Again, thanks to all reviewers! You make me happy (not in the gay way!)! HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
Note to Kirjava Deamon: Sorry about the exclamation marks, but I can't see where you're coming from (other than in my author notes) there, mate! Maybe I just have a low IQ....
Warning: Some repetition, not as NEARLY as extreme as in other fics, will be in this chapter, so if you don't like, SUCK IT UP!!
Chapter 7
The man buried his face in his hands, fighting the nausea that welled up within him. "I'm sorry, Master!" He cried pitifully. "I'm sorry. Please, Sir, please. Mercy!"
Voldermort stood over his servant, watching him writhe in pain. If he did not need him.......
Ah, if he did not need him! That alone would be sweeter than any thing right now. If only he did not require his services. Then he could kill him and be done with it. The man hardly deserved to live. But he did need him. Unfortunately, he was far too valuable to kill. And there was little to be done about it.
He kicked him with a booted foot, and, with an afterthought, lifted the curse. "Get up." He hissed. "You disgust me."
Bowing and scraping, pleading his thanks, the man stood.
"This time," Voldermort spat angrily, "you will NOT fail me. Understand?"
The man prostrated that he did.
"Good." Running an appraising glance over his servant, Voldermort cooled his intense rage with difficulty. "You will be sore and ill for the next couple days, I think." He hissed silkily. "But that is a small price to pay for your disobedience. Go."
The man stood, and ran for his life.
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He had been gone for far too long for her liking. He always came down at three in the morning, noon, and three in the afternoon to "talk" over their issues. But he hadn't come.
Maybe he was dead.
Probably. Her stomach clenched at the thought, and she fought to relax. Why would he be dead? If anything, he probably had left the manor for a break. She should be grateful he wasn't hurting her at the moment, not worrying where he was.
The absence of his presence, however, ached more deeply than any wound magic could inflict. At least torture only marred her body, instead of this; this terrible splitting of her heart and loyalties. She knew she loved him; it was useless to ignore that much. But she still loved Harry. This game of love was getting too dangerous for her taste.
But if Draco was dead, then what was stopping her from escape? Other than the thick wall, nothing. She mentally slapped herself for even thinking that way.
She couldn't go anyways, even if the wall did fall down.
For the love of Pete! It was just a useless, obsessive crush! It didn't even matter anymore. She had a chance to be free!
But it did matter. He did matter. More than she was willing to admit.
Luna had to shake her head at herself. She had her betrothed sitting somewhere, probably sick with worry, and here she was, obsessing over another man. But she was more than just obsessing; she was truly worried, so worried she felt faint.
You assume to easily that he is dead, she scolded herself. He might just be asleep.
Unlikely.
Call it woman's intuition; but Luna knew there was something wrong. Something very wrong.
She had to find him. It didn't matter how, she had to get out. But the only way to get out was to use her wandless magic, and she had no desire to do that. Maybe Draco was lying in wait, watching her to see if she would try it so he could see how she did it. It could mean death for the whole Order.
Screw that, she'd risk it. She would find him at any cost. And if the little bastard was trying to pull a fast one.........well, then he was dead and she could go marry Harry.
Indecision, indecision, indecision.
She couldn't go. She demanded that much of her honor. Of her loyalties. If she did go, it would mean she was moving on—she would have valued Draco's life over Harry's. Love over duty and love. Hard choice to make, but Luna knew she had already decided.
She had decided years ago, it seemed, as though the decision was and had always been.
She took a deep breath. And then, with an afterthought, another one—for luck. Once she crossed this line, she could never go back. Was it worth it? She pondered the question briefly, before making up her mind. Yes, she had decided, it was worth it.
Luna closed her eyes. As she had been taught, she focused on nothing and everything at once. She felt power pulsing in her. She felt the room. The door, the lock, her washbasin, her bed, her chains, the stones, the plaster, the walls, the floor; they all swirled in her mind, sucked into the whirlwind of dreams and ambitions, lost love and hatred, her wall of self-control, everything that made Luna herself. Her memories flew through her mind. She felt anger, happiness, sadness, physical and emotional pain and pleasure, love, and hatred fly forth unbidden with her recollection of her life. She let it simmer, and then slowly, gathering it in the darkest recesses of her mind, unleashed it like a tidal wave, calling the magic to her.
It answered with an eagerness that signaled it had been awaiting her summon. She felt herself sliding back, as though a firm hand was pushing her into a chair, telling her to take the backseat of control.
No.
Draco needed her. She would be in charge this time.
Luna shoved back. The presence seemed surprised, but nudged her harder, seeming as though it thought she was mistaken. Luna stood her ground.
