Title: Shatter (16/?)

Author: Sonya

Rating: R - there will be character death in this chapter, and violence, and the implication of abuse of all sorts. I'm not gonna tell you who, 'cause you'll know in about 10 pages anyway, but I hate it when authors don't warn you, so . . consider yourself warned. This chapter ain't about hugs and puppies.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.

Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.

Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.

Summary: I don't think this one summarizes very well. See title.

Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgment. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?

I'm fudging the timing of Hanukkah to coincide with the beginning of the Hogwarts winter holidays, which I wanted to start on Solstice for symbolic purposes. Hopefully this is not too offensive to anyone, considering this is written in a year that doesn't technically exist (2001 in Scoobyland, 1995 in the Potterverse, by canon timelines). I also hope Willow's rather casual approach to the mingling of religious ideas doesn't offend - I think it's true to the canon character, and is not meant to reflect on anybody else's beliefs. I'm not intending to offend anyone, so I'm apologizing in advance if anyone's upset by it.

***

"You haven't aged a day," the rasping, terrible voice hissed. Lips, cold and alien as the touch of moth wings, brushed the back of her hand. She trembled, and hoped it would be interpreted as awe. "Lucius must have taken very good care of you."

"Y-yes, my Lord," Narcissa whispered, not looking up from where her head was bowed almost to the floor. This thing isn't human. Not human at all, he's some demented thing that shouldn't even exist.

Can he read my mind? Can he feel the tension . . can that snake's tongue taste what I'm about to do, taste it on the air like an animal . .

Oh god so close . . so close, please, please don't let him know . .

Her hand was unceremoniously dropped. She heard the thing stand, its robes rustling against dry serpentine skin.

Please . . !

"Now, about the matter of your son, Lucius," Voldemort said, and Narcissa bit down hard on her lower lip to prevent herself from sighing in relief. He doesn't know. Just like that, I'm dismissed, forgotten.

"He will be presented tonight for your approval, my Lord," Lucius said carefully. Narcissa didn't move, still kneeling; no one had given her permission to rise.

"Of course he will," Voldemort snapped. "Why else am I here? Don't be an idiot, Lucius, it tries my patience."

"My deepest apologies, Lord," Lucius answered, and that so-proud voice was tinged through with things Narcissa recognized all too well. Fear. Anger. Wounded pride. Desperation, trying to think one step ahead. But mostly fear.

"Your son seems a trifle .. overzealous, Lucius," the Dark Lord said, in a faintly mocking tone. "Does he think to curry favor with me? I would have been most displeased if the Potter boy had been killed in a mere schoolyard brawl."

Narcissa flinched. The letter had arrived from Hogwarts last night. Draco had a fight with Harry Potter. Draco nearly killed Harry Potter. He was permitted to sit his final exams, but the Board of Governors would be convening in the new term to discuss his continued attendence at school.

Did I wait too long?

No, I can't think that way. It's just the tension of waiting, or he was trying to prove himself, or .. or something. Something that means my son is not a monster yet.

"I'm sure he meant nothing - nothing but respect -"

"Don't babble, Lucius."

"He will be punished!" Lucius exclaimed in a near-panicked rush. Oh, you pathetic, spineless bastard . . he's your son . . doesn't it even matter that he's your son? "If you wish it, my Lord, he will be -"

"What are you still doing here?" Voldemort interrupted Lucius. Narcissa thought she could almost feel his red inhuman eyes boring into the top of her skull.

"N-no one t-told me to leave," she whispered.

"Leave!" Voldemort ordered in a shrill, irate hiss. Narcissa scrambled to her feet and fled from the room running; she didn't stop until she'd slammed the door to her bedroom shut behind her, flushed and panting despite all her carefully wrought beauty charms.

"Is something wrong, L-lady?" Annette asked worriedly, and the first few words were barely comprehensible squeaks as she shifted into human form, appearing from behind the draperies. "What has happened?"

