A/N: Chapter warnings for; language, blood, mild implied/referenced torture.
*You guys might have noticed that this story is now part of a series. More on that at the end!
Next update Saturday, August the 2nd
Chapter Twelve: Loss Of Power
…
"Power does not corrupt. Fear corrupts... perhaps the fear of a loss of power."
― John Steinbeck
...
Potter is late.
Or perhaps he isn't even coming. Of course, he isn't, why would he bother? Why does Draco bother? Especially after their earlier conversation. The vials in his robes sit heavily as he ponders about his predicament. Is he really waiting in an abandoned girl's bathroom with stolen potions waiting to heal The-Boy-Who-Lived after blackmailing the boy into helping him?
Something is tragically wrong with Draco.
He's being stood up. It takes a lot to be stood up by someone like Potter, especially after humiliating himself by offering to actually help the daft prat, but here he is, idly glancing around and huffing in irritation.
Draco, despite his simmering rage, is quite content to leave Potter to have his laugh over him, this is entirely his loss, Draco loses nothing by Potter bleeding to death in an abandoned corner, in fact, it might even help his cause by alleviating the pressure of housing the dark lord in his home.
Potter had said that his detention would end after an hour, two at most, Potter had also said that his punishments sometimes went past curfew. Draco frowns, fingers idly running up and down his wand as he twirls it, almost absentmindedly. Maybe Potter had been exaggerating, but this is just Draco giving him the benefit of the doubt, and trying to convince himself of the wavering but continued survival of his wounded pride.
It's nine now. Curfew time. Maybe he will wait ten more minutes to see if Potter turns up. He hasn't really figured out why is he even doing this in the first place. When discovery means certain torture and probable death. Discovery by certain individuals, at least.
And that thought is enough to make him abruptly stand, vials clinking at the sudden movement. He won't wait around for Potter forever, if he wants to suffer, let him be.
He pulls the door open, a scowl on his face, which falls off as quickly as it had come, jaw slackening at the sight in front of him. Before he can even process what he is seeing, his hands are one Potter full. He stumbles under the sudden weight, but quickly regains composure, taking a second to lock the door behind him as he props Potter up by the wall again.
"Potter?" he murmurs, poking the boy's cheek. "Potter!"
Has he passed out again? Potter looks dangerously pale, and his hand seems almost bloodier than usual. Merlin, how can one lose this much blood and still be alive.
Harry Who Refuses To Die Potter, that is.
Draco quickly rolls up Potter's sleeves, wincing at the sight of blood and how his robe seems to be sticking to the cuts. Taking a damp cloth, which he had had the foresight to prepare, he quickly wipes away the blood. But even as he cleans away the blood, more seeps out of his cuts.
Pursing his lips, Draco pulls out the vial of dittany, taking another cleaner cloth to swiftly dab it over his cuts. The blood seems to be slowing down now, so he quickly swipes it one more time and applies another layer of dittany over it. Potter's hand is cold as he grips it. Cold and clammy. And he still looks too ashen for comfort.
Draco quickly unshrinks a small bowl he had brought with him, and dumps the Murtlap essence in it, before gently lowering Potter's hand into it. He is still disturbingly still, too.
Draco pats his cheek again, "Potter," his pats get slightly rougher as Draco starts panicking a little, "Potter, wake up."
He uncorks one vial of Blood Replenishing potion and tips it into Potter's mouth, urging him to wake up and fucking swallow because if he chokes to death Draco is not taking any responsibility.
Finally, finally, Potter lets out a groan, turning his head away from the vial at his mouth, but Draco firmly plants a hand against his face, holding his head in place as he urges him to drink, more furiously than before.
Potter finally opens his mouth, probably too tired to protest, and Draco has a brief flash of concern. If it weren't Draco with him right now, anyone could have given Potter anything. Most probably poison. And Potter could have done nothing.
The scarier thought is that he, Draco himself could dose Potter with anything at this moment and Potter wouldn't be able to do a thing. He could easily deliver him to the dark lord, be done with it, have his father back, his home, his everything.
To what point? His mind argues. The Dark Lord killed his mother. Draco would rather die than serve that monster.
Scary thoughts. Dangerous thoughts.
