Disclaimer: Booty. How could this ever be mine?
Hoping for the best
Just, hoping nothing happens
a thousand clever lines
unread, on clever napkins
I will never ask
if you, don't ever tell me
I know you well enough
to know, you never loved me
- Cute Without the 'E' - Taking Back Sunday
bloodstains on your carpet, punch on your shoes
issalee
Harry had never been in so much pain in his entire life.
His right arm flamed up, and the markings on it were now a bright red; he could swear they were searing themselves into his skin. Over him hovered a dark shape, grinning malevolently. He could make out a glint of what seemed to be fangs, and tried to reach up with weak hands, calling Draco's name. The figure laughed, and disappeared.
He was feverish for so long, the days began to blur together, and his arm ached on and off. He fell asleep for so long it was a wonder to him when he woke up and felt himself, still whole.
Whenever he was well enough, he would try to see where he was, but well enough meant that he wasn't nauseated, and could stay awake. With his finger Harry scratched notches into the wood next to his head, attempting to keep track of the days. He supposed he missed some, and when this inane thought struck him, he nearly laughed.
He had no idea where he was, who he was with, or how he got there, but what he was worried about was whether he was keeping a good enough record of how long he had been there for.
On the sixth day (by the notches) he awoke to find that he had forgotten something. Harry didn't know what it was exactly that he had forgotten, but he knew it must have been important, since a niggling feeling in the back of his mind told him so.
The Gryffindor pushed himself up, and ignored the dizziness that came along with it. From what he could tell, Harry was in a bed, and in a large, decorative room. He ignored that and stumbled out of the bed, feeling immediately lightheaded as he fell to the floor.
A moan escaped his lips before he could catch it, but he didn't care as he crawled weakly, hoping for any sort of escape. With his limited eyesight, all he managed to do was bump into a desk and knock over what was on top.
Harry reached out tentatively; what seemed to be a bottle of some sort, a quill and parchment…and there, his glasses. Feeling relieved, the dark-haired boy slipped them on, thanking them silently as the room swam into focus. It was still a little blurry around the edges, but he supposed that was from his sickness.
Pushing himself up against the desk, Harry took a look around the room again. It seemed to be old-fashioned, with an ornate, wooden four-poster bed in the middle and the desk he was leaning against. Across the room was a large armoire and next to that, what looked like a vanity table. There were two doors, both gleaming darkly against the painted green walls. Harry attempted not to notice the sheets on the bed, flecked with blood and damp with sweat, as he walked to the doors, leaning against the walls for support.
The first one he tried was locked, but the second one opened easily. It led to a bathroom, white and marble. Harry narrowed his eyes. This was wizarding work, he surmised, since there was basically just a washing bowl inside and a large tube that took up most of the bathroom. An upturned, raised basin closer to the ground with a drain in the middle, he took to be his toilet. No Muggle would have these things, and even in his ill state Harry could sense the tendrils of powerful protection magic hanging in the air, locking him out of the rest of the house and confining him to this room.
This room, he thought as well, glancing out from the doorway, was prepared for him, so they expected him as well. There on the side of the wall were many of his things; no clothes, but his Firebolt, some books, and an empty cage were sitting idly in a corner. Harry swore mentally; if they had done something to Hedwig, he swore he would kill them himself.
Without warning, bile rose in his throat. Harry automatically threw himself towards the upturned basin, and retched violently. His headache had returned, and he wished desperately that he could have had aspirin, screw a potion.
A cool hand suddenly pressed itself upon his brow. Too weak to fight it, Harry merely slumped against the bowl, reveling in the coolness of the marble against his cheek. The hand caressed his face lightly, smoothing back his bangs as the woman (it had to be, her hands were too dainty for a man's) knelt next to him and cooed in his ear.
"Shh, Harry, it will be alright. Can you stand? You shouldn't have gotten out of bed in the first place, you're still not well…" The woman helped him up, and led him back to his bed. Harry protested softly, mumbling against the sleep that had suddenly and quickly arrived. He wondered indolently if maybe she had spelled him, but ignored all of it as he fell into the bed, immediately curling up into himself as he grew hot and cold all at the same time.
"Oh, dear," she said, in a soft voice. "It seems those side effects haven't quite gone away yet."
"What side effects? From what?" Harry asked her.
"Shh, just ignore me, I'm babbling. Mistress Ty—er, the mistress said that you weren't to be moved for another week at the least, young Harry."
