Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, though I wish I could come up with something amazingly similar so I could be a multimillionare. J.K. Rowling is the author of those wonderful novels. This fanfic is my own invention however. DON'T STEAL IT! hehe :P
Chapter 11The day's pass with uncharacteristic calm after that single moment outside Dumbledore's office and a week and a half before the night of the ball, during a breakfast of loud yawns and dreary eyes, the Headmaster speaks to us, "Students! Your attentions please! This weekend, I have organised a Hogsmeade outing for you all! First and Second years shall attend the outing under the supervision of their Head of Houses, as will all other students whose slips have yet to be signed. The gates will be open from nine on Saturday morning till six that evening, and all students must be within the grounds before that time." A great cheer arises from all the houses but my own and I return to picking at my food again.
The seventh years, whose faces were tired and drawn with lack of sleep from studying too much, are tugged into tight smiles and there is a great chatter erupting from every table. I pull a book from the space on the bench beside me and flip it open to a page of distinct drawings and detailed descriptions.
Plaga Curatio (Wound Healing)
The Newts are to be held two weeks and two days following the night of the ball and the Potions exam is to be based upon healing potions. Anything and everything that centres on the art of healing and curing can be tested on the exam and for now my best course of distraction is to drown myself in studying. My eyes skim over the worn pages and I take in the words as well as I can, but there is motion beside me and I glance to my side. It is not Blaise or Theodore Nott, who has only just returned to Hogwarts, but Pansy Parkinson.
Her pale face is smooth and without blemish like all pureblooded faces but what makes me look twice is the smile, which lights her cheeks. It is not drawn tight against her face or tugged into a conniving sneer, but rather softly places against her red lips. Elegantly drawing attention to the faint blush on her cheeks.
"To what do I owe the honour, Parkinson?" I drawl and return to the book in front of me, I do not read however, but wait for her response.
"Dear Draco, always the gentleman." I look over at her, leaning my cheek in the palm of my hand and watch as she raises a neatly manicured eyebrow in my direction. She leans forward to rest her elbows on the woodened table in front of her and leans her chin into the cup they create. "Tedious, isn't it? This whole ball thing." She waves a fluttering hand towards the scene of the other chattering tables and sniffs indifferently. "Well, Draco, I've never been one to be slow in what I'm saying. I am in need of a partner." To say I am prepared for her words is overestimating myself and I just restrain the look of shock, which is about to spring to life on my face, replacing it with a tugging smirk and raised eyebrows at her.
"A partner, Parkinson?" she nods and the smirk on my face grows larger, causing her pretty countenance to falter. "And you are asking me?" she nods again and I can tell that the smile, which looked so perfect on her face for a short moment, is becoming tighter and harder to bear. "What happened to your other minions, Pansy? Many of these boys would willingly dip their fingers in this honey jar, but presently I'm not one of them." The picture of the perfect daughter drops and her face becomes angry and perhaps a little sad. "Now, now, Pansy, don't go getting all snotty on me. You almost had me going there with the whole smiling façade. You don't need to pretend for me, Luv, I know all about you and your ways. Wasn't it your ways which got you out of our mess in the first place." I drawl and she huffs indignantly before getting to her feet and moving to sit beside Millicent Bullstrode.
There is a slight shuffling beside me again and Pansy's empty place is taken by Blaise whose back is stretched tall and straight as a ruler. I shoot him an impatient glare, coming to the conclusion that at least for the time being, no study will be attained. I shut my book with a thud and turn my face to Blaise's stiff, formal portrait, his eyes not yet focused on mine but rather on Millicent and Pansy who sit further up the table, twittering like birds on a branch to Crabbe and Goyle. "If you wanted her as your partner, Zabini, you need only to have asked. She wouldn't refuse the hand of rich pure blood, however much smarter they are than her." Blaise turns and looks at me sharply, his coal eyes assessing and calculating before a small smirk tugs on the corner of my lips.
"She surprised you with that one, didn't she Malfoy? But I can't seem to fathom a reason as to why you wouldn't know she was after you again. After all, she has been going on about you for several weeks now. Flaunting your past relationship; warning all the younger girls off the Malfoy blood, she has." I dart a look at the blond-haired girl sitting several seats up, but Blaise quickly continues, "But then again, other things have been on your mind, haven't they Draco. A certain stain of a girl, has been niggling at your thoughts. She won't have you, will she?" His whisper hisses in my ear, but no one pays either of us a bit of attention. When Zabini and I talk, no one ever does. He sends a pointed look over at her table and smirks, his chin resting on his arms, now folded before him. "Surprising, really, but strangely alluring. If only Potter and Weasley knew of their lady's talent for catching Death Eater's sons, perhaps they might have used it for their greater cause, or maybe they already are."
