was a thick pile of parchments, waiting for his attention. Most of them were letters from the students' parents that needed answering. Draco took a nip from his Calming Potion vial and decided to deal with the annoying inquiries later that evening. Now he needed to concentrate on surviving through the first lesson of the day.
* * *
It was indeed a rainy Wednesday. And not even beautiful –it was soggy, foggy and drenched. And grey. Harry did not like grey –it reminded him of some things he wanted to forget.
Harry Potter was watching out of his living room window, seeing how the inhabitants of the little Hogsmeade town tried to find shelter from a strengthening shower.
"It's really miserable, isn't it, Hedwig?" he asked, smoothing the silky feathers of Hedwig's back.
The owl hooted gently, then starting off and flying a round across the spacious room. Harry followed her tour with heavy-lidded eyes, smiling sadly.
"Do you like Shrieking Shack, Hedwig? I know it's a bit shabby still, but look how much space you've got."
Harry eyed tiredly the room. Two old, faded oriental carpets were covering the wooden floor with their dark green softness. Three armchairs stood in front of the grate, each of them different colour –one red, one black and one green. A dark wooden table was situated beneath a portrait of Sirius Black, in the most shadowed corner of the room. The photograph album of his parents lay on top of it.
Harry sighed desolately at the view, and conjured up a cup of warm camomile tea.
"Imagine, Hedwig… I'm only twenty years old, and I'm already an Auror. What do you think about that?" he smiled.
Hedwig hooted again, affectionately, now sitting on the mantelpiece, spreading her left wing elegantly.
"Only that there's nothing for me to do right now," Harry sighed. "There's no Dark Lord rampaging around anymore. And I don't feel like wasting my time in trying to find possible Death Eaters that might've survived. After all…" Harry yawned, "…it is already three years."
Harry's thoughts were interrupted when the flames in the grate intensified and grew taller. Instantly he collected himself, masked his features with a warm grin and pretended to be happy to see his best friend.
"Ron!"
"Yes, it's me again, mate," simpered the redhead from the fireplace. "How are you doing, Harry?"
There was a dark shadow behind Harry's eyes, but it was carefully covered with the rim of the tea mug as he took a comforting draft from it.
"I'm just fine. What about you? And Hermione?"
"We're both fine, I suppose," Ron grinned lopsidedly. "We're just so busy at the Ministry these days that I hardly see her."
Harry tried to create a smile that would look understanding. Surely enough, rebuilding the Ministry of Magic couldn't be a job easily done. And with the strict Hermione Granger leading the whole procedure with the sloppy Ludo Bagman and the overly-complying Arthur Weasley, it was certainly doomed to be catastrophic.
"Is Hermione still insisting upon a department for the rights of the half-breed?" Harry faked to be interested, although in truth he willed the conversation to end.
"Yeah, and I think she's finally got it through, too," Ron said.
"Well, that's good news indeed," he smiled, so widely that his cheeks hurt. In truth, he felt like punching Ron's head that was floating above the flames.
He did not know exactly why. It had been like this since the war had ended –he had just suddenly grown tired of every contact to his best friends.
"I've missed your company," Ron continued, smiling goofily.
"Well, really Ron, you've been popping in and out of the flames at least thrice a day," Harry harrumphed.
"There's actually a reason why I wanted to talk to you tonight, Harry," Ron said, looking a little confused, obviously noticing that everything wasn't right with his friend, after all.
"Okay," Harry sighed, curling in a small heap, sitting on the soft carpet, facing Ron and sipping his tea more eagerly. "What is it?"
"I just wanted to tell you… I am coming to visit you in three weeks, when I have my winter holidays. So be prepared to throw a fair party and buy lots of butterbeer!"
"Er…"
"Hey, I got to go now, mate," Ron said and turned his head, as if glancing over his shoulder that wasn't there. "I think Oliver called me, he wants to have a word about the details of the Department of Quidditch. Well, promise to write to me soon, will you? I want to hear more often from you."
"Uh, sure, Ron," Harry nodded. "Whatever."
An instant relief soured over him as Ron's head disappeared and was replaced with normal, orange merry flames.
"Whatever…" Harry spat. He banished his tea mug with a Vanishing Spell.
He stood up and headed for the bathroom, wanting to take a shower. Long and calming shower…
When had his life started to feel this abysmal?
* * *
The rainy Wednesday was not affecting one certain escapee, who was sitting in front of a crackling fire, wearing a heavy red velvet gown and a black shawl. She was fondling a shining, golden locket that was hanging from a golden chain around her neck, and her expression was dream-like and distant.
Bellatrix Lestrange was very satisfied with the way things had ended up with her. Despite her husband, Rodolphus Lestrange, had died in the Second War, she thought she was quite well off. She had good connexions in the right circles, which helped her acquire a trustworthy Secret-Keeper, and plenty of money, which allowed her freedom. She was now sitting in the cosy living room of the mighty Dolohov Manor, Antonin Dolohov's residence in Wiltshire. But Antonin was dead now, as was his wife. Oh, and just to mention –everybody thought that she, the crazy Bellatrix Black Lestrange, was dead, too.