"Need to go back to…" for a moment, Harry's mind became numbingly clear and his mouth went as dry as though someone had stuffed cotton in it. "Hogwarts," he finished. For a moment, he had forgotten everything. The woman clucked laughingly to him, and as she tucked the covers around him he squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to name everyone from Hogwarts and all of the Wizarding World as the woman spoke to him.
Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, my best friends on earth. Hermione is a know it all; Ron is a little biased, but loyal to the end.
"If you need any help, we've got a house-elf you can call for. Just yell for service, or will him here."
"Will him?" Harry muttered, mentally reciting the rest of the Weasley clan with all their attributes, forcing himself not to retch again as he even named Percy.
"Yes. If you think about what you want hard enough, he'll come around with it. He's a little smart for a house-elf, though, and brings you extras if you're thinking about those subconsciously."
"He can read my mind?" Dumbledore, meddling old fool of a Headmaster, Hagrid, caring Groundskeeper…
"Not at all!" she laughed, and Harry thought that he liked it and had to try hard to remember where he had left off. Flitwick… "As long as you're in this house as a guest, your mind is tied with his. He can't poke and prod through it, and you can't go through his. It's like a minor telepathic link that goes one-way, since all he hears are your orders and he can't say anything else. If a strong enough emotion floats to the top, than he'll feel it."
"That's…odd…" Harry was talking about the weight that had suddenly fallen on his chest. A dark curtain stole around the edges of his vision, and he looked a little blindly for the woman, relaxing only when she caught his hand in hers. "What's your name?"
She was silent for a moment, as though considering whether or not to tell him. But after a moment, she smiled, although he couldn't see it. "Nestea. Nestea Malfoy."
"I know…someone…with that name…" Harry snuffled into his pillow. "I really liked him…he was…nice t'me…for a while."
"Really? What was he called?"
There was a pause. Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle… "Malfoy. That was what…I called him."
"His first name?" Nestea pressed. "I know he had one."
She waited, but she was to be disappointed. Harry had fallen asleep, and his fever had apparently returned. Nestea sighed and stooped to pick up his things.
"You're stupid if you think this will help you out."
She jumped, and then turned and scowled irritably. Leaning against the open door leading to the halls, Genevieve scowled right back. "Don't be prissy with me. I'm keeping your secret."
"As long as I keep yours," Nestea snapped back. "Don't think you can bribe me."
"Oh, I don't think. I know."
"I certainly don't doubt that first part."
Genevieve stiffened, and then thrust her chin out. "Fine. Be a snob. See if I stand up for you the next time Mistress Tynan wants to try and kill you."
"She wouldn't dare." Nestea touched her stomach. It was swollen, and she was pregnant. Very pregnant. Slightly self-conscious, she drew the loose dress she was wearing around her belly even more. Genevieve noticed and smirked.
"You can't hide the baby. You've tried already, don't you see what happens? Look at this new predicament you're in now, little mistress."
"I'm just a maid," Nestea snapped. "A maid in this fucking hellhole."
"Language," tutted the succubus. "And besides, look behind you; there's a child sleeping in that bed. A sick child. You won't wake him, will you?"
"Aren't you just a child as well?" Nestea said softly. Genevieve's features darkened noticeably, and her beauty suddenly seemed off-balance as she snapped her fangs ferociously.
"Shut up, you. And get downstairs; do some work in the kitchen or something. I'll give the damned house-elf something else to do, but I don't want to see your face anymore."
The maid curtsied, and left. Genevieve glared at her retreating back in disgust, and glanced back at the bed where Harry lay sleeping. She had already decided he was cute, and she was starving for him.
"You'd better be worth it," she told him, and then walked out.
Bellatrix cocked her head to the side wearily, eyeing her mistress with slight fear. Tynan had been unusually buoyant since they'd captured Harry; so much so that she had let all her hair fall around her shoulders, pooling in waves as she also ignored her makeup. This, for Tynan, was a big step.
"I think," she said brightly, stepping lightly as she danced around the room. "That we should give young Harry a companion."
They were in Tynan's room. Genevieve had appeared moments ago to inform them about Harry's previous actions, but Tynan had not been deterred. "You say he hesitated before naming Hogwarts?" she had said. This was good. Absolutely perfect if what she thought was happening was happening.
"He is forgetting all about Hogwarts already, and we cannot attempt to turn him to our way. We need someone we can control easily."
"Genevieve?" Bellatrix slid against the wall, feeling weary. She didn't like the succubus; it was, after all, she who had taken away her most precious puppet. "What are you going to have that slut do?"
"Not her. I have the feeling that Harry will not take to her. I've already had Tidget and Middy go down and get her."
