Chapter 16: Crimson Blood
2 SEPTEMBER 1979, FIRST YEAR
There was a free day between the Welcome Feast and the first day of classes. Meli supposed that this time was meant to be spent in a flurry of bonding with her new roommates and making friends among her Housemates, but she had little interest in doing either. She was convinced that the Sorting Hat had mis-Sorted her; it was becoming increasingly clear that she was not a pure Gryffindor—not, she reflected, that she'd be happier in Slytherin. One silver lining to that cloud would have been Crim Fell's company, however; as predicted, Crim had been Sorted into Slytherin, as had Sharpie. Collum had wound up in Gryffindor with Meli, but in her estimation, he was far too much of a Gryffindor for her truly to identify with him—ever.
She wondered seriously if there was now any chance of her and Crim being friends. Inter-House friendships were rare, and friendships between Gryffindors and Slytherins were entirely unheard of. Should such an anomaly form, the nastiest consequences would fall on Crim; at worst, Meli would be rejected by her Housemates, but since she already isolated herself, that wouldn't bother her in the least. Crim, on the other hand, could well find herself the victim of pure Slytherin malice that would result in seven years of very miserable dormitory life. It was with firmness, then, though not without regret, that Meli resolved to drop the matter entirely from her mind.
And really, it was for the best; she was a deadly liability to anyone she was foolish enough to befriend, no matter what their House.
That resolve lasted her a full ten hours, during eight of which she was asleep.
Meli was on her way from breakfast to Gryffindor Tower when a slim, black-robed figure stepped out of an alcove and into her path. She looked up in some surprise, which was not in the least dissipated when she recognized Crimson Fell.
"Hullo, Meli," Crim said in an undertone. "I know you'd probably prefer not to be seen with me, but could I have a word?"
Meli nearly smiled with relief as Crim pulled her back into the shadowy alcove.
"I don't regret where either of us ended up, but it's something of a drag they had to be rival Houses," Crim began. "Still, if you don't mind associating with a Slytherin, I hope we might still be friends."
Now Meli did smile. "I hoped the same," she replied. "But aren't you risking a hazing?"
Crim grinned wickedly. "No. They tried to 'initiate' me last night, but I soon put them to rights with a few hexes I'm not supposed to know yet." She smirked. "Sharpie didn't fare so well, though. I wonder if he wasn't mis-Sorted."
"I know I was," Meli muttered. "There's something not right when a Slytherin is the only one who sounds sensible to Gryffindor ears."
Crim shrugged. "All that means is you've got more sense than anyone else in your House. I'd take it as a compliment."
"Maybe," Meli conceded. "But I still think I'm in the wrong House."
Crim looked appraisingly at her for a long, silent moment. Finally: "You had an omen of some sort that convinced you you'd be in Slytherin, didn't you?"
Meli stared at her. "How—?"
"Prankster's instinct," Crim replied. "If you really want to give someone a good scare, you've got to know what'll make her flip her wig—or what's already made her flip her wig."
"Right." Meli sighed. "It's my wand." She drew it out to show to her new friend.
"Cherry wood," Crim observed. "Supposed to be good for Transfiguration, right?" She arched an eyebrow. "So what happened?"
Meli was not inclined to explain the wand's core; the rest of the story was bad enough. "As soon as I took hold of it, it let out a cloud of pink smoke . . . then a green light like a cobra came out of the tip and made a dash at Ollivander."
"And what did he do?"
Meli shook her head. "He laughed it off, said it was a peculiar wand but it was obviously mine."
"Well . . . Crim shrugged. "Maybe it just means you're a Parselmouth."
"Parsel—" Meli stared at her. "Just a Parselmouth? Crim, if I am, do you have any idea what that means?" She knew full well that she was a Parselmouth, but she had no intention of parting with that information; it was a fact which frightened her and of which she was not at all proud.
Crim, however, gave her a patient look. "My dear Meli," she sighed, resting a hand on the other's shoulder. "Let me tell you a secret that hardly anyone knows: a Parselmouth is nothing more or less than someone who can converse with snakes. Those people are rare, and I personally believe that a disproportionate number of them don't deserve the honor, but there you have it. You're not doomed to be the next You-Know-Who or even one of his followers, and you're definitely not a shoo-in for Slytherin House just on that fact alone. If you're a Parselmouth, it just means you have a grasp of an unusually creepy language—that's all." She smiled knowingly. "But of course, since no one knows whether or not you actually are one . . ."
