Chapter III
A Spell So Great
-o–#–O–#–o-
"But my innervoice, it says..."
(Hooverphonic, "Innervoice")
-o–#–O–#–o-
"A spelle so great, it wakes the Deade," Harry read from the black pages of the Book, "The Weak shalle fall in dire dreade/ By Willin'blood, at mid'night bled, /Throu Stolenblood, at mid'night shedde..."
He paused to stare some more at the red letters, slightly unsettled by their twisted yet elegant shape and occasionally peculiar spelling.
A spelle so great, it wakes in hate
And neede, and lust, and thirsty waitte...
::Who wrote it?:: Harry asked the Book—and why couldn't they spell proper English, he wanted to add.
::Oh, don't worry, Master. She was my... uh... nine, ten... er... eleven, twelve... right... sixteen... ah, yes, seventeenth Chosen. You wouldn't have heard her name, but I assure you she was as good at devising spell as she was at rhyming.::
Somehow, this didn't significantly reassure Harry. He turned his gaze to the poem again.
From Lover's lips at mid'night late,
With sheer words un'meant to sate,
The Thirstyblood wille shape the Gate.
From Foe's wrists spill't in hate awoke'n,
With sheer words in darknesse spoke'n,
The Bitterblood wille hold It open...
He stared at the words of the actual spell that had been lain on the following page by the same hand that had written the poem. He didn't understand any.
::What language is this? I've never seen a spell in such an impossible to pronounce language before.::
::Patience, my Chosen. I'll teach you. It will well worth the effort.::
Harry's eyes drifted to the poem again...
And from his tomb of sylence broke'n,
Shall ryse again and walk the Woke'n...
...and back to the mind-boggling text of the spell.
::That's also her creation, the Tongue of the Forsaken,:: the Voice obligingly explained. ::The Spells in the Tongue are so beautiful they make my pages tremble.::
::Why would someone invent a new language for spells?::
::For the same reason she wrote this particular spell. She didn't write it to bring someone from the Other Side. She wrote it because she could. Ah, such a lonely, heartless thing she was. So misunderstood. Maybe I'll show you my memories of her someday...::
Harry privately thought—as privately as one with a Voice inside his head could, at any rate—that he'd rather pass the oportunity. He finished reading the last verse.
A spelle so great, it trapps the shade,
En'slaves the spelles by Shadow lay'd,
It rips throu walls where tears no blade,
For Warmblood is its pryce twyce pay'd.
Harry shuddered.
::It's perfect, this spell,:: the Voice enticed him. ::Perfect for what you need to achieve, my Master. You were both his enemy and his lover. Hate and want will bring him through to you again. Your memories and blood will shape his body again from the ashes of time. You'll have him back.::
Perfect or not, to Harry it looked just like the standard, textbook description of a dark spell. In a recess of his mind, he knew it was in fact a dark spell, and that once he'd have learned the bizarre words and uttered them, willed them into being, there would be no coming back. He'd be condemned forever, even more, inescapably more than he already was.
::I should be on my way to practice. You'll teach me later.::
::But, my Chosen, surely this is more important than--::
The wretched Book must've sensed his hesitation. Yes, so he was afraid. It hadn't stopped him before. It wouldn't stop him now.
::Shut up, Book. I've waited a whole year. I can wait a couple of hours, or days more. And if you say one more word, I swear I'll tear you apart page by page and feed you to the pigeons.::
It was the Book's turn to shudder. Harry was almost positive It had also gulped, although upon a closer examination of the possibility he couldn't fathom how, more precisely, a book could do that.
-o–#–O–#–o-
It was a bleak Monday morning. Harry had just Apparated at a reasonable distance from the small stadium his team used for practice, broom in hand and mind miles away. The stadium was outside the city and an Invisibility Spell had been cast upon it, together with the customary Muggle Repelling Charms. It wouldn't take Harry more than a minute to reach it, even at a lazy pace. Which was good, because it wouldn't leave enough time for tormenting thoughts.