Bellatrix listened to the rain that pattered against the roof stiles. Far away, she heard a horse carriage coming closer, and decided it must be her sister, Narcissa Malfoy. She picked up the medallion again, smoothing the sleek surface lovingly, before suddenly snapping it open.
There, inside the little medallion, were two pictures. One was from Thomas Marvolo Riddle, and the other one was from Lord Voldemort in his rising days. Bellatrix fondled the pictures with her long-nailed forefinger. She smiled a sad smile, one that could be compared to Harry Potter's, if caught on a Christmas day.
"You know I will bring you back to life. Just wait for me, father."
She snapped the medallion shut, and returned to stare at the fire. Her eyes got a far-away gleam, and she travelled through her memories to the day when she had first heard from her mother that Mr. Black really wasn't her true father.
She had been eleven years old when her mother had bluntly told her how she had been the Dark Lord's mistress for several years, despite she was married to Mr. Black. Bellatrix, being so young, and loving Mr. Black with all her heart, had been very upset. But after a couple of years, when she had realised what kind of a powerful man the Dark Lord actually was, she had started to feel proud of her true father. She had insisted upon a meeting with Voldemort, and received one.
She had been thirteen years old when she had gotten her Dark Mark. She had been the first one ever to get it, the very first of the Death Eaters, and that had made her feel special. Bellatrix had loved her real father from the moment they first embraced. And yet, not one soul except her mother, her half sister Narcissa and the Dark Lord, ever knew this little secret of their relationship.
Bellatrix had many times wondered why nobody had ever questioned why she looked so much different from her sisters. Narcissa, with her pure white hair and bright blue eyes, was something totally different than Bellatrix with her ink-black locks and shadowy, dark grey eyes. Andromeda, being a Metamorphmagus, and having a cute, round freckled face, was strikingly different from Bellatrix, whose skin was paler than moonlight, and face elegantly sculptured. Just like young Tom Riddle's.
But none of that mattered anymore. Today, Bellatrix Lestrange was an isolated, strange bird. She was thirty-eight years old, and had everything she had ever wanted: wealth, beauty, brains and power. Oh, and most importantly, the appearance of being dead.
If somebody saw her these days, they might say she was a bit mad, with her ever-changing moods and evil, scheming nature. But that didn't bother the woman at all. She was just like her father, and she loved it that way. Voldemort had also noticed this, and had started to call her playfully just Bella, to remind her how much he appreciated her. This thought brought a genuine smile on the full, sinful lips of Bellatrix.
"I will resurrect you, Father. I promise you. And it will be very soon."
* * *
Draco Malfoy dropped half dead on his four-poster, burying his head deep against his pillow. It was only three hours from the time when he woke up, but already he felt ready to crawl back under the quilt. The first two hours of Wednesday's Potions were over.
"I. Hate. My. Life." he mumbled against the suffocating pillow canvas. "I hate Gryffindor and Hufflepuff… Fucking annoying, stupid little horrors… How can they possibly be so slow…? I mean, honestly…"
Draco groaned when he heard a knock on the door. Looking more than a little wearied, his bright hair sticking out in every direction, he dragged himself up from the bed and toddled across the room to let the intruder in.
"Headmaster Dumbledore," he acknowledged.
"Professor Malfoy," Dumbledore gently smiled at the tow-headed boy. "Might I come in?"
"Yeah, sure…" Draco opened the door a bit more and gestured the old wizard enter the room. "Please, sit down."
"I see you're rather successfully started your Wednesday, again," the Headmaster's eyes twinkled.
"Very successfully," Draco grunted, but all the same allowed himself a little, amused smirk. "How did you know?"
"Well, it is all written over your face, Professor Malfoy," Dumbledore smiled, "Was it Abercrombie again?"
"Among others, yes," Draco sighed and poked the fire in his grate to grow a bit larger. "They're hopeless dunderheads, the whole lot of them."
Dumbledore seated himself in an armchair and fumbled his pockets for a lemon drop. "If I recall correctly, my dear Draco, Professor Snape used to have similar problems with your age class, as well."
"Of course," Draco grinned. "With that hopeless Longbottom…"
"Yes, Potions was not his thing, I am afraid," the Headmaster said, "But you must acknowledge he is a good Herbology professor after all."
Draco looked sombre. "Yes, he's a good teacher in that subject, I must admit. But I only wish he wouldn't have his chambers so close to mine. You know how he snores at nights, so that the whole castle shakes…"
"Oh, that is exactly why I wanted to come and talk to you, Professor Malfoy."
"Really? You've really heard his snores, too?" Draco asked, flustered.
"No, fortunately I have not," Dumbledore simpered. "What I was going to say is that Neville is going to get Hagrid's old hut for himself, as he has so often requested, and will be moving in tonight."
"Good," Draco grinned, happily, "Then I shall have the whole end of this aisle for myself!"