"Nothing," Narcissa gasped out. She stood a moment with her back to the door, just sucking in air, wringing her hands. She spied the washstand across the room and flew to it, scrubbing her hands, then shoving her sleeves up and scrubbing up her arms, splashing the water on her face. "It's just .. I didn't remember .. I don't think that before he was so .. so . .and they were talking about Draco, talking like he was some *thing*, some poorly trained animal, and -" she reached for the pitcher to refill the wash basin, and it slipped from her soapy hands. It clattered to the floor but did not break. Of course not, everything in this house is charmed against breaking, isn't it?

I need a charm against breaking.

Water spilled out on the plush rose-colored carpet, turning it the deep red of freshly shed blood. Annette crossed the room with dainty, mousy little steps and righted the pitcher.

"I'm so clumsy," Narcissa murmured.

"Just a little longer," Annette answered.

"What if it doesn't work?" Narcissa asked in a whisper.

"It will," the other woman answered firmly, then hesitated. "But . . do you think it might be better to wait? The spell -"

"No," Narcissa cut her off. "No, it has to be tonight." The panic of moments before was fading, leaving in its wake a sort of numb resolve. They were talking about him like a toy, a chess piece, a thing . .

They won't use him like that. Not ever. I won't let them.

"It's ritual magic," Annette pressed. "I mean no disrespect, Lady, but you haven't . . well, I haven't seen you do much magic at all, ever. The wizard that sold it to me, he laughed at me. It's blood magic, Lady, and he seemed to think I was getting in awfully far over my head, and he's somebody I knew back when I was picking pockets on the street, Lady, he knows I'm clever -"

"But you're not a witch," Narcissa said.

"But he *doesn't* know *that*," Annette retorted. "I'm just saying . . if you'd rather wait until we're more sure -"

"Draco can't wait," Naricssa insisted.

"I know, I know, Lady, but . . " Annette hesitated here, biting her lip in obvious trepidation, something Narcissa hadn't seen her do in weeks. Never since she'd revealed her secret. " - but are you sure it's not . . I mean, the letter from Hogwarts, are you sure -"

Are you sure he's not one of them already, hung unspoken in the air.

"The house elf you told me about before, she's ready? She's not going to lose her nerve?" Narcissa asked, forcing her voice to calm. Annette sighed.

"No, Lady," she answered in very resigned tone. "No, I don't think she'll lose her nerve. She's got the easiest job of all today."

"Then here," Narcissa said, and handed an elaborately engraved gold key over to the shapeshifter. "Get everything from the vault. There's not much time."

***

"Myrtle!" Ginny hollered, stamping her foot. "Myrtle, come on, you're going to make me miss the train!"

There was no response. Ginny crossed her arms and sighed; it echoed loudly around the girls' bathroom.

Stupid, self-pitying, melodramatic ghosts!

"Well fine!" she shouted after a long pause. "It was going to be a *surprise*, but I've got you a present! And you aren't getting it if you don't come up here this instant!"

There was a wooshing sound from one of the stalls.

"Well maybe I don't want a present," Myrtle whined petulantly, floating over the stall door. "What good are presents when you've got no one to share them with? When everyone else goes home to their happy, living families and leaves you all alone and -"

"Here!" Ginny shoved a hastily wrapped, faintly wriggling package at the ghost. Myrtle drew away, clearly affronted.

"Well that's just rude!" the ghost exclaimed. "You know I can't hold things that are - oh!" Myrtle cut off abruptly as a faint, diaphanous shape wriggled its way through the wrapping paper - not out of it, but literally through it.

The little rat stood up on its translucent hind legs and sniffed at Myrtle, twitching delicate whiskers.

"Crookshanks caught it in the dungeons, and it must have been a magic sort of rat, 'cause well -" Ginny gestured at ghostly form. "Anyway, I thought you might like a pet."

"Oh," said Myrtle again, sounding positively stunned. She held out a hand. The rat crawled onto it. Myrtle giggled. "Is it a boy or a girl?" the ghost asked.

"I dunno, you look," Ginny said, scrunching up her nose. "But - you like it?"