He tried to be rational about the whole thing. Why, now that he had all this seemingly unfathomable power, the first thing he wanted was to bring Malfoy back? The only thing he wanted, actually. Why would he want to use it, this frightening power, at all? It went against everything he'd believed in and fought for, once. If the Book could give him 'everything', as It bragged incessantly (and Harry didn't doubt It could, not anymore) then it was plainly wrong. Its magic was twisted and corrupted. Not evil? Harry was 'prejudiced' against It? It made him laugh. The Book was just as un-evil as Harry was a virgin.
So why did he want to betray everything he believed in only to have Draco back? Apart from the obvious nonsensical urge within him to do so, that was. There was no logical reason, and he knew it. Logically, Malfoy would only be a constant pain in his backside. Maybe even a threat. Definitely a hazard.
Harry experienced a slight tinge of guilt that it hadn't occurred to him until now to bring back Sirius, or his parents, or Cedric... people who hadn't deserved to die. He wasn't sure if Draco did too. But, he realized, he wouldn't want his parents or Sirius to see what had become of him. The pathetic excuse of a human being he'd come to be. And there was something inside him telling that they wouldn't want to be restored to the living world in this manner. He could sense the wrongness of it, a wrongness which somehow fitted Draco.
"Are you gonna stare at that tree any longer, Potter?" a voice sneered behind him.
"Anderson."
His team mate ignored him, muttering the magical words that made the shabby front gate of the stadium appear and stepping through it.
Harry belatedly realised that he had not only arrived at his destination, but successfully failed to notice it for a good couple of minutes like an oblivious Muggle. He followed Anderson, his chest suddenly throbbing with anger. He caught up with the other man in the locker room. The others were not there yet.
Anderson pointedly avoided to look at him and stepped away quickly when Harry accidentally brushed past him as if Harry was carrying some sort of deadly disease. Harry felt he'd reached the end of his patience.
"What is your problem, Anderson?" he suddenly turned and spat at his team mate.
Anderson finally looked at him and shrugged.
"Don't have one, Potter. Unlike you."
Harry fixed him with a cold gaze. His control on his voice was surprisingly good when he spoke next.
"So enlighten me. What exactly is my problem?"
Anderson's lips crumpled in disgust as he answered.
"Thought that was obvious. This team must've sunken really low to need a nancy boy like you to win us matches."
Harry measured up the other man silently. Kiefer Anderson was only a few years older than himself and only one or two inches taller, but he had the constitution of the Beater he was—not a particularly efficient one, but definitely dedicated—so, normally, Harry wouldn't have considered getting into a fight with him, not a physical one at any rate. Normally, Harry would control the anger boiling inside him, or, if it was too much, he would channel it into a biting retort instead.
Because, well, Anderson wasn't really worth it. Harry had never been afraid of him. Yet this time something snapped inside Harry and it wasn't going to tie itself up anytime soon.
But maybe it wouldn't take a fight to put Anderson in his proper place.
Slowly, Harry closed the distance between them without saying anything, just holding Anderson's gaze, defying him to do anything about the increasing lack of space between their bodies. Though looking increasingly uncomfortable about it, Anderson didn't move. He was a proud idiot and Harry knew it. However, pride was going to bring him down this time. He was going to pay for all the times he'd made Harry feel unwelcome and for all the sarcastic remarks thrown in Harry's face without the slightest provocation, which at the time had seemed trifling and not worth bothering, but for some reason were all the more worth bothering now.
Anderson was getting defiant as well. He had green eyes a nuance lighter than Harry's own, not that Harry had bothered to check out Anderson's eyes closely before, but they were kinda hard to ignore when throwing daggers at him. Harry smirked. He had to be very careful now. He was stepping into Anderson's personal space and the other man wasn't going to put up with it much longer. If he was to act, he had to act quickly.
Being kissed by Harry Potter was probably the last thing Anderson expected. Which was why Harry did it, hard and bruising, full on the lips, leaning forward in a split second and clutching the other's man forearms before he could do anything about it. Surprise must have paralysed him, because Anderson didn't react at all at first, didn't shove Harry away, didn't make a sound. The only sign he understood at all what was happening were his eyes wide-opened in horror.
