Developments
I woke up very slowly, feeling as though I was fighting my way through many clouds to get to consciousness, but in a very nice way. There was something very soft against my face, something warm against my whole body, two hands wrapped around my own; slowly, I opened my eyes to stare into the black-green material of a cloak and remembered where I was. By the sound of it, Draco was still asleep. Very slowly, I turned my head just a little to look at him, trying not to disturb him. It was then that I noticed the intense change wrought in him from the night before.
His skin wasn't so pale, but healthily flushed; he breathed deeply and evenly, and I could hear his heartbeat thundering slowly and steadily in his chest. He seemed so much more relaxed, so much more at ease, than he did in waking hours. I noticed how his platinum-blond hair had darkened just a little over the years I hadn't seen him, so that it was closer to a very light honey colour than the blinding white-blond.
Then I felt my palm going warm and had to stifle the sudden onslaught of anger at Verloren, at the Order, at the world for putting me in this position. Slowly, I uncurled his fingers from mine. After a moment's thought, I fetched the book he'd written in and hid it under the couch cushion where I'd originally found it the night before. So much had happened in the space of a week, I realized suddenly.
Lightly, I brushed his hair back from his face with my fingers, smiling slightly; tears were filling my eyes and I didn't know why. He didn't stir, but slumbered on.
"I'll be back, Draco," I whispered aloud, and then turned and strode from the room, shutting the door of Headquarters behind me. As I glanced back over my shoulder, 12 Grimmauld Place was already shrinking from sight. I concentrated hard on the image of Lord Verloren, turned on my heel, and reappeared in his study, where he was sitting behind the dark cherry wood desk, his eyes scanning The Daily Prophet rapidly. He stood swiftly when I appeared and swept toward me, a wide smile on his face.
"Lily! Are you well?"
"Very, my Lord," I responded, returning the smile and burying Draco in the farthest corner of my mine, the most heavily guarded place there was. If Lupin was right – if Lord Verloren was developing feelings for me – then the idea of me sleeping with another man would not be one that he would tolerate.
"Come, come, let me show you the damage we have inflicted," he said, still beaming, and I noticed how he placed his hand on the small of my back as he guided me to the chair facing his desk. "Rita Skeeter in particular is having a great deal of fun making a go at the Ministry for allowing this to happen…listen…"
He read me the article. I had to try very hard not to remember how I'd trapped little miss Rita Skeeter as a beetle after the Triwizard Tournament in fourth year. Six years ago now, I realized in wonder.
When he finished, I asked politely, "What is the next step, my Lord?"
He was in an extremely good mood today. "Tell me, Lily," he said, his scheming face settling on his features; I resisted levitating a light bulb over his head and letting it flicker out. "How do you fear about recruiting the werewolves?"
I contemplated this very carefully. "Most of them had sided with Voldemort, at one time, my Lord," I said slowly. "But during the Second War a good deal of them turned against him, and the most loyal, Fenrir Greyback, is dead…I don't know how trustworthy, how reliable, they'd be…what purpose would they serve?"
He shrugged. "They are excellent for threatening those who choose not to give us what they want…Lord Voldemort discovered that…we don't need an army. Only a few." He studied my face closely. "Our real weapon could be the Shrakil, if I could only make a breakthrough as to how to harness them…"
"Pardon me, my Lord," I said politely, "but what exactly are the Shrakil? They aren't mentioned in very many books, and those that do mention them don't go into a whole lot of detail."
His eyes, for the first time, took on the look that I had come to associate with Voldemort; for a brief moment, they gleamed red. I resisted the urge to lean back, to run, to escape; all my danger senses were screaming to get out of the way. For the space of a second, he was no longer a charming man; he was a livid monster.
Finally, he spoke, after a long moment of contemplating me carefully.
"The Shrakil have been believed to be nonexistent. A myth, if you will. They have lived for thousands of years off of this world; they dwell only in the most shadowed, hard-to-reach places, and are not easily found or conned out of hiding. They live only for themselves. This, in particular, is what makes them so difficult to unite to a cause, or with one another. They are effectively immortal, and no matter what injuries they sustain, they can never die. This means that they are not truly alive, either. They are dangerous creatures – intelligent, but very volatile, easily enraged and easily provoked. While they have lived for thousands of years, this would not be so if they relied upon one another.
"Their most dangerous power is not the consistency of the dementors, who can suck the soul from a person; nor do they really frighten people, as the Inferi did; they do not have the brute strength of the giants, nor the threat of contamination of the werewolves. Everyone knows that one's greatest enemy is oneself. If a Shrakil wishes to utterly destroy its victim, it acts in a way that will, effectively, drive a person insane, perhaps the worst fate to befall any human.
"You saw the Shrakil in its own form; typically it takes on the form of any human it so wishes. It can bring back the dead; it can copy the living." He spoke of this thing with a low caress in his voice, as though it was his fondest treasure, his dearest friend. I tried, very hard, not to shudder; the room had gone suddenly cold. "It trails its victim in shadows, acting over time. It houses no regret, no remorse; it does not know anything of love.
"When finally it believes that the time is ripe, it will transform itself into an exact living, breathing copy of its victim. The victim, of course, will believe himself to have lost his mind; in turn, he loses his soul, but not forcefully; he loses it of his own accord; he allowed it to be lost, in allowing the Shrakil to take his sanity."
A prolonged silence followed his explanation. Cold, seeping cold, was poisoning me to my core; my shudders could barely be contained. "You needn't ever worry about the wrath of the Shrakil, Lily," he said quietly, after a long while. "Not so long as you are loyal to me."
"Yes, my Lord," I said quietly.
"You look cold, my dear." I was suddenly struggling to withhold rage at his words; after telling that horrendous story, frightening me to my core, he wondered at how I was cold, and used the pet name "my dear." I wanted to hit him, to hurt him, but I held it in, clinging to the thought that I would fight another day. "That reminds me…" he continued, and for a moment I barely recognized him; suddenly he was no longer a monster, he was a living man, a good-looking, handsome man. "I have a gift for you."
He stood and snapped his fingers; a house-elf appeared, hurrying along with what appeared to be a bundle wrapped in midnight blue paper. I bit my tongue to keep in a wave of bitter resentment, remembering my old campaign with S.P.E.W. "Thank you, Stella," he said graciously; the house-elf bowed and hurried away. "Now then, Lily," he said, turning to me; he laid the parcel in my hands; he was positively beaming again. "Open it, go on…"
Slowly, I pulled back layer after layer of paper; finally, my fingers brushed something soft, and as the paper fell away, I gave a quiet gasp, staring. The cloak laying inside was made of the finest material, and was a deep, dark, midnight blue. He lifted it from my trembling hands and held it up; I took off my old, threadbare black cloak and put my arms through this fine one. After his hands had settled it across my shoulders, I still felt them there. Slowly, he squeezed my shoulder, and I turned to look up into his dark eyes.
"My Lord," I said softly, "I don't know what to say…"
He murmured in my ear, "My name is Shane. Shane Verloren."
Then, very suddenly, he was kissing me, deeply, thoroughly, and I didn't pull away, shocked to the extent that I could only drape my arms around his shoulders and pull him ever closer instead of pushing him away.