Meli saw in the other girl's eye that Crim understood perfectly the truth of the matter without hearing it said aloud. She knew instinctively, though, that Crimson Fell would never betray her, just as she would never betray Crim.
"Wands are such a boring topic," the Slytherin said smoothly. "What do you think of pranks as an alternative?"
"I don't know anything about pranks," Meli replied solemnly.
"Something which Collum and I intend to change," Crim told her. "Sharpie, too, once the formidable Madame Pomfrey is through torturing him with the Skele-Gro—assuming he survives, of course."
Meli raised her eyebrows. "Skele-Gro?" she echoed.
Crim grinned again. "Oh, yes. Our Head of House walked in on it before they could finish, but by the time he got to the hospital wing, he hadn't any bones in his arms or legs. They were starting on his ribs—fascinating lot, those Slytherins."
"Suddenly Gryffindor doesn't seem so bad."
"You'll survive," Crim assured her. "I'll see to it personally."
PRESENT: MID-DECEMBER
She didn't hear the door open, didn't hear anyone slip inside, most certainly didn't hear the foe-approach devices, which remained oddly silent. Her first idea that anything was amiss was the sound of a throat being cleared. That failure of her preternatural hearing was in itself disturbingly strange.
Crimson reacted instantly, dropping her book and standing to face the intruder. Her brow slowly unfurrowed, however, when she saw who it was.
"Hullo, Sharpie," she said cautiously, already fingering her wand.
His answer was only two words, a command sent by the wand he'd held hidden in his hand, the result of which caught her powerfully and painfully in her midsection. Her mouth filled with fluid. She choked, then coughed, spilling it out onto her open hand—a rich, red flood.
It flowed past her open lips now, rolling from her chin to the floor below.
"Why—?" she managed, then saw, just before the darkness took her for good, the cold, horrifying answer to that question. The Dark Mark was her last sight in the world of the living.
Meli was halfway through a rapid review of hinkypunks when Snape burst in. To the students' eyes, he looked more than usually angry; to Meli's, he was visibly agitated. She carefully maintained her calm mask, merely arching an inquisitive eyebrow as though his entrance was perfectly normal.
"What can I do for you, Professor Snape?" she asked evenly.
"A moment of your time, please," he replied shortly. "Professor McGonagall has said she will oversee your class."
McGonagall had indeed entered behind Snape, far more sedately, but she looked no less worried. She smiled encouragingly and nodded Meli out of the room behind the Potions master. Meli followed him down the corridor and out into a small courtyard, then stopped, crossing her arms.
"All right, Severus, who's dead?"
He whipped around and lanced her with a piercing look. "How did you know?" he demanded.
She swallowed the fear that tightened her throat. "What else would throw you into such a tizzy?" she countered, the first touch of raggedness touching her voice.
His mouth tightened. "Crimson Fell," he said quietly. "I'm very sorry."
"How?" It was always her first question; she took comfort in settled routine even as she knew that nothing could comfort her now.
Snape hesitated, then replied, "We don't know. A Muggle found her; she's in the custody of London's Muggle law enforcement." His expression turned sour. "They're looking for someone to positively identify the body; Donald Fell is . . . unavailable, but he sent an owl to Dumbledore." He handed her a letter.
She read it slowly, and a wave of nausea nearly swept her to the ground. "Even now," she whispered incredulously. "He really did hate her." Her eyes fell out of focus for a moment, then returned to zero in on Snape's face. "I will go," she stated.
He nodded solemnly. "I thought you would." He motioned for her to follow him once more. "Dumbledore wants to speak with you first."
She hardly heard Dumbledore express his condolences, completely missed his assurance that her regular duties would be seen to in her absence. A strange, familiar void had opened inside of her, threatening to swallow her heart and soul if she gave it opportunity. Only one person could have found Crim so soon; if, as she suspected, Crim had died magically, Dirk Pierce was directly responsible.