His words send shivers down my spine and I place my hands in my laps, straining to unclench tight fingers and relax tense muscles. His words of the village mudblood dig deep and I follow his eyes to her table, where she sits. Her books are strewn before her on the table, but her eyes are not on them. But rather, her face is alight with laughter as the Irish goon who sits opposite her says something, which has her and the youngest Weasley in fits of giggles. Something catches at the pit of my stomach as she twirls a piece of blond-brown hair around her finger and leans over to the other Weasley to tell him their joke. It is his laughter, which catches other's attentions, and he quickly takes it upon himself to send the rest of the table into hilarity. "One has to wonder, Draco, what exactly you are getting from this? Do you find humour in your treatment of this thing or is it something more? What have you seen in these Gryffindors, which has you tied in knots? They're grating, to be sure, but no more than usual and Potter hasn't even commented on Pansy's new hair, so something must have calmed them." I sharply look at the dark Italian boy beside me and if it is possible, raise a single eyebrow even higher.
"Humour, Blaise? I never would have thought you were up to it." I am impatient with the tail end of this conversation and before I can stop myself, I speak, "Was there a reason for your company, Zabini, or do you seek to infuriate me?" He sneers and sighs, "Indeed there was, Draco my boy. But before I continue, I don't think Pansy would suit my kind of tastes, perhaps Theodore Nott. Here's back from overseas, isn't he?"
Christian Lestrange who is seated across from us, looks back and comments, "I don't think the person you're looking for will be found in Theo. He's perhaps not the easiest of people." He nods his head towards the end of the table where a weedy looking boy with lanky, brown hair that is cast over his face sits upon the tabletop with his back to them. He is talking to a portrait.
I look to Christian and he shrugs, a pinched smile spreading across his lips. "Mother said that he's been in Russia for the last eight months spending time with his Grandparents. His father would have been less than pleased, I'm assuming, if he knew of this arrangement, but as it is, he won't." He chuckles and his brows crease for a moment. "His Grandfather was the headmaster of this school two times before Dumbledore, and one of the most arrogant. I have to wonder what exactly Theo will have come back with this time." I look over at Theodore for a moment and I remember one particular moment with the different, dreamy boy. One moment, where scars, which no one but he truly sees, were put out for my eyes to briefly see.
"Draco!" I hear my name and walk slowly to my father's office, my hand trailing along the wall, "Draco!" This time his voice is slightly more impatient and I quicken my step until I am slouching in his doorway. I just manage to avoid the small glass vase, which soars over my head and crashes to splinters on the far wall. "What took you so long, boy?" I raise an eyebrow at him, pushing a hand through my hair, but don't answer his question, knowing he'd rather not know, and instead watch as he flicks his wand at the broken pieces and the vase reforms. "Nott will be here in several minutes and I wish for you to keep his son entertained. Can I count on your behaving yourself?" My brows furrow in annoyance but I nod and head towards the kitchen, where mother leans over the bench top, her chin rested in one slim, fine-boned hand, whilst the other flicks through one of her magazines.
"Father is expecting guests soon." I mutter as I take a mug of boiling tea in my hands from the small elf that appears below me. But before I can scold the elf for the temperature of the cup, it has disappeared and another has replaced it. This one is cooler and easier to hold. I sneer at the small being, feeling my temper rising as its face creases and furrows in worry but before I can tip the drink over its head, a soft cough breaks through my thoughts. I turn to my mother and she points a delicate finger at the doorway. I turn around and there stands Sebastian Nott and his son, Theodore.
Sebastian Nott is like the grim reaper himself. Tall, gangly and gaunt in face and frame, but well dressed and priding himself on his connections and wealth, which piles up in tall, long columns in vaults 534, 535 and 536. His brown hair, tawny and straw-like, hangs unevenly around his face and shadows, like it does his son's, hollow, watery blue eyes, which appear dazed but hide the cunning and keen mind of a sinister man. Beside him stands his son, short where his father is tall but shallow and shadowed in all the same places, with hair of dusty brown and misty, blue eyes.
