With a Little Help from My Friends by Lucy Lupin
Author's Notes: Chapter Sixteen. Killed me. I am so happy to get it over with. Due to all the different little incidents and intertwining p.o.v.s, it was one of the hardest chapters I've ever written and took me almost a year to do.
I'd written most of this chapter before the infamous Black Family Tree was released, so I'm taking some liberties with Alphard's exact age. This fic is already so far into AU territory that I'm going to hell in a handbasket as it is ;-)
Disclaimer: Still own nothing.
Chapter Seventeen: The Mask Slips
From the darkened doorway leading into the common room, the second year watched, her sea green eyes taking in the tapestry of events played out before her with a maturity that confounded her tender age. It was likely that she had never truly been a child. Her family didn't encourage the upbringing of one.
The girl frowned. She was tall for her age and despite her slimness, possessed a certain robustness about her, a hard core of toughness and wit that instinctually made all but the stupidest bullies steer clear of her. And due to the array of hexes that she had learned from her older sister on the sly, those who didn't soon came to regret it. She was a tough little girl, and fear was an emotion typically foreign to her.
Yet something made her hands tremble as they came up to tuck a lock not brown, yet not quite blond, behind one ear.
She hated Gryffindors. Hated them, and what they stood for. What they represented and threatened. She had heard her father curse the name of the usurper who had married into their family - the little French whore - he called her. The little French whore who had softened his brother and made him forget who he was. Until recently. Both his subsequent remarriage and his family had refreshed his memory. He hoped that the maggots were feasting on her filthy carcass. She had been an unsavoury influence, an obstacle whose natural state of ill-health had thankfully removed her before it came necessary for the family to organise events themselves. But the damage had already been done, her father claimed. She had ruined their good name and brought her three children up to be Muggle-sympathisers. The eldest had even been Sorted into Gryffindor House, the first occurrence of such in her family for twelve generations. It had taken her father almost half the family jewels to restore the balance of their rightful place in the true pureblood community, to buy back old favours and ties.
The girl blinked, her thoughts returned to the present. The closed door on the seventh year boys' floor chilled even her hardened spine. Her eldest cousin was a disgrace to the family, a betrayer of old blood who proudly paraded her Muggle paraphernalia around. She had lessened their own chances of finding suitable marriages, forcing her father to arrange betrothals with those who would rightfully be considered beneath them in the community.
Yet she still deserved better than this.
Like the other children too young to attend the ball, she had sat on the darkened stairs adjacent to the Great Hall and watched those who were attending enter. She had seen her cousin on the arm of Quentin Maugrim, seen the haunted eyes in the face of a corpse. She had received a glimpse of what it must be like to be born into a family and a way of life now alien to her and trapped into something to which she did truly not belong. In her utmost depths an emotion began to unfurl, an emotion that had been so absent from those who reared her that she at first could not recognise it for what it was. Pity.
The girl gave the door one hard, searching look. Decided upon a course of action, her fear melted away to be replaced by an unerring belief in her own capabilities - and the knowledge that those around her were completely unaware of them. They had entered barely seconds ago, and she figured that she would only have two minutes at most. But the girl could do a lot in two minutes.
Her elder sister was the ruthless one. Her younger sister was the beauty. What she had to offer were two qualities of a significantly lesser value - at least on the surface. Intelligence and grit. Thoughts pulsed through her formidable brain, snatches of plans and schemes skimming over the surface as she grasped for threads of information that may or may not help her cause in this very moment. And as a senior boy stumbled into the common room, knocking over the hat stand and cussing like a hobgoblin, all those fragments leapt together and melded into something tangible.
Cecil Goyle had just entered.
Cecil hesitated. Had he the intelligence to bring his own feelings to this conclusion, he would have realised that he resented the girl and the way that she looked upon him not as a child to an adult, but as adult regarding a particularly slow and stolid infant. That her face remained outwardly placid and docile, yet there was a sense that her eyes swallowed all, absorbing even the most trivial snippets to be brought forth at need. But he lack the means to realise these things, so all he felt for her was a mild sense of dislike without quite understanding why. "What you want?" he demanded.
The girl answered his question with one of her own. "Maugrim brought that Black girl here with him, did he not?"
Cecil heaved off his second boot and stared up at him. Suspicion marred his spud of a face. "What's it to you?"