It wasn't a long lasting kiss. Harry withdrew as suddenly as he'd leant forward, still keeping his hands on his team mate.
"Guess you've got a problem of your own now, don't you?" he whispered into the other's face, then let go of him and turned to walk away, almost colliding with a tall, lean figure.
"Oh, good morning, Gareth!" Harry greeted cheerfully. Glen Gareth, the Keeper of their team was standing in the doorway, looking at them with suspicion.
"Morning, Potter," the other replied. "Something going on?"
Harry shrugged.
"Solving differences, Kiefer and I," he responded, using Anderson's given name for the first time in his life before walking through the door without a glance back. Things couldn't have turned out better. He was positive that Gareth hadn't seen him kissing, well, jumping Anderson, but he'd seen enough to get the right ideas. 'Right' to Harry's purposes, at any rate. Anderson would be too embarrassed to admit he'd let Harry do that to him and Gareth would only get more suspicious at Anderson's uneasiness, not to mention at the sight of his slightly bruised (by Harry's kiss) lips. Soon enough, word would spread among the team members and they'd start whispering behind Anderson's back, maybe throw a few jabs at him and start avoiding him, and give him odd looks.
And even if Harry was wrong—that was, even if Anderson would accuse him publicly, he'd still have won, because then Anderson would be forced to give Mr. Pembrook an ultimatum—either him, or Harry would have to leave the team, and Harry knew, even as Anderson knew (though he might refuse to acknowledge it) which the choice would be.
All in all, Harry considered, he was the winner here. His anger, though diminished, was still making his blood boil. He was experiencing a mixture of hate and disgust, equally directed to the world in general and to himself in particular. Anderson had just happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time, specifically—that morning, in Harry's way. And if Harry couldn't help his satisfaction at imagining Anderson being sick over his kiss, trying and failing to wash the memory of it from his lips, how 'sick' did that make him?
His steps carried him to the far end of the stadium, where he could distinguish the tiny silhouette of Mr. Pembrook. Images of what he'd done barely a minute ago kept playing over and over again in front of his eyes, until they almost made him dizzy, until Anderson's face faded into his own and Malfoy was leaning into him on a deserted corridor back at Hogwarts, pressing his cold lips over Harry's.
"Good morning, boss," Harry greeted morosely, his tone indicating it was anything but.
"Where's your broom, Potter? You're here to practice, not to chat." Mr. Pembrook had a one track mind. Harry couldn't care less about practice at the moment.
"Accio," was Harry's only response, and he extended his hand, waiting for the broom he'd summoned to reach him. "Got it right here, Mr. Pembrook."
"You're late. Everybody's late." Mr. Pembrook started to become restless, like he always did when Quidditch was involved.
Three young women and a man—the rest of the team, reserves were coming only later—were strolling carelessly, brooms on their shoulders, to where Harry and Mr. Pembrook stood. Gareth came out of the locker room alone, hurrying up to catch with the rest of them.
"All right, team, no time to waste," Mr. Pembrook started, as he did before every practice session, but suddenly halted. "Where's Anderson?"
Harry raised a brow, but it was Gareth who answered.
"Still in the locker room, boss. He says he isn't feeling well."
Curses rolled out of Mr. Pembrook's tongue.
"I'll give the git 'not feeling well' in a moment," he menaced as he disappeared with a pop.
"Guess Kie's in big shit," one of the girls remarked. The others were silent.
::I did that,:: Harry thought. ::I finally made the bastard break.::
Until that morning, he'd had no idea he wanted to make Anderson break. Doing it had felt good for a fleeting moment, but now he was left with the ever growing emptiness. He knew he should be appalled by what he'd done, or at least alarmed, or ashamed of himself turning into something he despised, but he was too tired for that. Too tired for everything, of everything, except... Some miles away, in his messy flat, hidden under a pile of papers and magazines, the Book lay waiting for him, waiting for Harry to come and claim what It had promised. And so, of course, nothing else seemed to matter.