No.
Draco needed her. She would be in charge this time.
The presence revealed itself, exploding with rage and need for freedom. Luna could taste its thirst. It shoved her so hard it sent her mind reeling, and she fought to retain her control.
No.
Draco needed her. She would be in charge this time.
It was her body. Her mind. Her love. Her need. Her choice. Her control.
Not someone else's; HERS!
Luna's mouth opened and saliva dripped from her lips as she panted and strained against the other in her mind. She fought the magic as though it was a person, straining against it like a brick wall. It didn't budge. Neither did she. It wasn't backing down. Neither was she.
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The snake watched the girl's eyes bulge. She looked like she was fighting something she couldn't see; and it wasn't constipation, a human might have chuckled, but emotion was a human quality she did not possess.
Her pupils flicked sideways, watching the door. Her Master's servant was late. He was off-schedule, most unlike him. Maybe he had slept in, or maybe he was dead. If he was dead, he could always be awoken; if he was asleep, he could always be awoken. Humans were too easily ruled. He would fall when Master said leaf and rise when Master said sun.
She had other business to attend to, anyways. This remained a most curious matter, however, and perhaps she could come back later and watch its finale.
As for now; however, she had loyalties to find.
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She felt the magic humming like a bee she longed to swat. It was outside the door, a fairly complex and powerful spell. It must have been designed to keep her in, but she could feel where to break it. Her eyes closed, she searched its byzantine pattern. It was strong, but not nearly strong enough.
Standing, she dropped back, bracing on one leg, her eyes snapping open like a cat's. The world was in complete focus. She was drifting. Drifting in a room of sharpened detail and heightened senses.
Slowly, she raised her hands. The other presence in her mind leaped forward with a surge of power at the possibility of freedom, but she held it back. She had purpose. She had reason. She had power. She was in control. She owned this manor. She had to find Draco.
The door exploded. Stone chips flew everywhere, and Luna was dimly aware of some scratching and tearing at her face like chunks of shrapnel. She had to find Draco. The spell remained it place a second longer, but she cut through it by sheer force of will.
The need drove her like a rider beating his horse as they fled from wolves. It consumed her. It controlled her emotions. It held her mind. She had to find him.
Luna closed her eyes, and sent tendrils of magic racing out in every direction. They tore through the castle like hounds on the scent of a fox, whirling up stairs and bolting down hallways. She held them for a moment longer, and then called them back to her.
They returned at different times, and she was able to sift through them for any information. Most brought only a lingering scent of him, where he had been or how he had felt. One, however, brought the thought that he was in his room. He had not moved for a day and half. He still breathed, but his heartbeat was slowing, and he had little life in him. He should be dead, it hissed. He should have died by now; there was a foreign anti-charisma in him that should not have been there. She could feel the magic struggling to explain it, trying to put emotions and pictures to a word it could not speak.
Dark rashes, a dry mouth and throat, and convulsions all flashed through her mind.
Rabies, she thought grimly, remembering studying the symptoms in Potions class. Perhaps he had been bitten by a rat or something Perhaps. It seemed rather unusual, but she shoved the lingering doubt away. What else could it be?
Inwardly shrugging, she turned to where the magic pointed.
The magic moved.
Luna moved.
Like liquid lightning, they fired up the stairs, one following the other through hallways, up stairs and through doors. If they knocked a vase over in their wake, they did not stop to catch it; if they ruffled the carpet, they did not stop to smooth it; and if the blew painting off the walls, they did not stop to replace them.
Finally, the magic stopped dead before a large set of doors. It frisked around her heels like a small puppy. He is in this room, Mistress, it sang, he is here! Here!
Luna nodded absently before dismissing the magic. It vanished and she gave it no more thought.
Draco was here. She could feel his presence. Her ear caught the sound of his unusual heartbeat, and thankfully, his shallow breathing.
She released her hold on the magic gingerly, and it left her vulnerable and alone.
It suddenly occurred to her then; she had controlled the magic! Harry would be so proud!
Harry.
The mere thought of him made her wince. Low blow, perhaps, but she deserved it.
Luna glanced up, appraising the huge silver doors with emerald serpents engraved on them. This was it. Taking a deep breath, she shoved hard on the serpent's tails to open the doors.
They creaked open and a warm blast of stale air hit her, calling her towards the darkness.
To go or not to go?
Go.
Luna set her jaw and descended into the mouth of hell, stepping gingerly forth into the darkness.
The serpents on the door would have smiled, but emotion was a human quality they did not possess.
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"Ronald Weasley, you have got to be the most boneheaded of all men in this world! You manage to get yourself beaten up far too much!"