The girl paused. She was on the edge of an abyss in more ways than one. She had to play this one very, very carefully. She had to make Goyle believe that he had reached this conclusion himself, and to lead anyone with the knowledge of the event to believe the same. Goyle may not have the brains to figure out that he was being manipulated, but Maugrim very much did. "Ah. I see your meaning, if it is not above me to say so," she said, schooling her face into a mask of meekness. "You fear that he is about to undo all the work his father and my uncle have done to repair their relationship."
"Wha'?" Cecil blinked.
"Of course Maugrim has nuptial rights to her, according to the unspoken laws of the True Blood," the girl continued languidly, as if she had all the time in the world. She must not rush things. She could not afford to rush things, because that's when mistakes were made. The girl had not been caught out at something like this since she was nine, almost four years ago, and she could not afford the luxury now. "But they are not married yet. It would be a grave insult to her father if Maugrim's claim was pressed already, and our kind must bond together if anything is to be accomplished. You are so wise."
Cecil's face registered confusion, fear. This was what the girl had been waiting for. She had a trick for which no wand was necessary; a trick learned in for what most other families would be considered childhood, a trick that would certainly be forbidden to her if it was discovered. In this moment of uncertainty, she struck. Pushing all her thoughts together in one potent sliver of concentration, she slammed her hand against Cecil's forehead and thrust the thread at him. The fifth year gasped as pain knifed through his frontal lobe, then his eyes became blank and he fell to his knees.
"Maugrim is about to commit an act that is frowned upon in our society, and considered a crime in most others," she began, her voice now carrying a commanding tone. "Not all see things as we do; our ways must continue to be hidden until the time is ripe. Herbert Black will be very angry when he learns about this besmirchment upon his only daughter. You must prevent your friend from carrying out such a foolish act. You must stop him. As always, you have chosen to do the right thing." The trick was wearing off. One last sliver of inspiration flew at the girl, and she snatched the candelabra off the top of a side table and pressed it into his hand.
Once Cecil had gone, the girl sunk onto the leather settee, pressing her hands against her temples. The trick was far from perfect, yet it still took a lot out of her. It lacked the potency of an Imperious Curse. She could not force others to act, nor unconditionally control their thoughts, and against someone in complete certainty of mind, the trick was as good as useless. What she could do was make someone in an already weakened state of mind more malleable to her advice. She could plant the nucleus of an idea in her victim's mind, but not tell them exactly how to carry it out. In that was it was less powerful and had a smaller chance of success than the Unforgivable, but had the benefit of being perfectly legal. At least until it was discovered. The girl rubbed at the sides of her head, then glanced down the darkened hall. What was keeping the simpleton? She had as good as told him what to do - or come as close to instructing him as she could within the limits of her trick. Stupidity was a double-edged sword. It made people easier to ensnare, but of less use once her trick had worked. She got up and slipped to the side of the room, spreading herself against a wall in a black corner. She had literally handed Cecil the means to accomplish his goal. Once he did so, it would not do to be found.
"Maugrim!" The sound of running feet, then frantic pounding on a door. "I've set my room on fire, Maugrim!" There was a pause, then Cecil added dolefully, "And I don't have my wand with me, Maugrim."
The girl listened. Heard Maugrim calling his unfortunate lackey all manner of names. Heard two pairs of footsteps echoing away from his room. Then she crept along the hall.
Lucille Black was lying on Maugrim's bed, the flickering lamplight crawling over her goose-pimpled flesh. At first the girl thought that she was unconscious, but when she drew closer, she saw that her cousin's eyes were wide with the horrified expression of someone who knew that she was in trouble, but was too drunk to do anything around it.
"Come on," the girl said, sliding her arms under Lucille's legs and lowering them over the side of the bed. "You can't stay here. You made a mistake to come tonight. If you were aware of what you were doing, which I doubt." She heaved Lucille into a sitting position. Lucille swayed on the spot, then her eyes slid half-shut and her head began to fall backwards. The girl dragged her arm back and cracked her palm against the side of Lucille's face. Lucille regained some of her consciousness and stared back at her in shock. "Come on," she repeated, this time with more urgency. "You're in trouble. You can't stay here."