Bellatrix realized suddenly what Tynan meant and narrowed her eyes. "You're bringing up the Lovegood child? Is she not dead?"
"No," Tynan said cheerfully. "She received the same treatment one would get in the case of a Dementor's kiss; in a sense, she is a husk of her former self, only the housing for her essence and soul."
"Which Genevieve swallowed."
"Exactly." Tynan's eyes glittered maliciously. "Which means that if her soul was to be returned, than she would merely become the mindless puppet you had wished her to be, Bellatrix. I shall relinquish her to you, if you like, but you must not hurt her in any way. Understand?"
The widow Black said nothing, but Tynan ignored her.
"Although I will need her soul in the ceremony later," the lady Malfoy said thoughtfully. "We'll merely take it as a precaution; should anything change Harry's mind on that oh-so-important day, Luna Lovegood will be our insurance."
"I don't like you using her," Bellatrix said finally. "But if that's the way it has to be, then fine. Do I get to hurt the Potter boy at all?"
"No," Tynan said, a little sharply, but then she softened. "No, Bella, we cannot do anything to such an important pawn in my plan. You can, however, call dibs on anyone but my nephew. In fact, have a personal vendetta against all of Hogwarts, since you seem so bloodthirsty."
Bellatrix's eyes flashed with anger for a moment, but she was interrupted as Tidget and Middy appeared, carrying the prone form of Luna between them. Her wide blue eyes were opened, and her mouth formed a small 'o' of surprise. From the corner was a thin trickle of blood, which Tidget was apparently used to wiping off, as he did so now.
"Why is she bleeding?" Bellatrix asked angrily.
"It is a side-effect," Tynan replied airily. "She is a Seer, and of course, as such, we could not totally remove her soul. It is having quite a struggle not to float out of her, and this causes a little bit of internal bleeding. Not a big problem, though.
"Besides," the blonde said, as she got a vial out of her dresser. "We were going to awaken her soon anyways. This experience, such a near-death one, should be much more real to her than anything else, especially after all those months of imprisonment. I have no doubts whatsoever that her powers have awoken as well."
"You were planning this," Bellatrix said accusingly. "You wanted this to happen."
"Don't I plan everything?" Tynan kneeled and took the cork of the vial out, then tipped it into Luna's gaping mouth. There was a long silence in the room, before her body glowed a light hue of blue and white. Luna began to spasm, violently, and she drew in deep shuddering breaths.
Then the shrieking started.
Harry woke again the next day, feeling better. His headache was gone and he was sure his fever was as well. There was no dizziness or nausea about him, and as he slipped out of bed he noticed he could stand straight with no problems whatsoever.
Tentatively, Harry took a few steps, and rejoiced inwardly as he still felt fine. The Gryffindor rubbed a hand across his eyes. What to do next?
It was obvious he had to speak to whoever had him here and ask why. Frowning, Harry tried to remember how he had gotten here; it took him quite a while to conjure up images of a hunched figure under a tree, but that was it and he was starting to get a headache again.
First things first, the dark-haired boy picked at his clothing. Apparently, they had changed him only once, upon his arrival, and gotten rid of whatever other clothing he had. He felt disgusting, and wasted no time in entering the bathroom and running a bath.
As the water steamed up around him, Harry leaned back and sank a little into the warm liquid. He closed his eyes and thought once more; naming his friends, family, and those close to him in an almost repetitive fashion. He was so into it, he didn't hear the door creak open until it was too late.
"Harry!"
He screamed and backpedaled, succeeding only in slamming his head against the edge of the bathtub. Forgetting for a moment that someone was there, Harry rubbed ruefully at his head and repressed the tears that were sure to come.
"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry! I was only trying to—oh, Gods, I'm so sorry!"
By now he had recognized the voice. "No, Nestea, it's alright. It's my fault for—um…anyway, it's okay."
The maid sighed in relief. "Good. Well, I just wanted to tell you that Mistress told me to set some clothes up for you on the bed as you might be waking up today, and that you're to meet someone later on in the big Dining Hall."
"Am I meeting the mistress?" Harry asked, and was surprised when Nestea shook her head.
"No, she's away on business with the master. You're meeting their—well, you could say adopted daughter, but she's mainly a guest we—picked up, such as yourself. Since it's just you, me and her in the house, we've got some free time for about a week before anyone comes back."
"Really?" Harry said, blushing and a little distracted. Nestea followed his gaze and realized he was staring at her stomach.
"Oh, you've never seen a pregnant woman before?" she said teasingly.