-o–#–O–#–o-
Hours later, when Harry stepped through the door of his flat, he was hungry, cold and sore from practice. The weather had cooled considerably and snowing had starded again at noon, but Mr. Pembrook insisted to keep them up in the air practicing, practicing, practicing until the wind became so powerful it had almost swept them off their brooms.
Harry got rid of his soaked practice robes as soon as he closed the door behind him, then left a trail of his other clothes across the floors of his living room and bathroom before finally stepping into the shower. The hot water running over his aching body and the hurried lunch he ate right after drying himself restored some of his powers, and he felt ready to face the Book again.
::Master,:: the Voice purred inside his mind as soon as he'd touched the covers.
::Listen, Book, I have no time and patience for games. You're teaching me the spell and that's it.::
::If that's your command. Open me, my Chossen.::
Harry obeyed, like he'd done the first time. The pages fluttered, flipped by an unseen hand until finally the poem and the spell he'd been shown earlier rested once again under Harry's gaze.
::You'll have to learn the spell by heart, my Chosen,:: the Book warned him.
::I can't even pronounce the words, not to mention I don't understand any of them!:: Harry protested.
::It's how it is. It's how it needs to be done,:: the Voice announced serenely. ::You want this spell to succeed, don't you, my young Master?::
Harry sighed. He felt like he was back in school.
::All right. Start teaching me then.::
The Tongue of the Forsaken was a funny language, there was no doubt about it. Some words were made of sounds sharp like a razor blade while others melted on your lips rather like ice cream, sweet and cold at the same time. All were composed without exception of three syllables, which caused sentences to have a peculiar rhythm. Harry made progress faster than he had expected. With the Voice hissing each word inside his head all he had to do was say it out loud until he got it right then move on to the next. Of course, he was no way near being able to recite the spell without reading it.
::Why can't you just say the words inside my head and I repeat them in loud voice?:: he asked, frustrated.
The Voice chuckled. ::It's called cheating, my Master. You have to learn the spell yourself.::
::Great.:: He didn't put too much enthusiasm into that thought. ::I think I'll take a break now. Say, Book, the poem mentions blood. My blood, I assume?::
::Yes, my Chosen. Blood of an enemy, blood of a lover.::
::So... I'm supposed to lay myself in the bathtub and slit my wrists open?:: It wasn't the most appealing of perspectives.
::Surely not, Master. I don't think you'll find a bathtub anywhere near.::
::What do you mean, 'anywhere near'? Where do I have to go to perform the spell, Book?::
The Book didn't seem intimidated because, after all, there's only so much threat one can put into a mere thought.
::It's right there in the poem, Chosen. And from his tomb of sylence broke'n... You see?::
::You mean Malfoy's tomb.:: It wasn't even a question. ::But how am I supposed to find it?::
::You'll find it.:: The words had a strange, deceptive softness about them and slipped almost unnoticed into Harry's mind and the Voice spoke no more that day.
The following days passed with almost no spare moment for Harry. Ron came through his fireplace thrice and, each time, Harry managed to hastily throw the Invisibility Cloak over himself just in time and waited for his friend to leave believing that the flat was empty. Hermione only made one appearance, but she, unlike Ron, didn't leave after a couple of minutes of fruitless attempts to find him. Instead, she sat down in the living room and waited patiently. When she finally stood up to leave a couple of hours later, Harry's whole body was numb from sitting completely still and silent under the Cloak. Moreover, he wasn't completely sure he'd managed to fool Hermione, because even as she was leaving, she startled Harry by speaking...
"I'm fighting a lost battle here, Harry. I know it."
... and Harry couldn't tell if she'd been talking to herself, or to him, or both.
But Ron and Hermione eventually stopped showing up and the days passed just the same. Between practice sessions (mostly held in deplorable weather), learning the spell and avoiding everyone—very dedicated journalists, avid fans, curious acquaintances, his worried friends, even his Muggle neighbours who weren't in the habit of looking twice in his direction anyway—he barely found a little time to do a bit of research as well.