Raised voices were coming from Cecil's room, further down the hall. The girl paused. She was running out of time. She flung one of Lucille's arms over her shoulder and dragged her to her feet, stumbling out the door. Lucille's feet were making walking motions, but her chin was nodding in and out of consciousness and the girl was already carrying most of her weight. How much longer before her cousin's feet starting dragging, and could she cope?
Her eyes fell upon a door and her plan was updated. Throwing the dead weight of her cousin against it, she stumbled through.
"Why, my darling niece," a laconic voice drawled. "You always were my favourite - although the bubblehead, the homicidal hermaphrodite and the blood traitor don't exactly make for overwhelming competition. What is the meaning of this?"
Alphard Black was the youngest of her three uncles. The youngest by a good thirty years, which led to no other option but to his being a belated and very unplanned accident. Because of this he never quite seemed to fit in with the rest of the family, something which he hid through his lackadaisical behaviour and seemingly alike outlook on life. He was the only member of her family that the girl trusted enough not to completely hide the true nature of her character. She trusted him not out of any level of faith in his character, but because she knew that having so few defences of his own, he would be less inclined to reveal hers. An intelligent Black never stabbed a potential ally in the back unless driven to a last resort. You never truly knew what a person's strengths were, or how they could eventually serve your purpose. "I need your help," the girl said.
Her uncle removed his pipe from his mouth. There was no danger of anyone walking in on them. Unlike the classless Gryffindors, the Slytherins did not believe in shared dwellings, the wealthiest families purchasing a separate bedroom and ensuite for their brethren. And since the Blacks had to be seen as keeping up with the Malfoys and Lestranges, her uncle along with the girl and her sister was part of those exclusive families. He directed a scornful look at Lucille, who the girl had unceremoniously dropped onto his bed. "I'm not that desperate," he began, then looked beyond the blond hair to her face. "By blasted Salazar, it's our cousin! Being doing her part to ruin our good name, I take it?" He swung his eyes, which were of a blue so pale that they were almost white, back to the girl. "No Gryffindor has ever set foot in these premises."
"I didn't bring her here, and I doubt that she had much to do with events either," the girl held her ground. "She's as inebriated as a Trolloc, of whose doing I have little doubt. Maugrim wanted to partake in his wedding spoils prior to the New Year. We cannot allow that to happen."
Alphard's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean we?"
"As soon as I came in here, you were made guilty by association. You're now as involved as I am," the girl declared with no small sense of satisfaction. "If Maugrim catches you and places the Cruciatus Curse on you, won't you feel a lot more satisfied knowing it was for something that you actually did do?"
"You are the scariest little girl I have ever had the misfortune to come across," Alphard told her, shuddering disdainfully. "If you ever were one to begin with, that is." Lucille shifted and groaned. "So what can we actually do with her? She can't stay here. Imagine the cacophony - a Gryffindor in our common areas. Plus I assume that when Maugrim notices her missing, he will be less than impressed."
"We'll dress her up as one of our own and carry her to the Hospital Wing," the girl said. "I was thinking about hiding her in the girls' dorm, but that's the first place where he'll look - and I don't think my sister would exactly be silent about her whereabouts." She thought of her older sister and suppressed a shudder. "I'll go to my room for an uniform. She's about my size. Lock the door after I leave. If someone knocks, don't open it. Instead call out, "Fuck off, we're busy." They shouldn't knock again. I won't knock. I'll open the door using a curse. In the meantime, get some ink and coat it over her hair. It's too distinctive as it is." She opened just enough of the door to allow her lithe body to sliver through and shut it carefully afterwards.
"Lock the door after I leave," Alphard mimicked bitterly to himself. "If someone knocks, don't open it. Does she think that she has the exclusivity on common sense in this family? What would have been more sensible was to turn a blind eye and leave Maugrim to it. Merlin, that is one scary little girl. She'll be the type of wife who'll make a man the Minister of Magic and lead him to believe that it was all of his own doing." He removed his inkpot from his desktop and scooped his fingers into it. The side of Lucille's face was a flushed rose colour, as if someone had slapped her, and there was wet blood on her lips. "Unfortunate as your situation is, these events once set in place cannot be undone without grave insult and injury to at least one party. You are but a pawn in a game of alliances and power that has been going on long before you drew breath." He looked down at her. Lucille's chest was rising and falling evenly. He began to spread the mixture over her hair.