I glance at Theodore, a boy who I have grown up beside as much as I have Blaise Zabini, and my eyes narrow. However silent and dim-witted this boy may seem, I know better. I know so much better. Where Granger stands as first in the school, the second place which should be mine, is in his hands. He fascinates me in fear as much as Granger does in lust and I look to him almost for approval, but not quite.
I mutter something under my breath, before walking past the sullen boy and grab the corner of his jacket, tugging him with nimble fingers after me. I pause at the library doors, and now that he is much shorter than me, I find I must look down at him, lowering my head to stare down my nose. I break the wards, which confine the room and step inside, this brother in power and connection slipping past me and up to the first of several bookshelfs. I sit on the edge of a table's top and regard the boy who draws his hand across the spines of books, shivering as I watch how his eyes widen and his lips move in silent words.
"Draco." Startled from my thoughts, I look to him, "Yes, Theo."
"What does your father tell you?" He pauses and then sighs, "Every night, Draco, every night, Sebastian speaks words of horror in my ears and every morning I wake shuddering. What does your father tell you or is it just mine?" He has paused in his dedicated attention towards the book and he leans his head against the wood. "I'm so sick and tired of these voices which whisper in my ears when I try to sleep. So sick and ever so tired. He wants me to be like him, but what he doesn't realise is that I'm so much more smarter than him." There is a tone to his voice, which makes Theo sound pompous and full of himself, but I can see the hands, which twitch by his side. "And I know that he will never win this batt-" I am off the table and in his face before he can say another word, and slamming him up against the far wall I cover his mouth with my hand, looking fearfully at the ajar door.
"Don't mention such things in this house, Theodore Sebastian Nott, unless you're hoping to get me killed along with you." I don't mean for the words to seem so harsh, but when they leave my lips, they are hard like a hiss of cold air and they strike him straight on. His eyes widen and I immediately regret my words and release him. It has always been this way. No matter how angry I may be at Theo, I always regret anything that is offensive towards him, thus is our relationship. Thus is our past.
He leaves that day, his eyes sorrowful and almost mournful. But as he passes me to follow his father through the door, he grips the fold of my arm and pulls me close, embracing me. Like a brother. "Do not fear, Draco, what has not happened yet. You need only fear what has already occurred."
Restless in my seat, I get to my feet and Blaise's face spreads into a grin, which can be described as nothing but cocky. "Always had a soft spot for Theo, didn't we Draco? The little child of Slytherin who secretly plots the downfall of everything he sees, no matter what side they belong to." I vaguely feel a heat on the back of my neck, but my mind is on returning to my private dorms, and I take my leave from them, walking towards Theodore."Draco." He acknowledges as I draw close, but as I nod at him his hand appears from nowhere and halts my progression. "Your father came to tea at our house the night before last." I pause, feeling my breath become short in my chest and listen closer, "He looks well." I cannot understand where he is taking this, but continue to hear him. "We did however, not get to see Mrs Malfoy; mother was particularly upset about this." I feel the colour draining from my face and pushing him out of my way I try to leave the hall without running and I do succeed. Just.
Once in the hallways I break into a mad dash and once I am in my private study, I begin rummaging through a series of documents, which lie beside my bed, throwing papers everywhere. Finally, towards the bottom, I find a letter, the seal of the Malfoy clan pressed into a green, claggy wax. I can't open it quick enough and I struggle to understand his words.
Your mother is not well, Draco. She has been little help since you've left for your final year, mulling over something in particular. Send her your regards, Son.
"Your mother is not well, Draco. She has been- she has been little help." I cannot seem to form the words with my own tongue without stuttering and throw the letter at the wall suddenly unable to contain the scream, which erupts from within me. "What have you done father?" I whisper, breath not coming easily to me and I sag to the floor, my back resting against the wooden boards of my bed's frame and rest my hands on my face.
I am awake and the room is foggy with the heavy scents of incense and the mirrors wet with the stale stagnant scent of blood, water and healing balms. I try my voice, but my throat seems dry and scratchy, and after several tries, a fit of coughing overtakes me and my hands and bed sheets are splattered with blood. As the coughs subside and breath resides to my lungs I croak for aid and a figure runs through the door and pulls the curtains away.