It had been a bit of a challenge to enter the public library in Sprite Square without being immediately recognised as Harry Potter, Wizarding World's Latest Favourite Walking Scandal. In fact, it had taken the combined effects of an Aging Potion (anonymously purchased by owl order; Hedwig had been thrilled to stretch her wings), a Concealing Charm (to hide his scar), a Muggle wig (because, ok, maybe he could Transfigure rats into water goblets, but 'doing' hair was a bit out of his league) and a Repelling Spell cast on himself (just to be sure no one would want to come too close—though he supposed he could've achieved the same effect with a good douse of garlic essence). In the end, his efforts paid off quite nicely.
He had no trouble gathering information about the Malfoys. Since Voldemort's demise, Lucius Malfoy had been missing despite the Ministry's best efforts to capture him—of course, Harry already knew this, but it hadn't really sunk in until now. Draco's father was still alive and hiding somewhere. Harry wondered what Lucius thought of his son's betrayal.
Malfoy Senior on the run and his only son and heir dead, nobody bothered to be too careful with what they wrote about the Malfoy family. The articles mostly dealt with rumours about Lucius's whereabouts and were full of official statements assuring the witches and wizards that the 'capture of the notorious Death Eater was only a matter of days'. As far as Harry could tell, it had been 'a matter of days' for months.
There were fewer articles about Draco, however. It angered Harry that his death seemed to be mentioned only in passing. There was only one short article, actually, that announced the passing of the Malfoy heir and mentioned his burial in the Malfoy family crypt.
To Harry's surprise and delight, he also stumbled upon a very detailed description of the wards placed upon the Malfoy mansion (most of them already taken down by the Aurors only to be replaced with their own) in "Transfiguration Today".
Narcissa Malfoy still lived in the family mansion which was under constant surveillance, in case Lucius committed the imprudence of contacting his wife.
Harry took detailed notes about anything he deemed even remotely useful. By the end of the week, he'd learned so much stuff about the Malfoys that he was sure he'd be entitled to become an honorary member of the family—which was downright scary.
-o–#–O–#–o-
Finally, another Friday night arrived. Harry's mind was a whirlpool of sensations and half-formed thoughts. Had he consciously chosen to acknowledge and allow them to take shape, his thoughts would have gone along the lines of 'There's no turning back now' interspersed with a lot of bad language.
::Second thoughts, my Master?:: the Voice popped inside his head without warning, which was becoming an annoying habit.
::Damn, you startled me. Evil Book or not, I'd appreciate if you stopped sneaking into my mind.::
The Book ruffled Its pages indignantly, but otherwise didn't protest. It laid open on Harry's kitchen table so that he could go through the spell one last time. He knew it by heart now, of course; in fact, he knew it so well he could probably recite it backwards, diagonally or even starting from the middle in both directions at once and skipping every third word, but he needed a way to calm his restlessness.
The light had long since faded outside when Harry snapped the Book close and finally went to dress, absent-mindedly. The plan was to Apparate in Wiltshire, somewhere near the Malfoy mansion and... well, he'd improvise from there. He folded his Invisibility Cloak and placed it inside his backpack, along with a handful of Galleons and pounds, then, as an afterthought, he picked his old Firebolt out of the closet and weighted it pensively. A couple of seconds and a Shrinking Charm later, a miniaturised Firebolt was resting on top of his Cloak inside the backpack. You never knew when a flying broom might come in handy, after all.
He was in no hurry, though. As far as he'd gathered from the poem, the spell was to be performed at midnight and there were enough hours to fill until then.
Harry had no idea how to fill them. Granted, it was probably a good idea to leave early, because he didn't know how close to the mansion he'd manage to Apparate given he'd never been there before. And sneaking into the Malfoys' crypt was bound to take time, as well. He mentally checked (for what was probably the hundredth time) the wards which, according to his research, he needed to be careful about. Then he figured he should get something to eat, even if he wasn't really hungry. And he could always have a chat with the Book if he got bored. Yeah, his life was so full of joys lately.