Betrayal, anger, and hatred tantalized her, but she could afford them no ground; they would only poison her in the end, and dishonor Crim's memory in the meantime. She walked as in a trance to the Forbidden Forest and the perimeter of Hogwarts' apparation shield. Soon enough she would separate from herself, or she would return to reality; there was no way to know which until it actually happened.
"I'll go with her, Headmaster," she heard Snape say. "Just to be sure she arrives safely."
They materialized in the alley behind the Leaky Cauldron. Snape's eyes rested concernedly on Meli, but after a few minutes of concentrated effort, she regained her composure and emerged in the real world once more.
"I'll see you after, Severus," she said quietly, then turned and entered the Leaky Cauldron. Unsure what else to do, Snape returned to Hogwarts.
Her first battle won for the moment, Meli was able to proceed more naturally. She was grateful for a restored clarity of thought that allowed her to slip through the streets of London as easily as if she actually belonged there. It also belatedly occurred to her to be grateful for the winter weather; her cloak did not stand out as oddly as it ordinarily would in the Muggle world. Moreover, she was thankful for her own eclectic taste in clothing; it wouldn't do to attract the unwanted attention that must necessarily accompany the wearing of witch's robes in Muggle London.
She arrived at the police station mentioned in Donald's letter sweaty, physically worn-out, and fervently wishing that she hadn't left her car in America. Her warm appearance in such cold weather raised a few eyebrows, but she was eventually shown into the one room she most dreaded.
"You all right, Miss Ebony?" the officer with her asked softly. "You don't have to do this just yet."
"No." She fought for control of her voice. "If I don't do it now, I'll never be able to." She forced a smile, but there was little courage in it. She watched as the sheet was pulled back, revealing a pale face tinged blue, framed by waves of thick brown hair. Blood crusted the chin and neck, flowing from the corners of a mouth that had in life been given equally to smirks and maniacal grins.
It was several minutes before Meli found her voice. "That's her," she choked out. "Crimson Fell—my best friend." To her surprise, a sob escaped. She had not cried since Death Eaters had killed her parents fourteen years before. "How did it happen?" she asked through another sob as tears began to flow. So this is what it's like to grieve in the real world . . .
"We're not sure," the coroner replied. "Cause of death appears to be massive internal hemorrhaging, but we've no idea how it started. There's no outside trauma, which is unusual—to say the least."
"Had she died by obvious accident, she wouldn't be at a police station," Meli said. "Do you think she was murdered?"
The coroner seemed to be chewing at his upper lip. The officer beside Meli cleared his throat.
"Did your friend Miss Fell have any cultic or Occultic associations that you know of?" he asked.
Sick certainty churned her stomach. Dirk, you beast. "What are you talking about?" she whispered.
In answer, the coroner handed over a Muggle photograph of what Meli took to be the inside of Crim's arm. In the soft flesh below the elbow was carved, as if with a knife, a crude rendering of a Dark Mark, below which were carved the letters D S P.
Dirk Stephen Pierce.
"These markings were made post mortem," the officer told her. "Did she run afoul of someone that might have done this to her, so far as you know?"
"No," Meli whispered. Crim hadn't . . . and to give up too much information here would be to involve Muggles, which was the last thing anyone decent wanted. Voldemort and his brutes chose to include others—she swallowed hard as the vision of Elizabeth's blood-spattered face hovered in her mind—but in the end, this battle was between herself and Voldemort. She had taken extraordinary precautions to keep others out of it, and she would continue to do so.
"If the marks were made after she was already dead, could they have been intended as a message to someone?"
The officer eyed her keenly. "Possibly," he conceded cautiously. "Any idea who the message might be for?"
She let out an odd cross between a sob and a hysterical laugh. "I don't know," she lied. "I—I'm grasping, I suppose. It was a fleeting thought."
"Excuse me?"
The three of them turned to find a woman about Meli's age standing in the doorway. She wore a trim navy pantsuit, but it was her no-nonsense expression and the badge in her hand that gave her an official air. To Meli's eyes, there was something subtly American about her . . . but that could be just because she knew who the woman was.
"Yes?" the officer replied.