Alphard knew that the girl would be entering with a lock-breaking charm, but he still grabbed his wand reflexively when he heard a soft "Alohomora" and the door creaked open. The girl entered and gave him a sardonic smile when she saw the wand in his hand. He slid it back into his pocket.
The girl saw that he had blackened Lucille's hair, but made no comment. She took the hem of her smock and began to pull it up over head. Alphard looked away, then realised that she was wearing a second uniform underneath. Of course. Carrying one would have been too obvious. Clever girl. Scary girl. She pulled off the first uniform and tossed it onto the bed next to Lucille. "You get her dressed."
"What?" Alphard gaped.
"I have to write something. We have precious little time. It's not as if I were asking you to remove her smallclothes." There was a smirk in her eyes as she faced him. "I had no idea that you were such a prude, Uncle."
Alphard shot her a malevolent look. He rolled Lucille onto her stomach, carefully so as not to bring the alcohol up and onto his velvet bedthrow, and unzipped the back of her dress. The girl made herself comfortable at his desk and began to scrawl out a note, the nub of his quill scratching mechanically over the parchment.
"I don't think the uniform is a good idea," Alphard ventured.
"How so?" The girl's tone was mild enough, but there was a challenge in her eyes.
"It's an unusual hair length for witches, our kind anyway. Plus Lucille's considered to have the best legs in the school. They're her - signature feature - shall we say." Despite her being an old-blood traitor and the lack of an age gap, it still felt odd to be talking about his sixteen year old niece in that manner - and talking to his twelve year old niece in that manner. "Some of the more observant boys may notice. I suggest we shrink one of mine and disguise her as a boy instead."
The girl reflected. It had not been her plan. Not only that, but it would mean that her journey of stealth back to her chambers had been wasted. But any plan was perfect in theory, and any plan could derail in practice. A true schemer knew when to discard old ideas in favour of new due to circumstance. She nodded, saying, "Use my shirt. It will save you the time of having to shrink one of yours. The difference is minute enough to go unnoticed." The scratching of the quill resumed.
Minutes later both were completed. Wearing large grey flannel shorts, clunky shoes and a wool vest that covered what little assets she had, in the dark of night Lucille indeed past muster. Alphard in a moment of inspiration had threaded a green and silver scarf around her neck, half-obscuring her face. The girl took her left side. He took her right. Together they heaved her onto her feet.
Lucille was a bantam, but alcohol made her flop around like a beached whale, maximising her body weight. It was harder carrying her into the hallway than either uncle or cousin had supposed. The girl froze as heavy footsteps and Maugrim's enraged voice rang about above her, but instead he was going into the sixth year boys' rooms.
"We can't take her to the Hospital Wing," Alphard said under his breath.
"Why?" the girl enquired, equally softly. They still weren't at the door. She silently cursed her cousin's extra weight - and her insobriety.
"The prude will ask too many questions." Meaning Madame Pomfrey, the school nurse. The sound of doors banging open came from upstairs. The girl nodded - she was too afraid to attempt a more verbal response.
The girl waited until the entry passage leading into the Slytherin common areas had slid shut behind them until she risked a complete reply. "We have to leave her somewhere where she'll be safe. Do you know the way to the Gryffindor common room?" The girl almost lost her balance. Alphard had stopped in his tracks with a sudden realisation and the girl, continuing along alone with the brunt of Lucille's weight, was struggling to stay upright.
"Not here!" Alphard hissed, attempting to drag both the girl and her cousin backwards. "He would have heard the entry door closing! He'll think it was her - trying to escape! We have to hide!" Together they managed to stumble into an alcove beneath the stairs leading out of the dungeons, the ones who weren't unconscious trying to still their heavy breathing while their hearts galloped inside their rib cages. Several minutes passed. No Maugrim. "He must have been too high up to hear it," Alphard supposed. "We've wasted our time."
"It was a good precaution to take," the girl said unthinkingly. The girl and her uncle stared at each other in surprise. It was one of the few times that she had given a genuine compliment - and he had received one. "So where do we take her?"
Alphard shook his head. "I don't know where their common room is."
"We have to take her somewhere our kind won't find her but hers will. What about the Gryffindor changing rooms?"
"Too far to walk out to the Quidditch pitch. Besides, she'll freeze to death there. What I suggest is-" Footsteps echoed through the hallway. It was too late to hide. In the girl's pocket her hand found her wand. She could sense that Alphard was doing the same.