Stepping into the kitchen, he picked a solitary loaf of bread from the table and tapped it with his wand. The bread was as stiff as rock, which wasn't such a big surprise because his mind hadn't really been into shopping for food lately.
Well, he'd have to improvise. He didn't know any spells for cutting bread, unfortunately. That was Mrs. Weasley's department. He sat down and gazed at the loaf pensively.
::What am I going to do with him, Book, if the spell succeeds?::
::The spell will succeed, my Master, if you... how do they say? Ah, yes, put enough passion in it.::
Harry summoned a knife from atop the fridge and proceeded to 'put enough passion' in cutting the stone-hard bread.
::But you didn't answer my question,:: he thought at the Book.
He summoned a plate next and carefully laid the freshly cut (but far from fresh) slices of bread on it.
::That's because it's an useless question, my Chosen. Because you will be able to do anything with Draco Malfoy.::
"Incendio," Harry muttered, pointing his wand at the plate. He suddenly decided he wanted toast.
The wand-toasting was surprisingly effective. The bread was browning satisfyingly. Harry wandered why he hadn't tried it before.
::Toast?:: he asked the Book.
::I'm a book, Master,:: It replied blandly. ::As you are so fond of pointing out quite often.::
::Your loss,:: Harry shrugged and decided that buttering the toasted bread would be the best next move.
::Do you want to hurt him, Master?::
::No.::
The butter melted into the hot bread and softened it. At least, Harry thought, he'd achieved something 'eatable'.
::But maybe you will. I could show you a few tricks.::
::I don't want to hurt Malfoy,:: he patiently explained as he sunk his teeth into a piece of buttered toast.
::Perhaps you're forgetting what an annoying little brat he can be.::
The thing about having a conversation going on directly into your mind was that you didn't have to wait to swallow before answering back.
::And what would you know about him? You're just--::
::--a book, yes. So what do I know about him? Nothing, Master. Nothing except what you know about him.::
Harry took another bite of toast and stopped to consider the Voice's last words.
::I don't know that much about him. I guess I'm hoping to change that.::
::You, my Chosen, are very adept at fooling yourself.::
::Oh, and how's that?:: Harry wanted to know.
::You're fooling yourself that you care about this Draco Malfoy and that's why you're bringing him back. But you're bringing him back to punish yourself. Because, face it, my Chosen, you may still hate him, but you hate yourself even more. Because you think you've failed everyone.::
Not leaving his chair, Harry leaned right to open the fridge door and put the butter back (it wouldn't do to have one quarter of his food supplies ruined by letting it melt on his kitchen table), then peered some more inside. His wasn't the most well-supplied of fridges. He finally drew out a bottle.
::Pumpkin juice?::
::I'm a book,:: the Book patiently pointed out again.
::Again, it's your loss.:: He poured some juice into a glass but didn't drink it.
::Moreover, you're bringing him back because it's hard to fall asleep at night alone,:: the Voice picked up from where It had left. ::You're bringing him back to see if lying in his arms is as good as you remember. To see why you responded to his kisses in the first place. To see if it was worth.::
::Yeah, you've got my secret plan all figured out.:: Harry produced the mental equivalent of a snort, still not drinking his juice. ::I want to turn Malfoy into my personal sex-slave.::
::Irony won't change the truth. And finally, my Chosen, you're bringing him back because deep down you hope that something better could come out of it, something pure that will heal you both and set you free.::
::You know, for an evil book, you're sort of corny. Have you been talking to that romance novel from Ginny lately?::
::I don't talk with common books!:: the Voice replied in an offended tone.
::But you're not trying to change my mind about the spell, are you?:: Harry inquired. He was curious, but it was a detached sort of curiosity. ::Because you've worked pretty hard to make me do it, Book. And I'm not stupid, you know. I understand that the moment I cast the spell, you'll have me just as I now have you. I still don't understand why you've picked me of all the people, but it doesn't matter. I'll do it. Despite everything.::
::Excellent, my Chosen. You'll indeed do it and succeed. I have no doubt now.::
::So, what, was this some kind of test?::
::Precisely. And you passed.::
::Can't tell you how happy I am. And you think I'm fooling myself? I hate myself, you're right. I still hate Malfoy for what he's done. I want to have him in my bed, yes, I want to know he wanted me just as badly back then and I'm hoping against all hope something would change between us for the better and he will be the cure to my emptiness. But you overlooked one thing, I guess. I also want to tell him that I'm sorry.::
::Sorry for what, my Master?::
::Sorry that I left that morning.:: The last morning of Draco Malfoy's life.