The woman stepped forward, her badge aloft. "I'm Agent Kimberly Hiller," she said, her accent very American. "FBI, A Division. I understand you've got a body tentatively identified as Crimson Fell."
"Officially identified now," the officer confirmed, frowning. "If you don't mind my asking, why does the FBI care?"
"I don't mind your asking," Hiller replied coolly. "And to answer your question, Miss Fell is a naturalized American citizen."
In spite of herself, Meli smiled inwardly. Trust Crim to pull a stunt to bring in another government and create a confusing mess that would allow the Ministry of Magic to slip in.
Hiller's eyes now rested solidly on Meli. "Friend of the deceased?" she asked, still with a detached, official tone.
Before the officer could go chivalrous on her, Meli cleared her throat and pulled herself together. "I am," she stated, meeting those hard eyes with the blue steel of her own gaze. "I've just heard about this nasty business, and I've had to identify the body of a dear friend, all in one day. The last time I was this much of a wreck, I would probably have tried to kill myself if I hadn't met up with people who took the time out of their busy lives to give half a care. If you'd like this time to work out differently—" She broke off, manufacturing another sob.
There had been a great deal more than words to that exchange, but it was completely lost on the coroner and the police officer. Hiller bit her lip and put away her badge.
"Okay, I'm a jerk." The American held up her hands in surrender. "I would like to ask you a few questions, but how about some lunch first?"
Meli eyed her narrowly, purely for the Muggles' benefit. "Are you paying?" she countered coolly.
Hiller shrugged, taking it in stride. "Sure."
"Do you need anything further from me?" Meli asked the officer, who shook his head. "Then I suppose I'll be going to lunch," she sighed, then shuffled out of the room with a weariness that was not at all feigned.
They were six blocks from the police station before Meli judged it was safe. "Andrea, you sneak!" she hissed, grinning. "What are you doing here?"
Her former roommate replied, with a carnivorous smile, "I'm with the Aurors' Division, you nutzo. Whaddaya think I'm doing here?"
"The FBI has an Aurors' Division?"
The other nodded. "The American Ministry set it up, of course. Only a handful of Muggles know about it, and most of the time we function as regular field agents." Now she looked shrewdly at her friend. "But when things go haywire—X-Files-style, if you get my drift—they divert us to handle those cases." She chewed the inside of her lip thoughtfully. "Call it luck of the draw, if you want, but my partner and I were assigned to this one."
"And Crim's actually an American citizen?"
"Oh, yes." Andrea smiled coolly, looking for all the world like one of Meli's pets. "She did it awhile ago, before the British Aurors had slipped into local law enforcement as effectively as we managed to do."
Meli sighed. "Are you still on about American superiority?" she grumbled.
Andrea smirked. "I don't have to be in this case," she rejoined. "The facts speak for themselves. Now in the liquor department, on the other hand, I'll concede that we've never done as well as you guys."
"Still can't get a decent lager Stateside?"
"Or ale, or scotch—unless it's imported, of course."
Meli clapped her on the shoulder. "Well, in that case, I'll take you to a pub where you can get some decent drink," she said. "I only wish . . ." She gulped.
"That circumstances were better?" Andrea finished soberly.
Meli nodded, her spirits lowering a bit as she did. She felt suddenly guilty for at all enjoying herself, however slightly, while her best friend lay dead in a police morgue.
"Don't even think it, girl," Andrea snapped, not even having to look at her. "Your job is to help me find the son of a motherless goat who did this to her. There's no room for unnecessary guilt, so you just drop it at the door right now."
They found a table in a dark corner of the Leaky Cauldron and kept as quiet as possible. They avoided small talk once their food and drinks were set down, keeping instead to the grisly, but necessary, business at hand.
"My partner's handling the paperwork and other assorted crap to get Crimson's body out of there," Andrea assured Meli. "He's got a lot higher tolerance for red tape and bureaucrats than I do, so I get to handle interviews." She raised her eyebrows and smiled ironically. "I could hardly believe it when they said there was a young woman there to identify her—I knew it had to be you."