"What's going on here?" Nicholas Hicks stood in front of them.
"This second year had too much to drink," Alphard spoke up. The girl remained silent. She knew better than to do the talking and draw unnecessary attention - and suspicion - with her superior intellect. "Got into the Firewhiskey some of the sixth years left in the common room. We're taking him to the hospital wing."
"It had better not be my Firewhiskey," Nicholas half-snarled.
"It wasn't," Alphard assured him. "It was mine."
"But you just said-" Nicholas broke off and leant forward, grabbing Lucille's chin and forcing it upwards. "What the hell are you two playing it?"
The girl considering using her trick, but that was something even Alphard didn't know about. She was loath to reveal her full hand until absolutely necessary. And she was damned if her mudblood-loving cousin was going to force her into doing so. "Maugrim and our cousin are engaged," Alphard said eventually. "During the ball he grew a little - impatient. We rescued her. This is family business." His final sentence was a half-plea.
Nicholas' gaze swung from one Black to the other. "Where will you take her?" he said eventually. "I doubt any of them will tell you where their common room is, and she's in no state to give you directions." He paused. The girl wanted to look at her uncle, needed the reassurance of a shared look, but didn't want to reveal any sort of weakness in front of Hicks, anything else to make him change his mind. "Take her to the prefects' bathroom. You can't get in without a password. She'll be safe there. Password's Bandon Banshee. Blair Zabini told me. Maugrim doesn't know."
"If you know it, how are we to assume that he doesn't?" Alphard pressed.
"Because Blair Zabini says that you and Nicholas are the only two Slytherin boys worth talking to, so if you don't know it, then only Nicholas does," the girl spoke up. Nicholas stared at her, shocked. "The Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff prefects have probably told a few of their friends, but I don't think any of them will give her trouble. Besides, even if the other prefects have told a few Slytherins, because they're prefects, the boys that they associate with will not likely to be the genre of boys who will take advantage of an inebriated female."
"Er, right," Nicholas said with a look of grudging admiration directed at the girl. "I'm afraid that this is all I can do for you. My father - he's one of Ruldolph Maugrim's employees - well, you know how it is."
"We understand," the girl said. "You've helped us enough. Thank you." Nicholas looked visibly relieved. He turned and walked back to the Slytherin quarters. Inside the girl felt weary. If you told one person a secret, it would remain a secret. But if you told a second, the secret would spread. And now Nicholas Hicks knew how intelligent and capable she could be. She could almost hear him talking to their housemates already. Have you ever spoken to that Black sister - the middle one? Mind as sharp as a quill, that one. Then her sister would know. Her sister would wonder if her own secrets were really that much so. Her sister would start to watch her. Her sister may do more than watch her. She felt her skin grow damp.
They reached the prefects' bathroom and laid Lucille upon one of the seats. Alphard was careful to lay her on her side. If she threw up, Alphard explained, like that she wouldn't choke on her vomit.
The girl gazed down at her sleeping cousin. She had risked a lot to get her to safety tonight - and for what? The rescue had not benefited her in any way. In fact, it had been a grand inconvenience, forcing her to expose things that she would rather not. Later she would reflect upon this being the first unselfish act she had ever committed. "She's not one of us," she said.
Alphard ran a hand through his coal-black hair wearily. "I'm beginning to wonder if we are one of us either, Andromeda."
Arthur was awakened by a loud clanging. By the sound of things someone was banging symbols together outside his door in what felt like a much greater volume to his throbbing head than what it actually was. Flinging the covers off his bed and marching to the door, he ripped it open.
"Ah, nice to see you up bright and early," Winston Shacklebolt paused mid-bang and grinned. "Too drunk to Transfigure out of my costume last night," he explained, glancing down at the hooves peeking out of his pyjama bottoms. "Anyway, Dumbledore just told me that he's got a breakfast platter set up in his drawing room for those of us who had too much "fun" last night. I thought being Head Boy, I'd give you first dibs."
"Zanks," Arthur yawned groggily and retreated back into his room, closing the door after him. He splashed some water on his face (nearly knocking over his washstand in the process), and pulled a sweater over his rumpled white shirt and trousers, all that was left of last night's costume. His hair had begun to change as well, lengthening into curls and beginning to lighten from dark brown.