In a loose, white blouse, which buttons to her breasts and a long red skirt of silk and cream, my mother stands at my bedside, her eyes wide with surprise and her lips pursed in shock. "Moth-" the words don't fall from my lips before I am assaulted by a vicious embrace, which sends sharp pains down my back and brings memories of a frightening moment to the front.
He stands above me, his face splattered with glistening, red droplets and his blue eyes crazed and lunatic with a maniacal grin, but still I see his face. Lucius Malfoy stands proud of the bloody mess he has reduced his son to; finally Lucius Xavier Malfoy looks upon his son with something other than disappointment.
Her hands grip the tops of my shoulders, but I cannot prevent the whimper, which escapes, from my lips and she quickly pulls away and forces me to lie back. As she tends to my wounds, she does not show any further affection and her hands work quickly to rearrange the bandages, which are becoming loose from my awakening. Finally she forces a potion down my throat and in the midst of choking I taste the acidic likeness to a Dreamless Sleep that it contains, whilst she dabs at the blood about me.
Trying to speak again, she stops me with a hand, and pulls long fingers through her straight blond hair before tucking the bed sheets in around me. The potion is beginning to take affect, but before I fall desperately into this world of slumber, I strain my ears to hear her words, "Oh, Draco, if only I had never had a son."
The bell rings for class and I get to my feet and pick up the scattered books, which I need for the day. An undeniable fear is rippling through my form like a vicious demon, but the source of it, I cannot be too sure of.
Transfiguration is first and after a reproval for my lateness, I sit through class my eyes focused on the blue sky, which lies just beyond engraved glass panes. The following class is Potions and Snape eyes me curiously, my lack of participation obvious, and instead I watch the curly haired girl one seat in front of me. Her shoulder length hair of pale brown with blond tinges, catching my line of vision, and I cannot help the shudder of delight which courses through my fingers. Remembering the way the skin of her neck, which lies just below that mane of hair, felt beneath them. Finally, arithmancy appears to end the day, and I sit alone in the classroom, her in the seat beside me as we do nothing but read. She reads quickly and efficiently, her eyes darting across the lines of words and her fingers flicking the pages with distinct accuracy. I cannot help but stare at her and finally with a huff of annoyance she slams the book shut and turns to face me.
I could try to contain the smirk which graces my pale lips, but there would be no satisfaction in that and I instead take delight in watching her brows crease in anger. "Is something you want, Malfoy? Something I can help you with, so that you will cease your infernal assessment?" I shake my head, returning to my book with an arrogant sneer, just managing to contain the words. Nothing but you.
The day slowly winds down, gracing me with the night in which to complete my thoughts, but when night falls, I find myself overcome by drowsiness and I stumble to my bedroom, asleep in matter of moments. But in slumber, faceless people plague my dreams and I wake later that night, sweating and gasping, and head to the bathroom to calm my senses.
"Goodnight, Seamus!" A voice lightly laughs and I watch as she pauses in the doorway and hugs her friend, holding him tightly, before they wrestle from each other's arms and separate. She closes the portrait and immediately shrieks when she finds me standing just metres behind her, watching her.
Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are bright and I cannot help but rekindle the thought that this girl can be anything but real. She pauses mid step, her hands filled with a hefty number of books and she opens her mouth, closes it again and then speaks.
"Malfoy. We didn't see you at dinner." Her words are clear and precise but as I watch her, I notice the furrow of her brow and the flickering of her eyes, as she seems to scan the room. I reach out and take hold of her chin, drawing her closer to me until she is a hairbreadth away and I smirk, as she squeaks very quietly.
"You notice when I'm away, Mudblood? I'm touched, truly touched." I whisper and her eyes glaze over with anger at the dirty nickname, and she shakes her face from my hold. She takes unsteady steps backwards and her cheeks appear to blush.
"So we're already back to this, are we Malfoy? I- I" she can't complete a sentence and I force my lips to turn up at their ends, instead of the frown which threatens my face.
What is this feeling of turbulence in my stomach, this unease that I feel?
