Given
"Numb me"
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter...the books at least.
AN: Sorry it has been so long...computer problems. I'm really loving this story, so please review...flames even.
Her knuckles are white from squeezing Harry's right hand. Ugly semicircles cover her own, and a few bruises on her wrist. Her shoulders are hunched, her back curved and sore. Her teeth dig into her lower lip, her nails back into Harry's hand. Beside Hermione, Ginny is in a similar stance, gripping Harry's left hand. Ron who is farthest from the doorway, next to his best friend's bed, glances across the room sadly.
After this pain had lasted past ten minutes, Molly had called for a Medi-witch. Thirty-odd minutes later, none had come yet. News came then that the Floo network was to be evacuated for an untold reason, though rumor said that there had been some sort of attack
"God...it hurts !" Harry hisses, panting.
"I know it, mate." Ron says sorrowfully.
"What does it mean, Hermione?" the younger Weasley inquires, expecting her to have a theory about this event.
"Gin, I couldn't know. It's pretty plain something has changed, though."
Downstairs, the clock chimed, the only noise in the house.
Draco glares in annoyance at the security guard. The wiry woman, who reminds him of a younger McGonagall, glares back. Looking at him with more irreverence than he has ever encountered, she demands "Young man, what exactly is this...this...pot?" She holds up his cauldron with some difficulty. At least, it isn't still folded to fit in his suitcase.
He blinks and goes back in forth between two lies: a gag gift or an actual cooking pot. Sighing, he says "That is movie prop...It is, um, a Christmas present for my...uncle. Be careful please; it's expensive."
"Oh, and where would you get enough money for a this, if it is a movie prop?"
"My family's wealthy," he says casually.
"So why aren't you in first class?"
He groans, and turns to the disgruntled line behind him, calling "Isn't this nonsense? They already checked; I don't have a bomb or anything! Why does it matter what exactly I have with me?" A few bold people shout their agreements.
"Well, it still doesn't matter. We can't let a minor fly alone without these lease forms signed. It's policy."
"Yes, and who would I have come with me?" he snaps, artificial tears filling his eyes.
"Legal guardians, young man," the prim guard answers.
"Well, my parents are dead! I'm going to meet my cousin in Paris!"
The woman appears shocked a long moment, before stuttering incoherently and marching away to get her supervisor. Draco played his part, acting suddenly overcome with emotion, wondering how he was getting away with this. He was acting horribly, but the guard was so puzzled that it had worked. Stupid muggles. Within moments, the guard returns with her superior. He surveys Draco quickly before sending a severe scowl towards the woman.
"Louise, what were you thinking. Does the kid have anything on him or not?"
"Not technically, but just look at this stuff! This kettle, and what are these leaves?" she demands, waving a bag of potion ingredients around.
"Nothing, just throw it out!" he says.
"And this stick here?"
"Louise, what's he going to do with a stick?"
"Poke ou"
"Don't even finish that sentence," the supervisor commands, making a note on his clipboard. Flipping through his papers, he takes Draco's passport from Louise, adds a few things to his notes, and hands it to the teenager.
"Go ahead, kid."
"But" Louise interrupted. Ignoring the guard, he takes his wand, and walks past to board the plane.
Outside the thick, wooden door, Lucius paces, for once doing whatever his wife tells him. Narcissa stays at Bellatrix's bedside, offering encouragement and informing Lucius whenever they need anything. Dr. Wright gives more professional advice, and administers potion to attenuate the pain. I oversee this all coolly from the far end of the room.
Bellatrix moans again, doing her best not to plainly scream out. Wright carefully measures another dose of the medicine, which is serving a dual purpose of stanching the profuse bleeding induced by the difficult delivery.
"The baby is breach, I'm afraid."
The baby will live, for this spell cannot be repeated lightly. There are dire consequences, worse than the ones occurring the first time. My heir will survive, no matter what. Already having directly taken some of my life's blood, the sacrifice cannot be repeated.
Narcissa makes a soft sound, but says no word. Rather, she smoothes Bellatrix's now limp tresses, for which she was envious as a girl. The mother-to-be clenches her eyes shut, grits her teeth and pushes with all her strength, depleted as it is. She must not fail her lord.
Professor Snape listens to the silence, waiting for Albus to comment on the news he just gave. Sucking on a lemon drop, Dumbledore thinks it over, gazing at his bony, steepled hands. The photos and painting of former headmasters and mistresses lean forward or whisper softly. One especially stalwart and rash Gryffindor shouts out a ridiculous suggestion.
"Now, now, Apollo, Mr. Malfoy surely doesn't merit that."
Snape snorts, and is rewarded with a surprisingly critical expression from Dumbledore, who tells him sagely "Severus, there are people who say much the same of you, and there are highly respected figures who deserve to be revealed for the traitors they truly are. We cannot see into Draco's heart. Maybe he isn't so lost as we presume."
"And perhaps he is not lost at all, but revels in his chosen path, and will take full advantage of your soft sentiment." Snape retorts defensively.
"Yes, but we'll find out, won't we? I admit, this whole episode sounds too odd to discount. We need a way to see for certain what's going on."
"Veritaserum?" is the sarcastic response.
"No, what we need to do is give him an opportunity to join us?"
"And if he does, to play both sides?"
"We'll figure something out. Don't worry."
A magical quill dips itself in ink of a special sort, which must print truth. The chamber is tiny, unlit, where the quill writes, because no human hand needs to guide it. The only contact it has with people at all is when the enchantment is renewed once each century. It stands above the parchment, easily ten meters when unrolled, and then neatly inscribes a name in graceful calligraphy:
Armand Black-Riddle
That name is the 358th on the list of children who will be invited to attended Hogwarts in eleven years. None will look at until then, and it is highly unlikely that a person will notice the importance even then.
