Harry Potter and the Slow Bloom Chapter 7:
Malfoy Rising…and Falling
Ah, Christmas. There's nothing like blood, darkness and mayhem to counter the chintz and the tackiness. Enjoy, my little friends, enjoy. Ahem Reviews, please? I've also noticed that if you mangle American English and French into the translation, "Dumbledore" comes out as "Stupid golden one". Heehehe.
I do admit that Hogwarts is fairly deserted at the moment, but people are just about to get up for breakfast. I'm sure you all know how much teenagers love mornings. Also, Malfoy's messed up form is the result of a not-quite-fully-reconstituted magical body.
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I am going to die.
I, Colin Creevy, am going to die.
He couldn't think of anything else. He was beyond petrified. He was, in fact, in that very rare state of mind where one would rather die right now, instantly, painlessly, instead of being subjected to whatever horrendous tortures were about to be visited upon one before the final burst of pain and blackness. And he was certain that both those things were rapidly coming his way.
The certainty stemmed from that fact that he was currently crumpled in a heap at the base of a suit of armour with a three-foot long ceremonial sword buried to the hilt in his upper thigh. With the kind of clarity that only comes from being in the calmly schizophrenic lands that lie on the other side of terror, he casually noted that it stuck quite a long way out of the back of his leg. How interesting.
"The passsword." The…thing above him was horrific, an imperious nightmare in ebony and silver. Clearly he wasn't going to get out of here alive.
"Tell me, and I might make it quick" the thing breathed, unsheathing a wand from the recesses of its robe. He decided to stall for time, for whatever that was worth.
"You'll never get through", he panted roughly "She'll know you're not one of heuuaaaiiee!" The thing had rested its boot against the pommel of the sword, moving it ever so slightly. The pain was beyond belief.
"The resssst will take care of itself."
His mind searched for the worst words that he knew. "God…fuck you, you bastard. You won't get in."
The thing dropped onto a knee and grinned into the small boy's eyes. They were wet with fear and red from the pain. "Ssssuch words, fourth-year. You will wissssh you had not said them." He reached for the ornate, gilded guard, gripped it, and twisted.
Far away in his golden, glowing cell, Ron heard the scream dissonate with the alarm spell as Dumbledore and Lupin came pounding through the doors, wands out, eyes scanning all four corners for foes. Lupin aimed at the prone matron and levitated her onto one of her own beds while Dumbledore, with a quick, horizontal movement of his wand, silenced the alarm and lowered the glowing barriers. Ron leapt to his feet, his mind leaping into overdrive.
"Professor! Malfoy's gone, he's got a wand and I think he's going after Harry."
The silver-bearded man gave a nod and then, indicating the damage, asked "And this, Mister Weasley?"
"Nothing, sir. It didn't even mark him."
The headmaster furrowed his brow in thought. He could not risk open war in the corridors. Malfoy had to be stopped, certainly, but there was no knowing what he would do in his current state. Time, therefore, was of the essence.
"Remus, please stay here and put things back to normal. I will be back shortly."
With that, Dumbledore turned and paced away, hoping that he would not have to hurt one of his own students in the name of preservation of the rest. He had known of Lucius Malfoy's involvement with the other side for a very long time, yet up until now he had hoped that his son would have remained relatively untainted, even in spite of his acid personality. Evidently that was not the case. His path was taking him straight back to Gryffindor tower at a fast march, straight into the unknown. He could only hope that he would not have to deal with any kind of hostage situation, but knowing Lucius's fondness for human misery – as the fiasco at the World Cup two years ago had shown – he could not help but begin to worry. Still, there were certain precautions that one could take.
Pausing for a moment, he stepped towards a portrait of a group of men in light robes sitting around a table deep in conversation. They paused in their discussion as he approached. The small brass plaque below bore the inscription "The Oratory Group, 1615-1747. Elemental Philosophers."
"Gentlemen? If I may have your attention, please?"
One of them looked up and spoke softy. "Certainly, headmaster."
"I require a favour. I am headed for Gryffindor tower in pursuit of a student who I believe to be…unbalanced. Could I possibly prevail upon you to see what is happening along the corridor?"
As one, the group nodded and rose, leaving the scroll-littered table empty. Dumbledore stood patiently in thought until they returned at a run, robes askew.
The leader looked gravely concerned.
"There is a demon ahead. He has a student at his mercy and is demanding the password to the tower upon pain of death. The student is badly wounded in the leg and the demon is armed with a wand. There is not much time left."
For the second time in as many years, Albus Dumbledore broke into a run, navy robes flying. I am getting far too complacent for this kind of business, he thought.
"WAIT! I… I'll tell you! Just… no more, please… for the love of Merlin, please!"
There was something sticky running down the back of his leg. He could feel the steel in his thigh, warmed by his blood to body temperature. He had nothing left…
I'm sorry, Harry. I'm not strong like you.
"The password … to the Fat Lady is…" The Malfoy-thing leant forward in anticipation, the silver lines along his skin cracking open with the movement. There was naught but silver, no suggestion of blood at all. His tattered robes barely covered his body, showing black skin against the tattered shreds. He reached for his stolen wand, planning on ending this worthless, Potter-worshipping idiot's life as soon as he had the information he so desperately needed.
Colin felt something well up inside him. Fear, pain and anger along with no small measure of self-disgust battled for his attention. Maybe, his desperate mind whispered, there was a way to hold off the mad thing. And then what? Curse him? What with?