"Fucking hell, Malfoy. I'm sick of this! All of it!" She screams at me, and I flinch, noticeably, so that she pauses in her ranting and takes a step back towards me. "What is all this?" I shrug at her, pretending that I don't notice the tension between us, which clouds the air, not looking at her as she takes another step forward, "Don't ignore me!" I refuse to meet her eyes and it is only when her hand connects with my cheek that I snap my eyes back to hers. "Don't fucking ignore me, Draco!" Her voice is shrill and I catch the offending hand before it can hit me again. She seems to stutter for a moment, looking for the right words and our hands play a battle of wills, hers twisting to get from mine, and my own trying to contain them. "Stop it! Just stop it already, Malfoy." Her whispers halt my fingers as they claw at the skin of her hands and I look to her face in time to see it look away, down at the carpet behind her. "You began this all and I got no say in it, but I won't have you ignore me! Not any more! You say I've placed some enchantment on you, but who are you to say that when you play such tricks and games, luring me out of my mind." Her face is bright and blushed and my eyes widen at her words, and slowly she eases her hands from mine and she leaves me there. Alone.
The night passes in restlessness, my mind distracted away from sleep with scents and forms and sights and when morning comes, it seems like I pass the day in a state of formless sleep. And then again, when night falls and morning rises in a matter of hours, I pass the day again with my eyes not focused, and my housemates words passing over me like waves. I notice nothing but that I do not see her again.
The weekend has finally begun and I sit at the breakfast table, listening to the excited chatter of all the students who are attending Hogsmeade, and grimacing at the mess that Crabbe and Goyle are making with their meals. Mail swoops through the windows on the feet of taloned birds, and I watch an ebony black owl, which I recognise as my fathers, soar downwards until it can rest on my outstretched arm. I unclasp the sealed letter and then, with a flick of my wrist, the bird takes flight. It would be pointless to offer the bird food for he eats naught but what Lucius feeds him.
I then leave the room and enter the hallway, leaning up against a shadowed wall where I can open the letter in private. I tear at the seal and as I read the letter, the air appears colder and I cannot stop my knees from crumpling beneath me.
Your mother is dead, Draco. There is no need to return for the funeral for it shall be closed to all but her parents and I. All she owns has been left to you. Please do not worry about your mother, son. She died as she began- alone and in her sleep, leaving me with little help. I am well and hope to see you at the end of your year.
Your Father,
Lucius Malfoy.
The air around me is silent and deathly still and I try to contain the rasp of my breath as it sags from my chest. I bite down upon my lip to contain the sob and smother my face in my hands, trying to block away the tears, which threaten to fall and realise that I cannot breath. My throat has closed over and what seemed so easy moments before is ever so hard. Then as if the spell, which was cast over me, has been released, the voices of excited students approach and I can breath again.
I stumble to my feet and look out from the dark drapes of shadows and pause, my eyes meeting golden brown ones, which belong to a pretty, rounded face. She sits on the bottom of the descending steps and she looks at me through the railing panels, her eyes confused and curious. I hold her gaze for a moment and I realise just what it is about her that seems so infatuating.
She has everything I don't and want.
She is everything I am and can't ever be.
And she is everything that I never wish to be.
She blushes prettily, her hair resting across a portion of her face and she opens her mouth to speak, but it is not her voice which fills both our ears, but Potter's, as he crosses the landing and makes his way to her. Her eyes are immediately drawn to him, with only a small look of oddity in my direction and the letter that I hold gently in my hand, crumples as I pinch myself.
This is all real, I tell myself, and suddenly nausea overwhelms me and I take off towards the closest bathrooms, where I upheave my breakfast. I crouch to the floor; the feet of other students not seen, and let out an almighty growl, my foot connecting with the cubicle wall as tears fall down my cheeks. I cannot form the words to curse the man that befalls the figure of my father and I swing a fist at the wall in anger, its connection rattling the walls with a crack, which ricochets through my wrist, and suddenly I can't stop the tears and I slump to the floor, sobs racking my form.
"Draco! Draco, please get out of the sun!" She calls to me and I turn and watch her as she descends upon me and places a small cap, no bigger than her palm, upon my head. She doesn't touch me and her face doesn't offer an affectionate smile or a humorous smirk, but her eyes sparkle at me. They sparkle like the diamonds, which they resemble. "You can't play outside without this hat; your skin is much to fair. Fair like your fathers." Her hand appears to hesitate in the air beside my cheek but before I can blink it is at her side again and I blink up at her, the sunlight blurring my sight. She is beautiful. So beautiful I cannot touch her, so beautiful she seems to crack every time father smacks her across the cheek.