"Er…"
Nestea made a little noise in the back of her throat and then laughed. "It's quite alright. I'm in my last trimester. The baby's due in July."
"Great!" Harry said, flashing a smile at her. Nestea laid a towel across the sink and smiled back.
"You're so charming. I'll leave this here, I've got other chores to do."
Harry frowned. "But you're pregnant. Don't they give you a break?"
Nestea shook her head. "I charm the stomach not to show and make it weightless as well. I don't like casting it when we don't have company, but it does mean I'll have a bit of trouble if my chores involve bending."
"I'll help you," Harry offered up immediately.
"Oh, no, it's okay. You just worry about yourself, Master Potter. And remember, you can summon the house-elf for anything, okay?"
Harry nodded and watched her leave. For a Malfoy, she was unerringly obedient and kind. He wondered why, and then dismissed the thought, labeling it as one of life's most vague mysteries. The Gryffindor soaked for a few minutes, and got out of the tub.
When Harry entered the room, towel wrapped around him, he was startled to see that all his things had been fixed neatly. It took him a moment to remember that, of course, Nestea was a wizard and could have just as easily magicked them all this way. Sighing gratefully, he started walking towards his trunk, and then stopped.
Why were his things here?
If these people had merely found him, as they'd claimed, wouldn't they have given him back to Hogwarts? Harry fingered the scar nervously. It wasn't as though they couldn't recognize him…and even if they didn't realize whom he was or where he came from, how did they get to his things?
The black-haired boy shook his head and groaned. What a lot of questions to ask himself after he'd befriended the maid, taken a bath and generally got more comfortable. If he wanted answers, though, he'd better ask them fully clothed.
Harry moved over to his trunk and pried it open. His eyes widened in shock. None of his clothes were inside; they had all been replaced by richly colored and fine silken clothes, some fancy, others casual but still better than anything he'd ever even seen.
Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, he shut his eyes and grabbed at the first outfit he could find, and then opened them. It was a loose shirt with baggy sleeves and a high, neatly collared neck. Black slacks accompanied them, and for a moment Harry contemplated taking the vest that was obviously supposed to accompany them, but decided against it as he was taking these clothes off as soon as possible anyway.
Fifteen minutes later, he was dressed and had decided that Nestea was probably not going to come and get him anyway. Harry felt loathe to just walk around the house, and wished desperately that he at least had a guide.
"Master wants to get somewhere?"
Harry turned, half-expecting to see Dobby, and did a double take when he did. No, this house-elf was obviously older, judging by it wrinkles and the weary eyes.
"Er…I need to go to the—big Dining Hall." He caught himself just in time; he had been about to say the Great Hall, and then he wondered why he hadn't wanted to.
"Follow Tidget, please, Master." Harry did as the elf requested, and as they exited the room and walked down a hallway lined with grim-faced portraits he gave a silent prayer of forgiveness to Hermione.
He glanced around in barely disguised disgust, though, at the sneering faces that muttered at him under their breaths. They passed by several doors, all of them locked, but as Harry turned around a corner he heard the sound of a lock clicking. Checking quickly to see that Tidget was well ahead of him, he doubled back and peered around.
A man was standing with his back to the Gryffindor, wearing formal attire and running a finger through slightly spiky black hair. Harry wondered vaguely if this was the master, and made as if to step forward, but something drew him back—painfully.
Tidget was digging his nails into Harry's arms, and his eyes were wide with fear. "Master Potter must not disturb anyone! He must follow orders, says the mistresses! He cannot wander!" the house-elf hissed the last words, and then bowed and began pushing Harry down the hallways. Stunned, Harry let him.
When they reached the Dining Hall, Tidget bowed stiffly and motioned for Harry to go in with a curt nod. Feeling a little as though he'd lost what could've been a possible friend, Harry took a breath, and pushed open the door.
Hogwarts was, once more, in disarray.
Dumbledore stood imposingly in the seventh year Gryffindor boy's dorms, staring at the blood-spattered bed that used to be Harry's with narrowed eyes. Next to him were, of course, the seventh-year Gryffindor boys, Hermione, Ginny, and several Slytherins.
"So?" Ron asked, voice a little edgy. "What is it?"
Next to him, McGonagall shushed him. Ron jumped; he hadn't heard her come in, but now she swept through the room with an air of practice. "We've told all the students to report back to their common rooms. Their heads of houses are with them."
Dumbledore nodded, but his gaze did not stray from the bed. "You say you didn't touch it at all? None of you did?"
"No sir," Seamus said, serious for once as he shook his head. "I get up first, and I usually pull back his curtains and wake him, but we were mad at him, like we told you before. So I didn't and when I was done, I went over to shake Dean awake."