The Book didn't reply and Harry knew it was because he was telling the truth, a truth apparently beyond the connection he shared with the cursed object since It hadn't sensed it in him like It had sensed all the other truths, forcing him to acknowledge them. Perhaps because this was a truth that didn't dwell mostly in his mind, but in his heart. Or because he didn't know it until now, either.
Harry finished his pumpkin juice in a long, thirsty gulp and decided it was time to go. He grabbed the Book and shoved it inside his backpack, not bothering to be gentle.
-o–#–O–#–o-
The Malfoy family crypt was one of the coldest places Harry had ever been. Not surprisingly so, seeing as it was located some ten feet underground. He'd had to climb down a narrow staircase, but luckily the torches on the walls gave enough light to keep him from stumbling and breaking any important body part.
He'd found the mansion relatively easy—meaning that he'd Apparated right across the front gate...on top of a very old pine tree, but that was just a minor detail. Unfortunately, after he'd climbed down the tree, he was still on the wrong side of the gate, which, incidentally, bore an elaborate inscription in French that invited trespassers to shove off or prepare to become disturbingly 'au fait' with Pain. That was the subtext, at any rate. Harry didn't speak French, but he'd found the translation during the many hours spent inside the public library.
Of course, Harry knew from "Transfiguration Today" (blessed be M. J. Mopclyfe, whoever he or she was, for writing that article on the Malfoy mansion wards and protecting spells) that the inscription was mainly for show. Mainly, but not entirely. The trick was not to sneak inside, but actually stride in like you owned the place or were intimately acquainted with the owners of the place. Sneaking in would result, at best, in losing a limb or two and, at worst, in being reduced to a limb or two. For instance, if one tried to fly or climb over the gate, the sharp iron spikes would spring up and pretty much make a human pin cushion of the intruder. Or, if one tried to squeeze between the grates, the attempt would result in a quite literal iron grip. It seemed likely that this kind of 'protection' was almost entirely intended for Muggles, because a wizard or witch would rather Apparate past the gate. For Harry, however, Apparition was out of discussion because of the wards; ironically, it had been the Ministry who'd set up the wards, to 'keep a closer eye on the place'.
Getting into the yard wasn't the hardest part, or so he told himself after managing it unscathed (if you didn't count the damage done by the pine needles to certain parts of his anatomy he'd rather not consider at the moment). Breaking into the mansion was the tricky thing to do, but, luckily for him, Harry didn't need to break into the mansion, which loomed menacingly in front of him. Wrapped in his Cloak, he instead directed his steps eastwards, to the smaller shadow he assumed to be the mausoleum erected to guard over the resting place for generations of Malfoys. Granted, there was a spell guarding the mausoleum gate, but Harry had done his research well—checking up cross-references through enough volumes to make even Hermione proud—so knew how to take the spell down.
And that was how, after the spell had been rendered harmless, he found himself into the Malfoys' crypt, thinking it was one of the coldest places he'd ever been.
While the cold wasn't that much of a surprise, what he hadn't really been prepared for was the ghost. Protected by his Cloak, Harry stared at the silver-haired translucent figure that glided past him. Probably Draco great-great-something. At any rate, the ghost was a hazard. Harry would have to drop his Cloak to perform the spell, which was bound to be messy, and didn't want any witnesses that could draw the alarm.
Careful not to let the Cloak slide he reached as silently as possible inside his backpack and drew out the Book.
::Troubles, my Master?:: asked the Voice.
::I need to get rid of him.:: Harry tilted his head slightly in the direction of the ghost, who, for no apparent reason, was currently coming in and out of a wall.