"Oh, yes, it's lovely," Myrtle answered distractedly, holding the faintly glowing little creature up to her face and peering at it. The rat tilted its head to one side. Myrtle tilted her head to the other. It stretched forward and took a tentative nip at her glasses; Myrtle gave a delighted little shriek.

"Merry Christmas," Ginny said, feeling rather pleased with herself. I don't know that I've seen Myrtle this cheerful in . . well, ever. She waited for the ghost to respond in kind; Myrtle was much too busy petting the rat's once-brown, now vaguely bluish coat.

I wonder what a ghost feels like to another ghost?

"I really am going to miss the train if I don't move along," Ginny reminded her.

"M-hrmm," said Myrtle, giggling again when the rat licked her nose.

"Bye then," Ginny shrugged, and hurried out of the bathroom and towards the stairs. Well, at least that went well. About time something did.

A figure brushed past her, headed in the other direction, towards the dungeons. A figure with white-blonde hair and gaunt, hunched shoulders. Ginny felt her heart leap into her throat. The hallway was otherwise empty, nearly everyone else having already left for Hogsmeade station.

Last chance.

Before she was even quite sure what she was doing, she'd reached out and grabbed Draco's arm. He spun around; startled, angry grey eyes met her own. When he recognized her, his expression slipped into a leer.

"Can't keep your hands off me now, eh, Weasley?" Draco purred, but there was almost nothing sexual in it, it was just angry, so horribly angry that Ginny wondered why her hand wasn't burning to a crisp just from touching him.

"Don't go home," she blurted out. The leer slipped.

"What?" he asked.

"Just - just don't go home," Ginny repeated, still holding his arm and not sure how to let go without giving the impression of flinching away. She wanted to hug her arms across her chest and shiver from the look on his face, but didn't.

"Let go, Weasel," he said finally, jerking away from her. He turned and all but ran in the other direction.

"Ginny?" a voice called hesitantly from behind her. "Was that - oh, Ginny, what's wrong?" Hermione exclaimed, rushing up to the younger girl and enveloping her in a hug. "Did he do something to you? What happened?"

"No," Ginny sniffled, pulling back and wiping at the frustrated tears that wouldn't stop pouring out of her eyes. "N-no, he didn't d-do anything, it's just . . it's just nothing. It's nothing."

"Oh," said Hermione, looking perplexed. "Are you sure? I won't tell Ron." Ginny laughed at that, but it wasn't a happy sound.

"No, really, it's nothing," she insisted a little more firmly. "I just bumped into him is all."

"If you're sure," Hermione answered doubtfully. "Well, I just came to tell you Ron's taken your stuff down to the train, so you don't have to go back up and get it. He was afraid you wouldn't have time. Did Myrtle like her present?"

"She loved it," Ginny answered tonelessly, scrubbing at her face, hoping to rub away the blotchiness before any of her brothers saw her.

***

Draco watched out the window as the landscape flew by, pale and hazy with a faint dusting of snow coming down. It was late afternoon. He sat hunched up against the glass, arms folded, glowering at the passing trees and fields and the occasional muggle house. Pansy sat next to him, stiff as a board, reading a magazine. She hadn't spoken in three hours; he wondered why she bothered with the pretense of sitting next to him. They didn't have to sit together, just get off the train together.

On the other bench, Crabbe and Goyle were vastly entertained by punching one another repeatedly in the shoulder, occasionally muttering something like, "good shot", or "you hit like a bloody girl". Their spirits were obviously not at all dimmed by the thought of the coming night's festivities. Either they're thrilled, or just too stupid to realize they should be worried.

Yeah. Worried.

Or, you know, petrified, disgusted, considering leaping out the window. Something like that.

"You're not wearing that, are you?" Goyle asked. For a confusing moment Draco thought the other boy was addressing him; then Pansy said, "No," very flatly, and held her magazine higher in front of her flushing face.

"That's good," Crabbe said, and sniggered. "'Cause you know, we get to see girls in school robes all the time, and -"

" - tonight's supposed to be a special treat, and all," Goyle finished for him. They were both leering at Pansy like great slobbering dogs.