"You'll get considerably more help this way," Meli replied bitterly. "Crim's parents are unreachable through Muggle channels—probably magical channels, too. Collum went missing in June, and Donald the Hufflepuff has disowned all of them."
Andrea's eyes widened incredulously. "He wouldn't even go in to ID her?" she breathed.
Meli handed over the letter Snape had pressed into her numbed hand a few hours before. "He's pretty clear, don't you think?"
Andrea let out a low whistle as she returned the parchment a moment later. "With a brother like that," she mused, "who needs enemies?"
"Well, Crim's got enemies, too," Meli said. "All of mine."
"Okay." Andrea nodded. "So which of that laundry list of scumbags do you think did this?"
"I don't think it. I know it."
Andrea looked measuringly at her. "So which slimebucket was it?" she asked again.
Meli took a deep breath. "Only one knew her well enough to have found her so quickly," she said. "Only one would have signed his bloody initials."
Andrea nodded. "Okay."
"Dirk Pierce."
The lighting in the Leaky Cauldron wasn't all that great, but Meli saw clearly the sick pallor that conquered Andrea's face almost immediately. "I got the report that he'd turned," the American murmured, "but I thought for sure it was a ploy—that he was a spy. I never thought any of the Skulkers would ever really turn; you just don't have the profiles for it."
"Well, apparently none of us knew him as well as we thought we did," Meli muttered. "If he was an infiltrator, even if it was demanded of him as a test of loyalty, Dirk would have found a way to avoid killing one of us. This act proves two things: first, that he cares nothing for the rest of the Skulkers, and secondly, that he has most definitely turned."
A stray, disturbing thought lodged suddenly in her mind: Dirk had been a recent initiate when he had shown her his Dark Mark. Could he have been the one to have killed the Goldens? That seemed somehow wrong, but the timing would have been about right . . . No. Dirk Pierce would not have been strong enough to have broken John's ribcage open by hand, and the coroner had confirmed that the break had most certainly been done by hand.
Something further about that bothered Meli, but she could not place it yet.
Andrea, meanwhile, had continued the conversation. "But he warned you, Meli," she pointed out with a frown. "That counts for something, doesn't it?"
"Yes." Meli also knit her brows. "For something, but not for much. Not enough, anyway."
"You said he signed his initials," Andrea recalled. "What do you mean by that?"
Meli described briefly the carving on Crim's arm, not neglecting to add that the Muggles had attributed an Occultic significance to it.
"Interesting that they'd see it that way," Andrea mused. "And yet, how could they not, after all? Carvings are odd, even with Death Eaters involved, and a carving with a skull and a snake . . . well, maybe a tasteless biker gang killed her off, but more likely they'd attribute it to a coven, say it was a ritual killing, and call it unsolved." She shook her head. "But from what I hear, anyway, this doesn't match your typical ritual slaying profile. It definitely doesn't explain cause of death." She arched an inquisitive eyebrow.
Ritual killing . . . What is it about that parallel between Crim and the Goldens that's bothering me?
She forced herself to shrug, a shudder turning it into a strange, jerking motion. "You'd probably be able to determine that better than I could do," she said, not entirely truthfully. "My guess is that it was some form of Sangriatus curse, either a Cavidatum or Internum."
"We've been pushing to get those put on the Unforgivables list at least since my first year at Blackwing," Andrea growled through clenched teeth. "Just as final as a Kedavra, and a whole lot nastier in the meantime."
"So I hear." She stared at the table for a long moment, then said, "He didn't use an Unforgivable to kill her. The Sharpie I knew was an all-or-nothing sort. Do you think he's afraid of a life sentence at Azkaban?"
Andrea gave her a deadly smile. "If I were him, I'd be a whole lot more worried about getting caught by the American Aurors. He killed an American, remember, and we have freer rein than the Brits and a lot of nastier punishments than even Azkaban in our arsenal." She frowned thoughtfully. "No, I don't think he chickened out. I think he's being consistently all-or-nothing. I mean, which would you rather do to an old friend, kill her instantly and relatively painlessly, or kill her slowly and with a lot more pain? He used one of the slowest-acting Sangriatus curses, Meli; he could have used a Venarupturum and cut it short without earning a life sentence." She raised her eyebrows a hair. "Now, about you and Collum Fell—do either of you need increased protection?"