"But I didn't want to," the dark-skinned boy broke in. "And I knew Ron and Neville weren't going to wake up so I threw something at Harry's bed, hoping he'd get up, but we didn't even hear a snuffle. Seamus walked over and looked in and started screaming, and he woke us up properly."
"Did he come back to his room last night?" McGonagall wanted to know.
The boys exchanged glances, and then looked down at their feet. Seamus shoved Ron forward, and the Weasley blushed. "No, Professor. But he probably just didn't want to talk to us, and we thought maybe he'd come in while we were sleeping, maybe."
"But he didn't."
Ron nodded wearily. "But if we had known we would've done something! All his clothes are gone and his things! Even Hedwig's not in the Owlery!"
"That," Dumbledore said quietly, "is because she is in here." Every occupant of the room, including one, pale-faced, blond figure, shot him a look. The Headmaster knelt down so that he was eye-level with the bed, and placed his hands under the sheets. After a moment, he drew out a small, bedraggled figure with feathers of downy white sticking out awkwardly. The white was merely matches, as everything else was dyed a deep crimson.
"Oh, Hedwig," Hermione breathed. "She must have put up a fight."
Dumbledore held the owl closely, and took his wand from his pocket. He whispered a few words under his breath, and watched as the blood disappeared, and air ruffled the owl's feathers into place. There was another pause, and then Hedwig's beak clacked irritably as she began breathing again.
Blaise, who had been quiet up until then, spoke up. "Can you ask her what happened to Harry?"
"She is not well," Dumbledore said, stroking the bird's feathers. Hedwig flapped her wings weakly, and didn't stir after that. "But it is obvious, then, that someone came by here and when they attempted to take her, she fought them. This is her blood, not Harry's."
"But where is Harry?" Ron demanded to know.
Dumbledore shrugged, almost nonchalantly. "That is something we do not know. Maybe he left before this, or even after, and didn't mean to worry you."
"But he wouldn't," Hermione hissed vehemently. "Harry wouldn't do a thing like that."
"Very smart, Ms. Granger."
The occupants of the room turned to the doorway, and not one eyes was left un-widened. In the doorway stood Snape, both arms restraining those of Rabastan Lestrange. The white-haired man was smirking.
"What is the meaning of this, Severus?" McGonagall said angrily. "And are you not supposed to be with your house?"
"Show them," Snape said, jabbing Rabastan with his wand. The man smiled and shrugged, shifting so that the short sleeves of his shirt moved up to reveal a burning mark.
"Voldemort's?" Dumbledore had crossed the room in seconds and began to examine Rabastan's arm closely. It was not Voldemort's mark; as expected, when the Dark Lord had fallen his mark had faded away. But on Rabastan's arm was a droplet of some sort of liquid that alternately glowed with either a red or blue hue to look like a blood or teardrop. "Is this what Tynan uses to call you?"
"She would never stoop so low," Rabastan said mockingly, and then observed the room, keen eyes taking in the blood and bedraggled owl especially. He nodded approvingly. "So he's gone, then. Very good."
There was a sudden wind in the room, and no one could bring themselves to believe what they saw next. Snape had been pushed aside, shoved almost rudely into the wall, whilst Rabastan himself was actually. Draco had him by the scruff of his neck, and was glaring. Rabastan glared back evenly.
"Hullo, Draconis."
"What do you know?" Draco snarled. "I'll disembowel you to find out."
"Pity. I rather liked my stomach."
"Shut up!" Draco pushed back so that Rabastan's head knocked sharply against the wall. McGonagall moved towards them, but Dumbledore muttered something to the distressed professor.
"Why are you so angry?" Rabastan asked, almost curiously. "Wasn't it you and all your friends and these Gryffindors here who were trying to drive him away?"
"We weren't!" Ginny cried out, suddenly teary. "We weren't at all! It was just an argument!"
"Ah," Rabastan said, turning his gaze to her. "An argument. Well, I've had arguments turn deadly before. Anything can escalate into anything bigger, and worse. Why is an argument between friends different?"
"And how would you know? I'd loathe to think you had any," Snape scowled as he stood, and fixed Draco with a look. "Put him down, Malfoy, he's staining the wall."
But Draco ignored him, and gave Rabastan a withering look. "You know something."
The man shrugged. "I know many things. My name. Your name."
"Harry's location."
"That," Rabastan said, shaking his head, "is one of those things that I'm not supposed to know."
"But you do," Draco said, managing to sound equally nonchalant. "And you're going to tell me, right?"