::May I suggest a Stunning Charm?::
The Book snapped open in his hands so fast that Harry almost dropped it. He slid silently to the floor, letting the Book rest open on his knees, and lit his wand. The instructions for stunning ghosts were pretty straightforward and not so very different from stunning beings made of flesh and bones.
::I didn't know you could stun ghosts.::
::Well, have you tried it before, my Chosen?::
::No.::
::Then how can you tell it won't work?::
So Harry tried it, pointing his wand at the ghost and whispering the magic word from under the Cloak. To his surprise, the ghost stopped mid air and slowly rose until its head passed through the ceiling and then froze in position. Harry checked his watch. Almost midnight. It was time to prepare. At last, he dropped the Invisibility Cloak and went to have a look around.
The crypt consisted in fact from more than one room. The room he was in had walls covered in black marble bearing all sort of inscriptions. He paid them little attention. There was another door, leading further into the crypt, and Harry really hoped he wouldn't have to go through it. He started checking the stone boxes around him methodically, and, sure enough, he found what he was looking for.
He was now standing right in front of Draco Malfoy's tomb.
Harry took a deep breath, trying to control the mad rush of his heart. He needed to be in full control of himself for what came next. He didn't even want to consider what would happen if something went wrong.
He figured that tucking up his sleeves would make a good start. Would his blood be enough? The poem, as far as he'd gathered, said the spell needed willing as well as unwilling blood. Harry was definitely not willing to slit his wrist open, but he knew he'd do it anyway.
He didn't hesitate anymore. He didn't want to lose all his nerve. Pointing his wand at his lower lip, he slashed it with a whispered "Diffindo". He made one last mental note about slashing one's lip on purpose and never doing it again because it hurt like a bitch, and then he started uttering the spell. The words mixed with blood inside his mouth and he could almost taste their power. Nothing had prepared him for it back when he was still learning them. He was only half aware of the darkness surrounding him all of the sudden. It wasn't a frightening darkness. It felt like a door was opening somewhere deep inside himself, opening for all that darkness, calling something... someone... he was supposed to call Draco, Harry remembered.
He tried to think about Draco as the spell went on, tried to feel both hate and desire like the Book had instructed. He tried to remember the night when he'd found out that Draco had disguised himself as a girl to fool Harry. He tried to feel all the anger from back then, he summoned it from his memories and let it take over. The hate strengthened his call, helped him unleash powers he didn't know he possessed. He was pulling something from the darkness... something that was fighting the pull and losing... no, not something, someone... Draco... he was pulling Draco to him... he had to keep this in mind.
He tried to force the hate in the back of his thoughts and remember the lust instead. Trying was needless. He didn't have to 'try'. It had never ceased to be there since that night, the need for Draco's body. The need to be inside him and around him at the same time, the need to feel Draco panting for breath over his skin, biting his lips so he wouldn't scream, then giving up control and scream Harry's name nonetheless, as he came. And Harry could almost feel Draco's body taking shape from his mere memories of it.
Then he noticed the pull was slipping. He realised just in time that he'd finished reciting the spell and rose his left arm above Draco's tomb, pointing his wand at his wrist.
"Diffindo!"
This time it hadn't been a whisper, but a hoarsely cried demand. His wrist now cut open, blood started dripping over Draco's name inscribed in stone. And it kept flowing, and flowing, like the stone was sucking it form Harry's wrist. And when Harry looked closer, it appeared that the stone was indeed feeding on his blood, absorbing it like a sponge, leaving no trace of it behind.
That's when Harry knew his part was over, that his blood had been accepted and the spell had been successful. With this knowledge, he withdrew his hand from above the tomb, wrapped his handkerchief as tightly as he could around the slit wrist and settled to wait. He'd extended the invitation. It was Draco's turn to do his part and show up, and Harry knew he hadn't given Draco much of a choice in this matter.
End of Chapter Three
Author's note: If anybody was wondering, the little poem at the beginning is my own unworthy creation. Its horrendous spelling was inspired by Agnes Nutter's prophecies from 'Good Omens' (a great novel by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett).