It was at that point that Colin realised that his wand was still in his pocket. He hadn't even had time to draw it, as Malfoy had attacked from around the corner and had summoned the sword from the suit of armour just as he'd turned around. Malfoy must have thought him wandless. Shuddering at the thought of even attacking an older student, he cast his mind back to the DA meetings the previous year.
All I need is one good Stupefy and he'll have his back turned.
"…Dragon's Blood", he whispered. Malfoy smiled an insane smile as he heard the last little bit of protection between him and his targets disappear. They were trapped like rats in a sack.
"Good. Now, sssstay here… petrificus totalus… if you've lied to me, you'll die." He turned to his work as Colin, unable to move, tried to stem the rising tide of terror within himself. He had lied. Surely it was all over now…
Malfoy rounded the corner and drew his wand at the same moment that the Fat Lady started screaming at the sight of him. "Obliviate!" Her eyes slid into a look of dreamy unconcern, then blinked in surprise as he – and the state that he was in – registered once more.
"You do look a mess, dear. Password?" she asked.
This was it… "Dragon's Blood", he whispered, his own blood pounding in his ears. Finally, he was going to be able to get them all back. In his excitement he failed to notice the frown on the Fat Lady's face.
"Try again, dear."
Shock. Utter shock.
"Dragon's Blood," he ground out, refusing to believe it.
She spoke in a haughty tone, drawing herself up to her full stature "I may not be able to remember exactly who you are, but you, young man, are not getting in!"
"There are other waysssss… Obliviate!" He'd make her forget the password and give her one of his own making.
Again the look of unconcern, again the refusal. "Only members of staff may set passwords. Please leave…whoever you are."
"In that casssse… Imperio!" It was time to force the issue. So intent was he upon gaining access to the lair of his enemies that he was in no way prepared for what happened next.
The portrait vanished into the creamy stone with a bang. There was nothing left, no sign that it had ever hung there apart from a slightly lighter patch of stonework on the wall. Maddened now, he aimed a Reductor Curse at it, achieving nothing more that a slight indentation in the plane of the stone - despite the power that he had put into it. Nothing seemed to work. Incandescent with rage, he stalked back round to where he had left Creevy, trying to think of ways more painful to die than the Avada – and froze.
At the other end of the corridor, wand out and already arcing through the air, was Dumbledore himself. His aura filled the small space, the precursor of tightly-controlled and highly-focused magical energy making him appear even taller and more imposing than he already was. Clearly, something nasty was going to be very shortly coming his way.
Malfoy knew that he had scant moments to react. Going after Creevy would be suicide, as he was now at Dumbledore's feet, and his brain was not so addled as to consider duelling with the headmaster. There were very few alternatives left, and he took the easiest one.
With an alacrity bordering on the extreme, he executed a tactical retreat.
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Albus Dumbledore survey the smashed and shard-littered hospital wing as Madam Pomfrey went about healing Creevy senior. Finding Malfoy could take a while were it not for certain devices held by the Headmaster's office, and he fully intended to peruse them as soon as he had seen to other matters.
Having heard Weasley's account of his vision, and now even more worried than ever, the headmaster gathered as many details as he could. Was there a secret group within the British Ministry, and, even worse, was there already a spy within it? One who had been there for the duration of the peaceful interregnum brought about by Voldemort's first fall, and who was therefore far more dangerous and secretive than a fresh agent could ever hope to be? Things were moving faster – and in a vastly different direction – than and to which he had anticipated.
Head on the verge of spinning, he retired to his office determined to find answers to at least one question in the puzzle. With a steaming mug of tea in hand and a lemon drop in his mouth, he turned his attention and his wand to his massive desk. It was a gargantuan piece of furniture, with drawers located in the most unlikely of places (including one that somehow opened into the floor), several inkwells, one of which was bottomless (Aberforth's little joke, surely), and one slit-like compartment next to his right knee that rendered documents unreadable. He had used it only once, having been horribly unnerved by the sounds of carnage from within as the parchment had been reduced to very fine powder. He was prepared to swear that at one point he had seen teeth. Lots of little, pointy teeth.
It had been a gift from his brother, and whilst some considered him eccentric to the point of being actually cracked in the head, there was no finer fuser of things magical and muggle than Aberforth. A secret compartment that he suspected of being just to the left of where it should have been yielded an unfamiliar-looking piece of parchment. Strange… he didn't remember putting that in there. In fact, he didn't even know what it was. It certainly wasn't the item he'd been after.
He tapped it and said "Reveal". At once, writing appeared:
We present our compliments to the headmaster and beg him to remember the passphrase, the idiot.
Ah. Well, well, well. This certainly brought back memories. He'd thought he'd lost it at some point after the first war.
Tapping it with his wand, he intoned:
"I solemnly swear that I am up to much good."
Ink seeped through the page and writhed into letters:
Messers Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs are forced to present
The Marauder's Map, Official Version.
Note that due to writer/client confidentiality, the location of the holder of the original Map will not appear on this document. Because we wish to give our clients a sporting chance, and also since someone forced this sacrilegious task upon us on pain of Potions detention for a month, you will appear on his.
Please also note that if you, by some horrendous and sickening chain of events, are Severus Snape, this document will self-destruct in Five seconds. Padfoot wanted to make it instantaneous, but Moony insisted that we give you at least half a chance.
PS. You know who you are. You'll pay for this one day, you old coot.
A smile framing his face for the first time in days, Albus Dumbledore went to work. It looked like he had his very own Drawer of Requirement.
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Yes yes yes, I know. It's a Deus Ex Machina if I ever wrote one. But consider this: it's been in a desk for the last couple of decades. A dangerous desk.
Happy New Year.