Meli pursed her lips thoughtfully. "No," she answered after a moment. "I've a fair idea of where Collum's holed up, and I know he wouldn't be hiding anyplace where he'd need extra protection in any case. He has a few tricks only I know about—Pierce killed the only other person who would know—and I'll carry that knowledge to my grave. Collum's safer than you, Andrea."
"And what about you?"
"Are you kidding?" Meli grinned wickedly. "I'm safest of all. If they harm a hair on my head, Voldemort will personally kill them for it—and he won't hesitate to use a slow Sangriatus or Suffocatus."
"Right," Andrea sighed. "Their first general order is to make your life miserable."
"Yes," Meli said dryly. "Comforting, isn't it?"
Andrea glanced at her watch, then drained her glass. "Unfortunately, I have to go. Kevin'll probably be done with the paper pushers by the time I get back." She looked seriously at her friend. "Now, take my advice and go straight back to Hogwarts. We'll bag Pierce and beat him down so hard he'll be begging for a Dementor's kiss. You stay out of sight and make double-sure Collum does the same, instead of giving in to his baser Gryffindor nature, okay?" She stood and left the pub, entering Muggle London with a literal vengeance. Meli took a last sip of butterbeer, then left through the back.
She hesitated then, a split-second before disapparating. She was not yet willing to go back to Hogwarts and face people who recognized her, and the close proximity of Christmas gave her a ready excuse. She did not yet have a gift for . . . she furrowed her brow, thinking hard . . . Dumbledore! Of course! She hadn't even thought of getting a present for the headmaster before, but now she was quite grateful for that lapse and the excuse it provided.
She raised her hood and reached up to tap the bricks.
Fifteen minutes later, Meli was on her way back to the Leaky Cauldron, a small parcel tucked into her pocket. She stopped briefly to allow an elderly witch to cross in front of her, stiffened as her neck went cold—
And felt the tip of a wand settle firmly into her back.
She forced herself to relax and wait for the wand's owner to make his first move. He wasted no time, as she had known he would not.
"Skipping school, Meli?" he said, very close to her right ear. "Tsk, tsk. For shame. Did you really think you'd go unnoticed here? Especially with your hood up like that—very few witches slink about Diagon Alley with a hood instead of a hat."
"Hello, Pierce," she murmured. "Going to kill me, are you?"
He laughed coldly. "You know better than that," he admonished. "However . . . you happen to have some information I'd very much like you to share with me—information I'll obtain anyway, rest assured—concerning my dear old friend Collum."
"Go to Hell."
He again clicked his tongue reproachfully. "I'd be careful if I were you," he told her. "I'm sure you know by now what I'm capable of; I'd advise you to cooperate."
"Why?" Meli retorted. "So you don't have to jump-start that mismanaged lump of neurons in your head and actually think? God forbid that you should have to figure something out without my help or Crim's—oh, but wait; you killed her! Killed her in a low, brutal, savage way, and vandalized her body so that everyone would know it was you. But you know, Pierce, anyone could have told it was you without your signature; your style is so singularly unimaginative and inelegant."
She could hear him grinding his teeth behind her. "I could put you under the Imperius curse and compel you to tell me," he growled, forging ahead with effort.
Oh, no you can't! "You can rot in Hell, too, for all I care; it'll help your cause about as much." At last, something to thank my grandfather for: learned resistance to the Imperius.
"For the sake of old friendship, I'll let that pass," he hissed gracelessly. "But mark my words: the Dark Lord will be far more impressed than you are; I expect to rise quickly in his esteem, and then I may not have the luxury of being merciful."
You bloody fool, Meli thought, simultaneously horrified and awestruck at his abysmal stupidity. Aloud, she said, "I wouldn't be so hasty to come to that conclusion, if I were you. Voldemort may be impressed that you found Crimson Fell when no one else could, but as for your mode of killing her, you'll be lucky if he doesn't kill you."
Pierce's wand tip turned painfully in her back. "What are you talking about?"