"I'm afraid that won't do, my dear Draco. Namely, I have asked a new professor to attend the school, and he will be getting Neville's old rooms."
"A new professor?"
"Yes. If he accepts, he shall be teaching the Practical Defence. And he is an old… acquaintance of yours."
Something nasty began to grow in Draco's stomach. No, it could not be…
"I'm waiting a reply from Harry Potter, Professor Malfoy."
"What?" Draco whined with pained voice. "Potter?"
"Yes," Dumbledore smiled, "Potter."
"But… but…"
"I'm sure you'll be getting along wonderfully," Dumbledore patted Draco's shoulder.
Draco merely gave him a disbelieving and angry look before rising up and heading straight for his well-equipped mini bar.
* * *
"Listen to this, Hedwig," Harry shouted rather loudly at his owl, which was currently in a different room than him. "Headmaster Dumbledore wishes me to teach Practical Defence at Hogwarts."
Harry was lying lazily in his bed, sprawled on his back without anything but a towel around his waist. He had just had a calming shower. The shortly arrived letter was crumpling in his hand.
"He says that since I already have some prior experience from my school days… Hedwig, where are you? Come here."
Somebody would have thought it rather insane, talking to an owl like she was a real human person. But Harry Potter had never been normal, now had he?
"I think I'm going to accept," Harry continued, staggering in the living room in his search of Hedwig, "Mainly because I'm so damn bored, but also because I miss that place. Hogwarts…" Harry jumped over his jeans he had thrown carelessly on the floor, "Hogwarts is like a second home to me."
He found Hedwig sitting on the living room windowsill, looking out in the grey day.
"You want to go out for a stroll?"
Hedwig nibbled Harry's forefinger and ruffled up his feathers.
"I know it's horrible out there but you could deliver Dumbledore my answer," Harry smiled and walked at the wooden table in the corner. Carefully, he pushed the photograph album aside and took out a piece of parchment and a quill from the drawer. He concentrated, furrowing his brows, ignoring the rain that was still whipping the windows from the outside.
Headmaster Dumbledore,
I have thought about your suggestion and am pleased to inform you that I have accepted. I will arrive at the school tomorrow morning and can start my lessons straightaway.
Well then, until tomorrow.
Harry.
Grinning, Harry sealed the parchment and attached it to Hedwig's leg. Then he performed a Drought Charm on the letter to keep it dry during the sopping wet journey.
"Off you go, Hedwig! Oh, and don't forget to send my love to Malfoy!" Harry sneered, being sarcastic, like so often nowadays. "I bet he's thrilled with this news!"
Yawning, Harry staggered into the kitchen, wanting to have a cup of real Muggle coffee.
* * *
"Hello Narcissa… Feeling still alive?"
"Did you have a boring day, Bella?"
"Why so?"
"It's just that you haven't mentioned my physical state at least in two weeks, you bitch."
Narcissa Malfoy sailed into the living room, carrying a basket of food, mostly home-made goodies she once used to send her son, Draco, to Hogwarts. Bellatrix followed her ghost-like form, pale as the brightest of angels, and her eyes that were as dead as stone. And surely, if one looked really close, they could see thousands of tiny scars across Narcissa's smooth skin, left there by the curses the Aurors had cast on her.
Only the tiniest amount of Veela blood in her veins had made her survive the Second War in the first place. She was now under heavy medication, drinking vialfuls of different potions in order to keep her frail form together. But not even the finest of potions could have saved her soul. No. Narcissa Malfoy was dead inside, if not for one faint emotion, aimed towards her only son.
"You still think of telling Draco that you're alive?" Bellatrix asked, smiling wanly.
"Every day," Narcissa exhaled, her voice thick with longing. "But I think it's better for him not to know. He's doing great, you know."
"Let us not talk about that anymore," Bellatrix frowned. She really didn't appreciate Draco Malfoy's career choice as the Potions master.
"You're right," Narcissa said. "So… What have you been doing?"
"Oh, I've been planning," Bellatrix said enthusiastically.
"Nothing new there," Narcissa conjured up a tea set, looking pensive. "And have you already come up with anything? You do know it has been already three years. It's not healthy for you to dwell in the past. Thomas is dead."
Bellatrix' eyes flashed with anger, "Don't ever say that, Cissa. Don't fucking ever say that!"
The blonde Malfoy sighed, giving her half sister a peanut butter sandwich. "I apologize."
The rain started to beat the window glasses even harder than before. Narcissa Malfoy closed her eyes, hoping that some news from their Secret-Keeper would reach their ears soon. Bellatrix slowly ate her sandwich, eyeing the fire.
"I must bring him back to life, Cissa," she whispered. Her face was blank, striped with coal-black strands of hair, and it was clear that she was tired with her life. "Tom was everything to me. Everything! He was my source of inspiration, my source of ambition. Somebody who I looked up to. Somebody who I loved. He was… He was my father."
"I know," Narcissa whispered back, looking sadly at Bellatrix, the sister she loved like she was a full one. "And I miss him, too."
…TBC…