Pansy didn't respond.

"Millicent's taking the mark, you know," Crabbe tried again.

"Yes, I know," Pansy answered, as emotionlessly as before.

"So it's not that you're a girl," Goyle said, shrugging. "'Cause Millicent's a girl."

"Mostly," added Crabbe, and they both chuckled.

"Guess they just figured you've got other talents," Goyle suggested.

"Shut up," Draco snapped. Pansy lowered her magazine far enough to give him an incredulous look.

"Sorry," Goyle muttered, hunkering down in his seat.

"But just last week you were -" Crabbe protested.

"I don't care what I was, you shut your hole or I'll kill you," Draco cut him off in a conversational tone. Crabbe's mouth snapped shut so abruptly his lips made a little popping sound, his beedy little eyes as wide as they would go. Stupid wanking pillock. He outweighs me by at least a hundred pounds. He could break me like a fucking twig.

Oh, but no he can't, I'm a Malfoy.

And not just any Malfoy, I'm the crazy son of a bitch who tried to kill Harry Potter.

"He's sorry," Goyle insisted, elbowing Crabbe hard in the ribs. Crabbe grunted.

"I don't care what they say," Pansy interjected, voice still lacking all inflection. "It doesn't matter."

I need the hell out of here, now.

Draco stood abruptly, jostling past all of them and stomping out into the corridor. He almost fell over as the train went around a bend, sending him careening into a wall. He swore loudly, and stumbled the rest of the way down the hall towards the bathroom. He slammed the door, sat down on the edge of the sink and dug his knuckles into his eyes, trying to press back against the feeling of pressure in his skull, like his head might just explode.

"Hello, Sir," said a squeaky little voice. Draco's head snapped up. There was a house elf wearing a swatch of brocade curtain standing on the toilet. It looked vaguely familiar.

"Who the hell are you?" Draco demanded unceremoniously. And could my life become any more of a bloody fucking joke if I tried?

"I am called Dinky, Sir," the elf said with a deferential little curtsy; when it looked up again it was gnawing on its lower lip and there were tears hovering in its eyes. "And Dinky is very, very sorry, Sir!"

"Sorry for what?" Draco asked, knowing even as the words left his lips that he should have been drawing his wand, not asking stupid questions.

"This!" said the house elf, throwing out a hand. Draco fell backwards, feeling like someone had hit him in the forehead with a two-ton weight. He saw stars. Then he saw nothing at all.

***

"Owl me!" Blaise was calling to Ron, jumping up and down and trying to get a last glimpse of him over the crowd. An impatient looking young man who'd been introduced as her older brother Phillip was dragging her off, causing her jumping to occassionally turn into backwards stumbling. She was swatting at his arm.

Ron was just staring as if she'd grown a second head, and not a very pretty one.

"Well, she seems nice," Mrs. Weasley commented. "You'll have to tell me about her on the way home." George snickered; Fred was too busy hiding behind a stack of suitcases with Angelina - now on crutches - to notice. Ron turned a sickly shade of green.

"Does anyone see my mum and dad?" Hermione asked of no one in particular, standing on tip-toes and looking for muggle clothing in the sea of robes.

"And hello, Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley grabbed the boy in an enormous hug. "Oh, we've been so worried about you. Let me see that nose!"

"Don't fuss over him, Mum," Ginny chided gently.

"He needs fussing!" Mrs. Weasley insisted.

"It's alright," Harry tried to reassure her. "Honestly, it's nothing -"

"Nothing!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed in a scandalized tone. "When I heard -"

Hermione collided with another shuffling body as she tried to shift through the crowd, still searching intently for any sign of her parents, and didn't hear the rest of Mrs. Weasley's commentary.

" - see him anywhere," the person was muttering, and Hermione bit her tongue on the apology she'd been about to make when she realized it was Goyle.

"Stupid mudblood," he mumbled, and gave her another shove with one shoulder before moving off. Everyone was starting to move off, in fact, the crowd thinning. The conductor was calling ten minutes to departure; the train was heading back to Hogsmeade. Fred was following Angelina and her parents, carrying her owl in its cage, chatting with Mr. Johnson about something Hermione couldn't hear.