"Don't shout, please, 'Mione, my head hurts." Ron whispered, curled up miserably in his cot, tugging the blankets close up under his chin to protect his aching body. All his nerves were raw and screaming, like a million tiny alarms.
Hermione's gaze softened slightly at his soft plea. "What happened to you, anyways?"
Ron closed his eyes against a wave of nausea, and fought against his agonizing conscience. "Just doing my job." He rasped softly.
In truth, he had been, but Hermione was not to know what his job was.
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Harry paced his room. His hair fell in his eyes. He shoved his hair out of his eyes. He poked himself in the eye. He swore. He paced his room. His hair fell in his eyes. He shoved it out of his eyes. It fell in his eyes. He shoved it out of his eyes. It fell in his eyes.
Harry cursed and stalked to his desk angrily. He grabbed a pair of Muggle scissors—a Christmas gift from Mr. Weasley years ago—and chopped it off before he realized what he was doing. Cursing even more loudly than he had been before, he grabbed a mirror and looked mournfully at his forehead fuzz. He could have grown it back; in fact, he had his wand out and the spell half-uttered; but he stopped. It would serve as a reminder for him to control his temper and act only with complete thought.
Heaven knew, he needed the reminder.
He sighed and resumed his pacing, hair soon forgotten as he became lost in his own thoughts.
The war should be over. It should have been long over. But it wasn't.
How it wasn't over was beyond him; he knew for a fact that it should have been. He was the good guy. The good guy always won. Why wasn't he winning? He had defeated Voldermort. More than once actually. More than he should have needed to. Why wasn't Voldermort dead? He was like a bloody cockroach; impossible to kill, even if you cut of its bloody head. Why hadn't he won? Was it his fault? Was there a flaw in his leadership, or was it his followers? Were they not doing their jobs? Was he really the bad guy? No, he couldn't be. He had every one else's best interests at heart, he really did. It must be his followers. Maybe he wasn't strict enough.
Maybe.
No, not maybe; there was nothing wrong with him; that had to be it.
Harry turned and exited his room, slamming the door behind him. Gold and scarlet cloak billowing out like a phoenix's wingspan, he strode down to where he knew he would find Hermione and Ron. He would start with them.
He pounded loudly on the door, and Hermione answered it.
"Harry." She greeted, sounding pleasantly surprised. Her gaze fell on his hair, and she fought to suppress a smile, something Harry luckily missed. "How are you?"
"I could be better," He answered stiffly, banishing her smile with his sharp tone, "had you found anything whatsoever. Where's Ron?"
"He's sick and very sore, and has been since he came home this morning. He blamed the cold weather, but he might be over exhausted. Sometimes you men never know when to quit!"
"I see. Well, then, I suggest you continue questioning Crabbe—and don't leave the dungeon until you found out what he's hiding. Tell Ron the same applies to him when he recuperates. Dismissed." His tone was cutting, but his lack of concern and loss of friendship wounded more deeply than his voice.
Hermione watched him turn to leave sadly. "Yes, sir." She said; and he heard that her voice was thick with emotion, but ignored her shaking shoulders.
What had become of her former schoolmate, Hermione could not even begin to comprehend.
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"The dungeons hardly become you, Miss Granger." The soft voice interrupted her thoughts as she sat at the single wooden table under the torchlight, scribbling brief notes on her delayed interview with the Death Eater and her recent findings.
"Of whom do they become, other than yourself, may I ask?" She replied lightly, not bothering to raise her gaze. She could see the figure's dark eyes without looking.
"Very few, I regret." His voice was as it had always been, soft and captivating. Hermione smiled. She felt relaxed when working with its familiarity, almost as if she was at school again. She felt his eyes roam over her work briefly, and refrained from questioning when his robed arm pulled another chair opposite her.
"You spent a rather short time reviewing my notes, Professor." She remarked, finally lifting her gaze to meet his. "Is speed-reading among your many talents or can you not read my writing?"
"Is writing in a microscopic, cramped style among your many talents, or can you only prattle about everything but the point?" The other replied scathingly.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Have you come to criticize me, good sir, or do you have something of value to speak of?" Joking primness in their speech was custom between the two of them, and she enjoyed dropping back onto formality with at least him.
Snape shrugged. "I wanted to inquire about your progress. Have you found anything out from Crabbe yet?"
Hermione shook her head, putting on a dramatic air to hide her disturbance. "If only I could! I came down to find half of his internal organs falling out of his abdomen. We are completely unsure of what happened. He's in the Hospital Wing right now, and might not live out the night. He's a bit old for that kind of stress."