"Your father shall return home tonight, Draco, and I don't want your cheeks red with the sun." She starts to turn away but pauses mid-step and abruptly her hand sweeps against the skin of my cheek. It rests there for a moment and I savour this momentary lapse of form for the short instant that it is bestowed. And then she is walking away, her posture straight and her shoulders curved attractively back.
Your mother is dead. His words are like a hammer, giving yet another blow to my soul and as I gather my form, shielding my face with a solemn mask and straightening my back like the wealthy son that I am, I try to contain the crazed look which I can feel overwhelming me.
The pain in my hand and leg is searing and as I walk out of the toilets and through the Great Hall to the grassy grounds of Hogwarts, I take to a subtle limp, which aids me well. Blaise shoots me an inquisitive look, his eyes flowing to my leg and hand, which drips blood and then returns to my face, but I grimace and bear my teeth in a toothy grin. Theo falls into step with me, but I don't look at him and soon he falls behind and begins a conversation with Christian, their voices moulding into the background.
The town of hogsmeade is a hive of activity, constantly moving and always noisy, and I realise, as I enter a small dusty shop, that I still contain the traitorous parchment, now mattered with the blood from my hand.
"Ah, Mr Malfoy, so glad of you to come by." A small, stout man welcomes me from behind his desk and I glance at the objects above his head, my eyes gazing at several different items.
"You got my letter, I presume." He nods and I my eyes focus on the ornate wall off to the side, before continuing. "I was also hoping you could help me with something a little different."
"The school ball, of course! I have a selection just brought in on Professor Dumbledore's request. They're just over there, along that aisle over far. If you'll come with me now, though, you can look at them in a moment." I agree and follow him out back, my eyes skimming over the contents of the container, which I have ordered. "Quite a task you put for me, but I've definitely got what you wanted. Did you want it wrapped and packaged or just the way it is?" Wrapped, I answer and I leave him to his job, returning to the darkened shelves that he pointed to.
"Oh, Harry!" I am not alone in the shadows and I watch as a familiar girl spins, her curls swishing about her head as she turns to face me. But it is not Hermione Granger's face that I see, but that of a moon-faced cherub, with ghost white skin and pale pink cheeks. The mask that she wears accentuates the redness of her lips like cherries fresh from a tree and the amber clarity of her eyes as they widen, but I quickly halt her tense actions as she intends to pull it off her face and hold it there in place, her hand gloved within mine. "Malfoy." She acknowledges and I watch as she bites down on her bottom lip, her eyes curiously round. She wriggles her fingers, intending to wrench them free from my hold, her lack of comfort at our closeness obvious, but I flinch and she immediately turns her eyes to my injury. "Your- your hand, Malfoy." She whispers, her words light on the heavy air between us and for a moment we stare at the drops of red blood, which flow onto her creamy fingers. But the moment is broken as she shudders and her shoulders sag, and I need only to lean forward a little to catch her in my arms.
Her frame is tiny and petite within my arms and they grow tighter around her form, holding her to me as she breaths heavily, obviously not one for the sight of blood. I breathe in her scent: musty, dry and like the oil of tea-trees, and I discover that I am craving the moment when she will return the embrace.
"Malfoy." The silence is broken as her she speaks my name and I gently feel the touch of fingers upon the hair of my head and then I cannot contain the tears, which course, down my cheek and I need only to hold her tighter. So much tighter. "Malfoy?" There is a sense of alarm in her voice as she whispers and I choke on the salty trails, not able to contain the pain inside. We stumble and her back meets the shelf wall, but neither release our hold and I try to breath deeply my back shuddering.
I thought that I could be strong about this. I thought that the death of a woman I hardly knew would not mean so much to me. I thought that the anger I felt would feel so natural, but nothing is like I thought.
The gentleness of her fingers on my scalp is like returning home and finding Narcisssa Malfoy no longer afraid to embrace her son. And then I cannot contain myself, "She's dead. My mother's dead and I never said a word." I whisper and her hold grows tighter on me as if trying to keep me from drowning, as if trying to keep my head just above the surface.
Author's Note: That ladies and gentlemen is chapter 11, posted under no.12, because of the author's note. I hope you all liked it! That has to be one of the quickest updates I've done, I suppose, and I'm sure all the people who were commenting about my updating times will be pleased. At least I hope you will be. I like this chapter, and it introduces Theodore Nott who I discovered at JK Rowling's s