"This is the same platform as usual, isn't it?" she asked, turning back to Harry and the Weasleys.

"Think so," said George with a disconsolate shrug.

"Is something the matter, Hermione, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked, finally letting go of Harry's face. The Boy Who Lived rushed over to Ginny, ignoring her squawk of protest as he yanked a lopsided bag full of wrapped gifts away from her, and made a great show of carrying it with both arms - in front of his face.

"I don't see my mum and dad," Hermione said, and tried not to sound too much a lost little girl when she said it. "I guess they must be late."

"Oh, well, we'll just wait here with you for them, then," Mrs. Weasley said. "We've got to wait for Fred, anyway, he's helping Angelina's parents get her things to their car."

George made a very sour expression.

"That's very nice of you," Hermione said, setting her trunk down flat in front of her and sitting on it. "They're never late, you know. It must be the holiday traffic. They'll be here any minute."

***

Arthur Weasley was whistling as he entered his office at the Ministry of Magic; the kids would be home tonight. He missed the noise of having them all around the house; the place just seemed too big and empty without at least four or five of them stomping around it. He hoped he could make a short night of it.

The holidays were a busy time for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office, with every two-bit wizard out there trying to make a quick galleon selling enchanted trinkets to muggles. Fortunately for Arthur, when it got right up close to the holidays like now, right before Christmas - well, they sometimes let a few things slide. Just the harmless stuff, charms to make it snow, self-warming slippers, that sort of thing. Certainly not the mistletoe with the real live lust spell on it that they'd confiscated last night, but . . harmless things. Muggles tended to believe in magic this time of year anyway. Peculiar creatures.

He was hoping Molly hadn't had too much trouble with the car and was about to put his hat and gloves down on his desk when he realized something was already occupying that space. It was a package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. It didn't look overly much like an early Christmas gift, and it didn't have any Ministry of Magic seal on it. He frowned, leaning over the desk to peer at it from all sides. It looked harmless enough, so he pulled the string.

Something fluttered out of the package as the paper folded back; the small flat square of some shiny material landed on the carpet. Arthur bent to pick it up. The side that had landed facing up was fairly non-descript, so he flipped it over.

It was a photograph; a muggle photograph to be exact. It showed a pickling jar, glaring in the bright flash of the camera. He had to squint a moment to make out the contents of the jar; when he did, he nearly dropped the photo.

Thumbs. The jar contained human thumbs.

He hurriedly pushed the paper away from the rest of the package. It was a box, and it was filled with photographs. The thumbs in the pickling jar were not the worst, not by far. Atop the pile of grotesque images sat an elegant looking invitation, the Dark Mark embossed on silver-tinged parchment. 'To Celebrate the Return of Our Dark Lord . . " read the front of the invitation. Arthur opened it, but didn't see the rest of the official script; his attention was caught by the note folded inside. It was plain parchment, words written in a neat, faintly childish looking hand.

'At exactly sunset, today, December 21st, all spells and wards surrounding Malfoy Manor will cease to exist,' read the note.

For a moment, Arthur felt like he couldn't breath. Something was making a loud thumping noise in his ears; after a few stunned seconds he realized that was his pulse. Then he was lunging across the room towards the fireplace, knocking over his chair and upsetting a stack of files in the process. He grabbed a handful of floo powder from the canister beside the grate and shouted,"Cornelius Fudge!"

The grim and very female face that appeared in the green flames was not Cornelius Fudge.

"The Minister of Magic is in a meeting," Fudge's personal assistant informed Arthur primly.

"Get him out of the meeting!" Arthur shouted. "Hell, get everybody he's in the meeting with out of the meeting, too - you are not going to believe this!"

***

Narcissa Malfoy knelt naked on her bedroom floor, in the center of a pentagram drawn with a careful blend of herbs, peacock feathers and bones, candles lit at the five points. Her hair hung loose around her, almost to her waist, and seemed to blow in a faint wind, though all the windows in the room were closed. Before her on the very stained and ruined carpet lay a map of Malfoy Manor, sketched in detail too miniscule and precise to have been drawn by human hands. Next to the map lay a knife, a glittering steel thing with rubies in the hilt.