Snape's mouth twisted with amusement. "You seem to have a knack for finding Death Eaters half-dead, separated from their organs, Miss Granger."
She chose to ignore his reference to the night when she had found him in a gutter. It still gave her nightmares. "Perhaps." She replied shortly, and resumed her work.
The silence stretched; the only sound was Hermione's quill scratching furiously on her parchment.
Snape seemed content to sit by her quietly, but one look changed her mistaken assumption. He was fighting an inner struggle, evident on his scarred face.
"Is there anything else?" Hermione asked, setting down her quill and focusing on the other's eyes.
"Obviously." He replied darkly.
"I'm listening."
"Yet again, Miss Granger, you do manage to state the obvious."
"I don't have all day. Pray, do tell."
"You might not like to hear this, Granger."
"I shall be the judge of that. Tell."
Snape glanced around casually before leaning forward. "I have suspicions, Granger. They are hardly proven, but I do have them." A knot twisted in Hermione's belly. Snape's voice dropped to a whisper. "Someone on our side has been selling information. He cannot always manage to contact the Death Eaters—"
"He? Is it a he, or are you just using third person in your speech?"
"Yes, it is a he. Stop interrupting me and listen. Anyways, he has not always been able to always contact his master, and that is perhaps the only reason we are still alive right now."
"Why are you telling me this?" Hermione felt panic well up within her.
"You are one of the few whom I know for sure are loyal to the Order. I can trust you. You are intelligent enough to keep this to yourself, and your help could prove invaluable."
"I'm flattered." Hermione said softly. In truth, she was.
Snape gave her a wry smile. "You should be."
Hermione leaned forward. "Who is it?"
"Do you trust me, Miss Granger?"
"Of course I do!"
"Good. (It is my turn to be flattered, I suppose.) However, before I tell you, Miss Granger, I might warn you that you will not like the answer."
"I will hear it, either way."
"Very well. The informer," Snape's lips twisted at the word, and Hermione was reminded of his old job, "is none other than Ronald Weasley."
Shock numbed Hermione's senses, and all she could do was gape at him, her mouth working like a fish's. "You must be mistaken!" She finally managed to gasp.
"Ah, but if I was! I wish it were not so, Miss Granger, and the informer was anyone but him, but it is as it is. There is nothing I can do about it."
"But this is Ron, Severus! Ron Weasley! Harry's best friend! My fiancé!"
"The facts remain, Hermione." His black eyes regarded hers sadly. "I'm sorry."
"What proof do you have?" Hermione demanded angrily. She knew he was mistaken, and felt it was her duty to defend Ron.
"Whenever Ron was absent—and yes, I have been keeping track of his leavings— for more than two days, we were attacked. It would take two days for the Death Eaters to pinpoint our location from a description."
"That hardly proves anything—"
"Voldermort was displeased this morning, Miss Granger. I felt my tattoo burn. He was soon calm afterwards, meaning someone was punished. That someone is likely bedridden. Where is your fiancé at the present moment, may I be so bold as to ask?"
"Recovering," Hermione replied instantly, desperate to defend that her fiancé was not selling information, "he was feeling unwell and sore this morning—"
"Symptoms of recent torture, perhaps?"
Realization hit Hermione like a brick wall. "Not Ron! You're wrong. He couldn't—he...." She began weakly, fighting nausea and panic. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps. "......he wouldn't—oh, please—no! Not Ron!" she seemed to regain a hold on herself, and although the blood had drained from her cheeks, she held her composure erect. "You're wrong." The words were re-enforced this time. Immovably so. She had convinced herself.
"I'm sorry." Snape sounded genuine. "I liked him in a way, he seemed to be more bearable as he matured, but we must face facts."
Hermione shook her head. "You're wrong, Snape. Ron wouldn't betray us."
Snape shook his head sadly. "Should you change your mind and come to reason, Miss Granger, you know where to find me. I trust that you will keep this matter to yourself. Do not even tell Potter."
Hermione nodded numbly. "Of course."
Snape inclined his head mournfully. "I shall see you soon, Miss Granger. Very soon, I hope."
"Farewell, Professor."
They parted then, the antithesis of how they usually had done so; Snape left the dungeon and Hermione remained behind to brood over his words.
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"I don't believe he will hold on much longer, Master."
"Neither do I. He will die soon."
"But what if he reveals something before he dies?"
"He cannot."
"Begging your pardon, Master, but he just might."
Voldermort chuckled. "When I said your dear father cannot, Crabbe, I mean that he physically cannot. I had my loyal servant remove his tongue along with the parts that supplied him life."
"Very clever of you, Master."
"I know. Now leave me. Send in Pettigrew. I have a job for him."
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