"Unfortunately, I know where he could have been. I highly doubt that keen mind of your aunt's will keep him there. She's probably spirited him away already."
Draco swore and made a shamefully crass gesture with his free hand, and let Rabastan fall to the ground in a heap. The white-haired man didn't seem in the least bit perturbed, and instead, smiled rather childishly at those around him.
"She's probably going to do something to him to turn him into a puppet. That's her style. Or maybe she'll not do anything to him at all." Rabastan closed his eyes. "I suspect she's going to use the girl, what's her fancy, Adorewell?"
"Lovegood," Draco muttered absently. "And what do you mean by that?"
Rabastan leaned forward, and rested his chin in his hands. "What do you think I mean? What would break precious Harry more than a broken friend? It's not that hard to figure out, if you're as close to him as you all think you are."
Silence.
Silence and all the more.
Somewhere, in a distant forest, a figure stirred.
And then stirred some more.
"Damnit, let go! Let go let go let go!" The figure was struggling to get free from overhanging branches, and was apparently having some trouble.
Down below, a man sighed. "Don't try too hard, you'll hurt yourself, you bumpkin."
"BUMPKIN!"
"Don't take it seriously, Christ."
Quiet.
"Don't tell me you're doing this again."
Quiet.
The man rolled his eyes and muttered a few words under his breath. In a moment, the figure fell on top of him, succeeding in knocking the breath out of them both.
"I swear, you've gained weight," the man muttered.
"Don't make me hit you."
The man chuckled softly to himself, and pushed the figure off of him. In the dim light of the forest canopy, it was obvious that this was another man, if not younger. "You're talking to me again."
"GAH!"
Under the shade of a large tree, Remus Lupin wiped away tears from his eyes as he fell into apoplectic laughter. By the time he was finished, the figure had moved away and was sulking in a corner.
"Just like old times, eh?" Remus said softly.
The man opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. His body seemed to convulse, and he clutched at his stomach. For a moment, he seemed to shimmer out of existence, but then he was solid again.
"We've got to move faster," Remus observed. "How long do you think you have?"
"About two weeks or so."
Remus cursed. "We shouldn't have spent so long waiting for you to recover. I could have carried you."
"Right. And every full moon, you would've done the same only in your jaws. And it would be easier because I'd be cut up into travel easy pieces, right?"
"Don't joke."
A pause. "Sorry."
Remus ran a hand through his graying hair and scanned their surroundings. "So. To the wench's castle, how long do you think?"
The man immediately brightened. "Where Harry is? Perfection. Pure perfection. I'd say a few days at the most. Can you believe we can't use magic?"
"We can," Remus corrected him. "Just not…noticeable magic."
Harry closed his eyes.
He was three, and in the Dursley's backyard. They were gone, at some party or another. He was sitting on the back stairs, hand shading his eyes against the bright sun.
Something flew in front of him; a butterfly, one of those rare and beautiful ones that was made up of billions of different colors and would appear right before something really good happened. Expectantly, Harry folded his hands politely in his lap.
There was silence all around him.
Harry hated the quiet, but he kept his mouth shut and wisely leaned back to conserve energy. Before him, the butterfly danced just out his reach, fluttering wildly and creating enough wind for him to feel it. The insect landed on the railing of the stairs, letting its wings flicker every so often before doing a sort of hop skip, as though it were trying to boogie with the best of them.
Harry giggled, and then his eyes widened.
The butterfly had launched itself into the air, and seemed to be suspended for a moment. Harry held his breath. Here was the good thing—
And then nothing.
The butterfly fell to the ground, motionless, wings crinkled like a used paper bag. Harry reached out a finger, and then drew his arm back in. His tiny body crumpled, and he scrambled backwards, away from the dead butterfly, away from the crushed dreams, away from whatever it was that had been holding him in a spell for so long.
It was dark outside, too, one of those nights that had people asking easily if it was possible, was there a house available so they could live in this perfect little suburbia. It was one of those nights where Harry was in his cupboard; only today he was suddenly claustrophobic and had retired instead to the kitchen, legs hanging off the tall stool as he watched the sun set through the window.
Beside him the phone started ringing; he flinched at the sudden intrusion of noise, and then let his head slip into his arms. The front door clicked open, and he slipped off the stool with an ease that came from long practices. Silently, he padded towards the backyard again, desperate for a few moments away from the cupboard, and found instead the butterfly, looking desolate and still unmoving.