Above that name are two others which will play a vital role in the life of the 358th. One the 277th line is written Lethe Bianca Lupin. It says Alexander Ryan Cross-Dursley on the 314th line.
Far away, in Chicago, is a record kept on computers, in a muggle hospital. Under the entries for that date, there is one other name which will mean a great deal to Voldemort's heir. Young Elise Conolly is the girl, in for a rather severe case of pneumonia. Someday this average girl will shape the fate of a world she is not even a part of, for good or ill.
The head lolls in his palm. The skin is wet and thin, blue-tinted with webs of veins. The lips, fingers are more like purple, and no breath passes between that mouth or lifts the baby's chest. Cursing, Franz Wright massages the infant's shoulders and feet vigorously. The boy's tongue is pink yet. He had been moving in the womb before, an hour ago at most. He could be saved. The doctor was praying so, afraid to meet my gaze.
I glower at the man. It is not his fault, I know. In the three months he has lived here, he has not once complained, questioned, or shirked his duty. Still, if fear will inspire him, as it does for so many others, then I will frighten him. I can do nothing. Magic will not avail us. Only Wright can rescue my heir.
Suddenly, the child howls a weak, pitiful cry, coughing up the fluid remaining in the lungs. Increasingly, he inhales more deeply, bawling more robustly. Wrapping the infant in warm linen, Wright all but thrusts him into Narcisssa's arms so that he can see to Bellatrix. It is not as vital for her to survive, but it would be ideal if she was the one to raise him, and it will make everything more simple.
I leave my seat in the corner, glide to the bed, and stand next to Narcissa. She is absently rocking the child to and fro, watching her sister with anxious eyes. Bellatrix is unaware of her, of any of us. The fever has taken her, and she tosses from side to side feebly, not unlike her son. A film of sweat coats her forehead and gaunt cheeks as she begs for her wailing infant.
Narcissa glances up, and I shake my head slightly. "Give me the infant," I command. She appears both hesitant and relieved to do so, but with her hands free, Narcissa grasps her sibling's gently. I watch Dr.Wright's progress for a moment, then turn my attention to the infant resting. Now subdued, he observes me with milky blue eyes, the sort which will become some other shade in time.
I continue staring at him with pride. He had survived! Even now, I can sense the hazy beginnings of thoughts, of consciousness. My heir will be brilliant, skilled, powerful...ruthless, yet obedient. He whimpers, as if agreeing with these unspoken notions.
"For now, she will have to rest. I cannot promise that she will...recover," Wright informs me, never quite sure how to address me.
"Should someone stay with her?" Narcissa inquires timidly.
"Well, it cannot hurt, but nothing can be done for her right now."
"Narcissa, you may stay with her. Keep the chamber heated. Dr.Wright, you will return here in two hours if her fever has not broken."
"And of Armand?"
"Armand?" I ask. She winces, her face blanching slightly. After clearing her throat, the blonde woman softly responds "Yes, this is how she thought of the child. Forgive me, I had assumed the matter was...settled." I peruse the form of the sleeping child a moment...Armand.
"Very well. That is what he will be called, and he will remain with me until Bellatrix is able to care for him, or it is apparent that she cannot."
"Hermione, I'm sorry...You can't go. Please! Don't leave me!" Harry calls, his emerald eyes brimming with tears. His hands are clamped over his head, as if he could capture the pain and squeeze it into something manageable. The only thing she could do was stroke his hair and say soothing nonsense, but she did so enthusiastically.
"Harry..." she begins, but what could be said? How can she guarantee this is not Voldemort's final attack, the one that will ...kill him?
Molly and the Medi-witch stand in the hall, whispering in somber voices. Ron is not far off, attempting to eavesdrop, while hugging a heart-broken Ginny. The youngest Weasley sobs, with Ron patting her back and simultaneously trying to quiet her. Equally desperate, she finally turns her head away to stifle her crying, wishing that her mother would allow her to be with Harry.
"I think that I'll owl Albus. I'm really concerned, Stella. I've never seen an episode last so long, or be so intense. Albus will know something that will help."
Outside the door, Lucius, Draco, and a few others were pacing or whispering amongst themselves. They all stand still as marble statues when I step into the corridor, if it can be called that. They cluster around me, curious yet afraid to anger me. Having at least a head's height more than my tallest follower, most of then cannot see Armand.
"The infant?" one bold man prompts, encouraged everyone else.
"is fine. His name is Armand."
"What of Bellatrix?" Lucius says blandly.
"I cannot say yet how she fares. You have done well though, Lucius, in choosing this Dr.Wright." I glance at the closed door, and Lucius understands that he is not to ask again. A murmur ripples through the small crowd, mostly of shock, but some are joyous or threatened by the development.
"Then the child has not been fed yet?" someone asks, the voice only remotely familiar. The murmur grows as my Death Eaters seek the person who asked. Lucius, in fact, is the only one who is not surprised when Draco forces his way through the group surrounding me. Interesting, the Malfoy boy...
"No."
"May I feed him then, my lord?"
Even more intriguing! Just like his father, reverent and sarcastic at once. Draco is a little fearful too; I can feel it. All of them are usually, but they can hide it, and Draco, it seems, cannot. The boy must have some of his mother in him too, if he is even interested in nursing the baby. I will have to pay him more heed from now on...
"Yes. Be careful." I say and place the fragile infant into Draco's arms, wondering where he had learned how to feed a baby. Lucius, judging from his expression, is musing over the same idea. Draco would not have offered if that domestic talent was beyond him. I will allow him this test. It is a small task, and there is much to be done.