A long table had been set up downstairs, laden with both food and students who sat propped up by the elbows, rubbing their eyes wearily. Arthur grabbed a scone and slid onto a bench next to a Thierry who was looking worse for wear, even by his standards,
Thierry's head rested forlornly in his palms. "I can't believe zat she left me for zat leedle bookworm oo should be een Ravenclaw. When I 'ave finished weeth 'im, 'e weel wish zat 'e was," he finished darkly.
"What?" Arthur yawned.
"I was not payin' attention to 'er an' she left in a 'urry," Thierry scowled. "So I went outside to find 'er an' offer 'er an apology. I needed ter take a peez-" Arthur winced "-so I went into ze prefects' bathroom. Yer remember 'ow ze Quidditch captaine 'as ze password?"
"Yes, ever since I fell asleep in the bath and you woke me up by dive-bombing into it, I have been very much aware of how the Quidditch captains share the prefects' priviledges when it comes to their bathroom," Arthur said dryly. "What's your point, Thierry?"
"I went in zere, an' I saw 'er with zat leedle jumped-up know-eet-all, kissin' 'im!" Thierry spat out, his face a combination of rage and shame. "Eet was all I could do not to, well, nevair mind. My reputation – eet is een tattaires!"
"But who-?" Arthur began. A recollection came back to him of a sixth year prefect lounging by the punch, and a seventh year Ravenclaw heading doggedly in that direction. "Oh."
"Oui, ohh," Thierry echoed sardonically.
"Now, now," Arthur assured him, fighting back a smile.
"Je ne le crois pas. What 'as 'e got zat I 'aven't got?"
"Ears," Arthur supplied. "He listens to girls, Thierry. And might I recommend that in the future you stick to chasing after girls that you're actually interested in?"
"You see, Thierry, you can only get so many results when you treat girls like that," Herbie, who had been eavesdropping shamelessly,told him as he blissfully munched away on a piece of toast. "Women don't want to be made to feel as though they are sexual prey. They want someone who is a good listener and thinks that their opinions are important and treasures what they have to say. They want to be made to feel as though you are paying more attention to them and consider them to be more important than anything else in the room."
"Even the food," Holly told him sharply. Zorah Brocklehurst, who was sitting next to Herbie, gazed wide-eyed at him.
"Oh, yer are so wise," Thierry poo-pooed. "Yer are like a miniature Merlin. Now git out of ma face."
"As much as I thought I would never say this, Herbie does have a point," Arthur said. "You're certainly good at getting the interest of a witch - many witches - quickly, but you don't seem to keep it for long."
"Quoi?" Thierry did a double take.
"We've never known you to have a long-term girlfriend," Arthur continued.
"And you got done by the biggest nerd in Gryffindor," Herbie piped up.
"I 'ave lost ma mojo," Thierry said miserably, chasing his eggs around his plate.
One of the small joys of being a male was that you got to laugh at things that weren't even funny. While he was very much Thierry's friend, probably even his best friend at Hogwarts, and felt some level of sympathy for his situation, it was a little reassuring watching one of the Casanovas of the school blundering his way through his love life with even less finesse than Arthur himself. He took a second scone and settled back to enjoy himself. This was nice, just himself, Thierry and some of the livelier characters of Gryffindor house doing their best to ignore hangovers and the effect of little or no help. But something still wasn't quite in place. "We're missing the trio," he realised. "Veronica isn't here, and neither are Molly and Lucille."
"Mollys having a lie-in," Zorah said. "She hasn't gotten out of bed yet. From what Clarice tells me, she needs it. Clarice said she got back at three and Molly was still awake. Zorah Pikestaff from Ravenclaw told her that she didn't really want to go back to the common area, and that her and that Slytherin prefect were arguing with Professor Filch about something. And Lucille never came back last night. Oh, was this unexpected?" she added with a very insincere form of sympathy at the look Arthur and Thierry shared.
"Yes, it was," Arthur told her darkly, wondering exactly what she was implying when she meant expected. "Who was the last to see her?"
Lucille groaned and heaved herself off the wooden seat. What was she doing lying on a wooden seat in the first place? She moved her legs, and realised that she was wearing shorts. Her head was throbbing worse than the Hogwarts Express motor. Random images bombarded her and she slapped the side of her face as an attempt to clear her head.