Frozen, the young boy watched as a wind stirred up the leaves, moving them in graceful cadences all across the ground. The butterfly's wings twitched in the breeze and then its whole body. For a moment, it looked alive, and then it simply seemed like what it was; a bedraggled doll, a shell of a former soul, blown away by a summer breeze.
And that, it seemed, was that.
Luna reminded Harry of the butterfly quite a lot.
He knew right away there was something wrong with her, from the moment he stepped in and stopped to stare, as all she did was nod in his direction, and almost as an afterthought, softly greet him. Her hair was piled up into soft curls that framed her face and brought out her blue eyes nicely, although her normal woebegone fashion sense had taken a complete turnaround. She was wearing a low-necked powder blue dress and, from what Harry could see, ankle boots of the same color.
Ms. Lovegood, Harry wanted to say, you're not yourself. You're a shell, of a butterfly that wanted to dance for a little boy on a summer night. But then he shook himself for being melodramatic and walked over to Luna, taking a seat in the chair next to her.
"Luna?"
"Hello, Harry," she said, and then smiled. It wasn't her smile, though, because if this were really Luna she would have always been smiling. "How are you? Have they treated you nicely?"
What, Harry wondered, did they do to her? Already he could tell it would be hopeless to ask, hopeless to shake her until she toppled and gave him an answer while staring up at him from the cold floor.
"Yes," he said, just as stiffly. "Erm, do you know if I could leave, Luna?"
"No one leaves."
Harry blinked. "Okay…is there anyone else here I could talk to?" Maybe he could convince someone to take him someplace safe, or at least send a letter for him. He wondered idly where Hedwig was, and then had to blink back tears. They were furious ones, though.
"No one but the maid." Luna hesitated. She had been told not to say anything of Tynan, Bellatrix, or any of the other Death Eaters who visited often. She also couldn't say anything about Hogwarts or about Nestea. But there was one person exempt from all this… "There is Genevieve."
"Genevieve?"
Luna nodded. "She's really—odd. But if you like, I could have you meet her. Oh, and ignore the fangs."
"Fangs?" A sudden image of Draco smiling in his direction shook Harry a little. He shrugged it off and smiled back, disarmingly. "Wait, forget it. I don't think I want to know. Could I really—meet her?" Maybe she would be sane.
"I'm already here."
Harry turned, surprised. The door hadn't opened, he knew, and yet there she was; Genevieve. Her lithe body was shown off by the rather tight camisole she was wearing, over the long black skirt that widened out at the end, and her long brown hair was let loose, flowing. Tucked into the strands were black roses. She was also barefoot. Understandably, Harry was a little in shock.
"Hello," Genevieve said. She took a good look at him and was a little scattered. There was something about him that told her she'd better step carefully, so she dropped the flaming temptress act and skipped happily over to them, dropping herself into the seat with an audible thump.
Luna gave her a look of dislike, and Genevieve thumbed her nose at the other girl. "She doesn't like me," she said to Harry, although she needn't.
"Harry Potter," he said apologetically.
"Genevieve. I don't care to tell my last name."
"If you have one," Luna muttered.
Harry cast her a curious glance, but wisely remained silent. Maybe for too long, because now there was an awkward air around the three of them. "Er…is there anything to do around here?"
"Well, of course!" Genevieve smiled widely and grabbed his hand, then Luna's. "Come on, let's go, let's go!"
As she dragged them out of the door, a figure melted out from the shadows. Tynan blinked in the sudden light, and grinned widely. "She is an excellent actress."
Nestea appeared beside her, only the maid had used a hidden door. "I would expect her to be. Poor child…actually, poor children. All three of them."
"You're daft," Tynan said, almost accusingly. "She's a succubus. Of course she's not going to feel anything. She was born that way, a deal for a deal. She owes me several debts, for every time I've covered for her when the deaths got a little too frequent and sloppy."
"Why are you saving the girls?" Nestea asked worriedly.
Tynan turned to her, blue eyes cold. "Why do you think? Every king needs a queen, don't they? The one that pleases me most will get their chance, and the other—Harry will learn to keep two women happy."
Nestea shivered. "That's disgusting."
"No," Tynan answered, retreating into the shadows. "It's life."
Theodore Nott passed away in his sleep, peacefully.
Madame Pomfrey told the shell-shocked students that he had never truly recovered, probably, from whatever spell it was Tynan had thrown at him. She was surprised when he had even woken up, but that should have been the end of it anyway.
"She must have used a huge amount of magic or something, and sapped energy from him for it," Pomfrey told them. Mediwitches had already been there and gone, carting away Theo's dead body as though it were nothing.