She cast one last fearful glance at the window to her back, saw the golden-red light of the fading day, and closed her fingers around the knife.

"Goddess Hera, protector of the hearth, whom I have summoned here" she whispered in a voice nearly unrecognizable, "hear my plea. Accept my offering." The knife rose, shaking. It slashed across her wrist. She could not stop herself from gasping, and bit her tongue to keep from crying out at the pain. Blood welled and ran. It dripped, heavy and dark, onto the map.

At the five points, the candles flickered and died.

"Withdraw all blessing from this place."

***

"I am only going to ask one more time. Where. Is. Your. Son?" Voldemort hissed, and it was far from the first time the question had been asked. Standing beside their fathers, the younger Crabbe and Goyle shifted uneasily. Someone snickered nastily.

Lucius knelt before the Dark Lord, his thoughts racing, twisting around themselves like a nest of angry snakes. He knew very well there was no answer that would allow him to avoid torture, but perhaps there was a way out of this short of death, if he could only think of the right words, think of something, think of where in the hell could that worthless brat possibly be -

He was saved from having to answer. A magically augmented voice boomed through the cavernous great hall.

"THIS IS THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT!"

***

"Come in!" Willow called out at the knock on the door. She finished lighting the second candle on the Menorah, murmuring a quick prayer before turning to greet her guest. Snape stood in the doorway holding a bottle of red wine and watching her very closely.

Okay, is he staring at the new robes? And if he's staring at the new robes, is it a "she looks pretty" kinda staring, or a "she bought knew robes, she thinks this is a date, I'm going to turn and run in the other direction now" kinda staring?

Not that I do think this is a date. I just wanted new robes.

Really.

And what the heck is it with him and staring, anyway? They're called words! Use them!

"You're Jewish," Snape observed, sounding surprised.

Oh. Not staring at the new robes.

Did you have a nice ego trip, there?

"Uh, duh?" Willow answered, taking the bottle of wine and trying to be casual. "Rosenberg?" He grimaced.

"I meant that I didn't picture you as a religious person," he clarified, following her towards the kitchenette. She had dinner already spread out, kept warm with a simple charm Hermione taught her the week before.

And don't say "no offense" or anything like that, 'cause then I'd have to ask who you are and what you did with Severus Snape.

"I'm not," Willow admitted with a shrug. "I mean, I don't keep kosher and I sorta celebrate everything, but my family's Jewish. We used to do this when I was little. Light the Menorah and all. It meant a lot to my dad."

"So you do this," he gestured back towards the other room, "as a matter of tradition? To honor your family?" He said it in a way that made Willow wonder what he thought of his own family. Not good things, from the sounds of it.

And is it me, or is he almost making small-talk? Doing the whole getting-to-know-me thing? In his own this-is-an-inquisition sorta style, but still . . freaky. But maybe okay. Aloneness bad, talking good, remember?

"Sort of," Willow said, and bit her lip. To spill one's guts, or not to spill one's guts? That would be the question. "Actually, I'm mostly doing it because I miss them," she confessed. She pulled open one of her still fairly unfamiliar kitchen drawers, searching for a corkscrew.

And that's why I'm doing this. Having you to dinner. Loneliness, and also you're all emotionally unstable and stuff, and I'm just being a good friend. A good lesbian friend. I still love Tara.

I wonder what she's doing right now.

I haven't wondered that in weeks . .

"Well, not them as in my blood relatives kinda them, because I can count on one hand the number of times my parents were home for Hanukkah and I was older than eight." The drawers contained knives, forks, spoons, a turkey baster, several cookbooks with vaguely scary titles and various other implements she didn't even recognize, but no corkscrew. She moved on to the cabinets, shuffling around the kitchenette with her back to him.