She risked raising her eyes to the onslaught of light from the overhead windows and took in her surroundings. This appeared to be the prefects' bathroom, at least from Arthur and Veronica's descriptions of it. Surely it was password protection. How had she got in among the craziness of last night? What had she been doing last night? She raised her hand to scratch her scalp in puzzlement. It came away black. Ink. What had she been doing last night? Her alarm rose to panic.
Across the room from her was a series of sinks. She stuck her head under one tap, watching the ink run down the drain below her in black rivulets. Her hair was now wavy and shoulder-length, a pale chestnut shade. The charm was wearing off. She lifted her head. Bleary, bloodshot eyes stared back at her. What had happened last night? Yet more images flooded her, with slightly more outline and shape than before, and she buried her now-wet head in her hands. What was she doing here in a Slytherin boy's uniform? Had she and Maugrim - she shuddered. She certainly didn't feel any different.
As she bent down to adjust her socks, something poked at her side. She dug into the waistband of her shorts and pulled out a folded bit of parchment. Sliding a finger under the crest, she began to read. The first line caught her breath.
What you're attempting isn't working. If I can see beyond the mask that you try to uphold, then others will eventually be able to. You have the right breeding, but not the right upbringing, to handle Maugrim. Perhaps you don't remember, but last night he tried to take liberties before you were brought here. Which if he ever questions you about it, you weren't. If you marry into his family, your life will be worse than hell. You have already chosen your side. At least stay true to it so that you only betray one party.
Someone who cares more than they ought to.
The seal had born the Black family crest.
Lucille's breaths ricocheted within her ribcage in short, frantic bullets. She tore up the letter and threw it into a toilet bowl, watching the fragments circling around the rim before plunging down the drain. Who could she tell? Arranged marriages had been going on amongst the wealthier pureblood families for centuries. The teachers would be sympathetic, but incapable of intervening. And to disclose her circumstances would bring shame upon her family. None of her friends would understand. What she had left of them, that is. Her father would say that she was neglecting her duty, disgracing the family name, and her stepmother - well, that did not bare thinking about. And without her weekly flying lessons, all but her last outlet was gone.
All but her last. Her right hand was already fingering the edge of her shorts pocket, where her wand had been stowed, in a comforting manner. It would be so easy. This at least she had control of-
"What's going on in here?" someone cried as the door was flung against the wall with a bang. "What are you doing in here? Don't you know that this bathroom is only for prefects? As to how you got the password, well, I don't know, but I'm certain your house head will get it out of you one way or another. I'm afraid I'll have to report this-"
Lucille rounded on the unsuspecting Sylvian Davies. "Stupify!"
She didn't even wait for his body to fall completely to the floor before she started forward, mechanically stepping over him and going out the door. Her feet carried her automatically forward while her mind wandered meaningless. What she had thought, what she had wondered during those dark trips down to the basement, was beyond the powers of anyone to drag out of her with any form of charm. She had learned it was better not to think too much. Particularly about this. The bathroom door creaked as she put her weight against it, then slid open.
"What do you mean by barging in here like that? I was having a pleasant nap and dreaming about having a body again before you came in. But no, nobody cares about what poor old Myrtle wants-"
Lucille withdrew her wand and pointed it at the apparition's forehead. "Stuff off, Myrtle, or I'll forget that you're already dead and hex the living daylights out of you."
Myrtle howled and dived into her toilet bowl. A tinge of regret sparked Lucille, but she shook it off. Spectres didn't have feelings any more than the average Slytherin seventh year did. How she knew that. She tightened her hand further around the wand, feeling its comforting length press into her palm. This was the only thing that felt good. This was the only thing that forced the rottenness out of her.
She approached the toilet bowl. A distant roaring was in her airs. She was already beginning to feel clammy, light-headed. I don't want to do it, she thought desperately, the rational part of her brain recalling at what she was about to do. I don't want to. But she knew that she had failed everybody, hurt and slighted everybody who had ever cared about her. I have to be punished. I have to be pure. I have to-
"Bonjour, Lucille," a deep, musical voice spoke up.
Thierry Delacour was standing behind her.
Lucille's eyes rolled back in her head. She felt a pair of hands snap out and grab her before she collapsed to the floor, then her vision darkened.
Author's Notes: I wasn't planning on including Andromeda but she kind of ran away with the first half of the chapter. I should read more Andromeda fic. And I am now officially dead (collapses).