"How is that possible?" Blaise asked quietly. He was unusually serious, but as Draco was now tight-lipped and ashen and Pansy seemed to have collapsed in serious grief, he was the only one who could speak for them. "She's nowhere near here."
"I have a theory," Pomfrey told him. "Dumbledore is already looking into it for me, but I think that she's got some sort of binding spell injected into her blood."
"Blood magic and Dark magic don't mix. Anyone who tries dies," Blaise recited, from memory. Madame Pomfrey nodded gravely.
"That's the way it should be, but she's got it. If her magic touches you, you're bound to her whether you like it or not. It depends on your will, I think, to see how strongly you'll be bound to her. That's probably why Theodore survived for so long. And Pansy, probably."
It sounded plausible. Pansy had always been remarkably strong-willed, never caring much about what others thought so long as she held herself in the highest regard. She, at least, would not be in much trouble.
"Wait." Draco said, surprising Blaise. "So that's why she doesn't get so tired easily? Every single time she uses magic, she draws it from every person who's so much as been exposed to her magic?"
"But that's—that's all of us," Blaise said. "I mean, just being exposed?"
"We're not sure," Madame Pomfrey said gently. "But yes, that is probably what's happening. And judging by her past conquests, she's got a quite a lot of power to draw on. I think she may have been storing the powers from her victims years ago, and molding them to fit her desires."
"She's unstoppable, with all that power then," Blaise said desolately. "And she's going to kill us from hundreds of miles away. Perfect. I am going to die young and unknown."
"Blaise, shut up," Draco told him, and then turned to Madame Pomfrey. "And suppose she did something like that, only worse, to Harry? Why didn't anyone check up on that?"
"Because we weren't sure, Master Malfoy," Pomfrey told him. "We have no idea what could have happened, or else we would have investigated it even more. Trust me on that."
"I," Draco said, shaking, "cannot trust anyone on anything. Not anymore. It's too late for that." He spun on his heel, grabbing Blaise's hand and dragging the boy with him as he stalked out of the room.
"I hate this place," he hissed, once they were in the hallway, but Blaise was looking at him with keen eyes.
"You're going after them."
"Of course I am."
"You're taking us with you."
"Of course I'm not."
"Draco," Blaise said, "you know that I could list a billion and three reasons as to why you should take us along anyway, but I won't. Go on by yourself, you know what'll happen. We'll follow and without your awesome leadership skills, be killed probably in the courtyard."
Draco regarded him silently, and then shoved the Italian wizard away. "I hate you so much, and yet it pains me to have to leave you."
Blaise smirked at the dramatic line. Draco was taking them, no doubt.
There was a blood-red hue to the sunset that night, and Draco almost watched it alone. Fortunately (or not so much) for him, he was joined by Hermione on top of a lonely tower on the east side.
"What?" he said irritably.
"I'm sorry," she said, evenly. "We didn't mean to blame you but we were having a sort of argument and—"
"I know."
Hermione looked surprised, and Draco cracked a smile at her. "I have my sources, Granger. I suggest that you keep that in mind."
"You're going to look for him."
This time it was Draco's turn to look shocked, and she smiled just as brightly back at him. "I have my sources as well, Malfoy. My sight and my smarts. It's not that hard to tell. I have one request."
"I won't sing anything by Erin Troll," Draco joked.
"No," Hermione said, "and I won't force you. But take us along. Just—Ron, me, and Ginny. I know already that you're planning to take along your friends. Can't you take along Harry's?"
Draco sighed. "All of you are so persistent."
"But we're going?"
He nodded.
Yeah, sure, his brain said. Bring along the cavalry. You know, the one with trainers instead of combat boots and pullovers instead of uniforms and bubblegum instead of tobacco. Oh, yeah. Those troops.
So I've had this sitting in my computer for a while now but then stupid FF. netshizzert wouldn't let me open it and send it off.
I didn't type before because Solizlet is distressed and I was on Chocolate and Movies and Hugs Duty, because now that Pete Wentz (who is her idol!) has been so shamefully provocative she is all alone.
And I had testing, but that was about it.
So, mein liebchens, how art thou? nods Good, good, that's nice to hear. I had a dream the other night, where I was tackled from behind from what I knew were angry fans of Harry Potter and I didn't get why, but then I realized I looked like JK Rowling and that I had written the last book with a Harry/Hagrid pairing. This, of course, woke me up quickly and sent me typing. :)
Ah, well, that's it. Review and make me less sleepy...I need to take a nap. Which I think I shall do now, hoorah for free time. Have fun reading, luvvies.