She smiled nastily. Had you betrayed me, I could forgive you, but you betrayed Crim, and I'm going to enjoy every moment of this. "You never understood what any of this is about, did you. This bane has always been a feud between myself and Voldemort. He wanted no room left for anyone else, not even my grandfather. When I identified her body, I was supposed to remember my offense against Voldemort, but you kept that from happening. Instead of letting him have the credit, you signed your initials, which meant that you were really, ultimately, acting on your own initiative rather than his orders. You made it personal, setting yourself up as more important than him."
So quickly and suddenly that he could not react, she whirled to face him and snatched away his wand. "I have always had at my disposal information that would ensure your death at the hands of any loyal Death Eater," she said dispassionately. "And I will tell you unequivocally that the only reason I do not now part with it is that I want to see what Voldemort will have done to you." She raised derisive eyebrows. "Oh, what's the matter, Pierce?" she mocked. "Scared? Maybe you should run home and cry to your Muggle mummy. Maybe your Muggle daddy'll beat me up and make me leave you alone. Or maybe your Muggle—"
"Shut up!"
Meli burned through him with her eyes. "Come near me ever again, Dirk Pierce, and so help me God, I will tell the world what a fraud you are. Make so much as a feint in the direction of any more of my friends, and I will do to you whatever you do to them."
He withered under her glare, but there was some pathetic remnant within him that seemed to want, of all things, to be understood. "Why do you think I warned you off?" he asked, his voice actually showing a slight quaver.
Any chance of mercy he'd had with her had been annihilated by his pompousness at the beginning of their interview. She chose to respond with a lie—a low, stinging, stabbing lie that would anger him enough to allow her to walk away.
"I've a notion," she replied coldly, "that you fancy yourself in love with me. You warned me off because of an emotional attachment—because weak, repulsive romantic that you are, even the thirst for power and the fear of Voldemort couldn't keep you from thinking with your heart instead of your brain—or whatever Muggle nuts-and-bolts amalgamated contraption it is that attempts to stand you in stead of a brain, you mis-Sorted fool of a would-be wizard. Even the Hufflepuffs are cleverer than you, and far more given to thinking before they act."
His eyes were nearly popping out of his head in rage by the time she finished, and his face had darkened to a dangerous shade of purple.
"Now," she finished, delighted with her handiwork, "I am going to turn around and walk away, and if you so much as watch me go, I will kill you."
He made no move to stop her; he was nearly petrified by his newfound hatred and fury. She turned and made a dozen strides, then tossed his wand in the gutter and went on her way.
He ought to have known better, she thought sadly. He's witnessed my temper, and he must by now have met my grandfather; he should have known that, at our cores, Grandfather and I are really not so very different. He ought not to have been surprised to see me at my worst.
It was nearly dinner time when she arrived back at Hogwarts, so she proceeded directly to the Great Hall and took her seat. Snape and Zarekael arrived a few minutes later, looking immensely pleased with themselves.
"Two hundred points from Gryffindor in my absence," she guessed.
"Only one hundred twenty," Snape replied. "But Malfoy arranged a four hundred point deduction from Slytherin, and no one seems quite willing to undo the transfiguration Miss Parkinson concocted to punish him."
"I'm almost afraid to ask."
In answer, Snape nodded towards the doorway, through which was entering the most appalling amalgamation of spare animal parts Meli had ever seen. It had five legs—three on its right side and two on its left—each from a different animal: parrot, leopard, pig, horse, and rabbit. A tail like a feather boa sailed harmlessly through the air behind it, occasionally blowing forward to swat at the thing's two ears (one belonging to a basset hound, the other to a domestic cat). The head was undifferentiated, but more animal than human; the body was an alarming cross between an elephant and a crocodile. The creature was nearly too large to step between the tables.
Meli felt her jaw drop. "Malfoy?!"
Snape actually grinned, and Meli's skin crawled at the sight. "Yes," he drawled. "Beautiful, isn't it?"
"And do you happen to know how Pansy Parkinson got her hands on a spell that could do that?" Meli inquired, her voice hushed in horror.
"No," Zarekael replied. "But we might happen to know how she worked up the necessary potion and how she got her hands on the recipe for it." He shrugged disinterestedly. "It should wear off in a few hours' time . . . we think."