"But . . you know, it's about having things you do with people you love that mean something and you can all sit back and remember the time when somebody did something funny and . . well, it's not like it makes that much difference what exactly you're celebrating this time of year 'cause it all kind of means the same thing. Miracles and saviors being born and the return of the sun and . . all that kinda light in the darkness stuff, you know?" She paused for breath, and realized that somewhere in her rummaging she'd ended up at the other end of the kitchen, standing quite close to him. Did he buy new robes? He looks sorta nice tonight. I think he combed his hair

"Light in the darkness," he repeated softly, and there was something in his voice that made her feel a little bit like melting.

"Yeah," she said, barely audible. "Winter-dark celebrations, they're all with the lighting of candles and the evergreens and -" she cut off with a rush of indrawn breath as he bent towards her, his lips just brushing hers.

***

Narcissa was just slipping into her robe, the various ingredients that had created the magical diagram on the floor appropriately scattered, when Lucius burst through her door. His eyes were wild, his normally fastidious clothing rumpled and singed in places. He took no notice of the odd items littering the floor, or the smell of blood and smoke in the air.

"We've been attacked," he snarled out. "Aurors. Something happened to the wards, they have us surrounded -" Something exploded several levels below them with such force that the floor shook, interrupting Lucius' frantic ranting; there was muffled shouting, and a single shrill scream.

"Do they?" Narcissa enquired coolly, feeling oddly detached. Some rational portion of her brain suggested that was probably the blood loss, but she didn't really believe that. The power of the ritual was still singing darkly in her veins, better than the best high she'd ever had.

He didn't notice her tone.

"Yes, they do!" he snapped back. "Don't be a simpering little idiot, this isn't the time! Come on!" He grabbed for her arm, and she flinched back out of his reach. It brought the backs of her knees up against the bed, and she felt along the blankets for the wand she'd left there.

"Come where?" she asked.

"Just do it, you bloody stupid whore!" he snarled, backhanding her so hard she saw stars, just as her fingers closed around her wand. She fell to the plush carpet, inhaling bits of herb and feather. She felt the cut on her arm break open again, the blood very hot against her rapidly cooling skin.

It's wearing off. I think I am in shock after all.

But it's done. It's done.

"No," Narcissa whispered into the carpet.

"What?" Lucius hissed incredulously. She giggled. It's done. It's done. It's done it's done it's -

She was grabbed by one arm and thrown up against the bedpost; she cried out, cradling her wounded arm to her chest as her head struck the wood. She would have fallen if he hadn't pressed immediately up against her, forcing her back so that the bedpost dug into her spine. She still had her wand clutched in her left hand, the arm that had been cut in the ritual. Lucius had her jaw in his hand, fingers clenching until she thought her bones would snap, his eyes mere inches from hers.

"Where? You want to know where?" he spat at her. "Fine. I'll tell you where. We're going down to the dungeons and we're going to do a nice little blood ritual to get me and the Dark Lord and a few others out of here. We tried it with the muggles but it doesn't work. It needs a *wizard's* death as sacrifice. Or a witch. Guess who that is, Cissy?" He shook her when he said it.

"Me," she whispered back. There was blood running down her stomach in a steady trickle from her arm, and she was feeling increasingly light-headed, unreal. It almost didn't hurt anymore.

Can't let them. Can't let them get away, for Draco, have to keep Draco safe, can't let them get away -

- have to finish it.

"Look, Mum, I can fly!" whispered a tiny pale-haired boy on his first broomstick, somewhere back in some shining part of her memory where nothing was bleeding, nothing hurt, everything would be okay . .

"Smart girl," Lucius ground out.

"And you are a very stupid man," Narcissa replied calmly. The look on his face was priceless; she thought it almost would have been worth it just for that.

"What did you say to me?" he growled, crashing her head back against the bedpost for emphasis. She yelped and bit her tongue and squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden resurgence of pain, fingers tightening on her wand, held pointing upright between her breasts. When she could see again, his eyes encompassed the entirety of her vision; he was so close she could feel his breath against her lips.

"Avada Kedavra," she whispered, and they both fell.

***

TBC . . .