Draco shakes his head to dispel the rebelling words as he pulls the now empty bottle away from Potter's face. Who seems slightly more lucid than before.
"Wass'at," he slurs. Draco gives him a half-hearted sneer as he pushes another vial against his lips.
"Drink, Potter."
Potter is frowning now, his eyes half open and glazed over. "It's just a blood replenisher, Potter. Surely, even someone as incompetent in Potions as you should know what it is supposed to do."
Potter looks resigned as he opens his mouth, bringing his left hand up to steady the vial as he drinks it. The colour is finally returning to his face. He still looks too pale, but at least his skin doesn't have that sickly grey pallor anymore.
Then he looks back down at his injured hand, and his mouth opens a little at the sight of his submerged hand. He looks like he wants to snatch his hand away, but is reluctant, or perhaps even too fascinated by it to do so.
"Murtlap essence, Potter. Should be helping with the pain."
Potter looks up at him then, and his eyes are clearer now. He gives a small nod.
"Well," Draco is starting to feel the tiniest bit awkward now, so he pulls out a roll of gauze. "I think we should wrap it up now."
Potter doesn't say anything as Draco takes his hand out of the now murky liquid. At the first touch of the gauze against his cuts, he hisses a little, and Draco makes sure his next movements are slower and gentler. Not much, though. He doesn't care as long as Potter stays alive, after all.
Draco can feel Potter staring at him. It's unnerving. Impossible to ignore. As if he's trying to see right through him and digging out his deepest, darkest secrets. And there are plenty.
"You were leaving," Potter says, and Draco hums, noncommittal.
"Well, you certainly know how to make an entrance,"
There's silence once more. Draco doesn't pause in his careful movements around Potter's hand, holding it steady with a firm grip around the wrist.
"My relatives are dead," Draco pauses.
"What?" He hadn't meant for his voice to come out like that, squeaky and high.
"That's… that's why Dumbledore called me in his office. They died." Draco still hasn't resumed wrapping the gauze. Potter is still staring at him with those eyes.
"They just died?"
"Murdered. I'm an orphan now. Well, I was an orphan before, but I guess now… it's really official." The flat, emotionless way Potter speaks is disturbing. His face is blank too. But his eyes, they keep on staring and staring and staring, an intense unidentifiable emotion behind them.
"You seem awfully composed for someone whose relatives are dead." Draco finally makes his hand move, turning the gauze several times around his hand before cutting off the rest of the roll. He very pointedly refuses to think about how much of a wreck he was, still is over his mother's death. That was for the Draco from 'Before' to deal with.
"I know,"
"You should talk to someone,"
"Right,"
They're quiet for a few moments as Draco quickly applies a small, weak sticking charm to the bandage. Hm. Not as good as he could, but better than his last messy attempt.
"I cannot go back to the common room with this," Harry holds up the bandaged hand. "Ron and Hermione—"
"You won't have to, the salve just has to sit on the cuts for an hour so you won't die of infection." Honestly, does Potter never pay attention in classes?
"Thanks," Potter murmurs, relaxing against the wall.
"Don't do that,"
"What?" Potter asks, brows furrowing.
"Don't thank me, Potter. I don't owe you anything, and you don't owe me anything. I'm blackmailing you. At least try sounding like you're miserable."
"But you're helping me," Potter doesn't even open his eyes.
"You are hopeless. Beyond hopeless at this, Potter." Draco grumbles as he vanishes the sullied liquid and shrinks the bowl down.
"If you say so, Malfoy," he is now cradling his right arm against his chest. Draco peers at him, trying to make out if he is in any pain, but Potter's face is relaxed.
"About your… relatives, Potter. Muggles, right?" Draco ventures.
"You don't have to… you're not entitled… to talk to me. I'm fine. Great." Finally, Potter cracks his eyes open, looking at him with an odd expression.
"You're great," Draco repeats, his voice dry and his eyebrows quirk.
"Not great. My relatives are dead. Fine is more socially acceptable." Well, at least Potter knows what's socially acceptable.
"When is your next detention?" he asks instead. Draco knows how to choose his battles.
"She didn't say. She actually let me leave early because of the Dursleys' death." Draco looks at Potter incredulously, past curfew is early? But then the rest of the sentence registers.
"She knew about it?"
"I guess she heard Dumbledore talking or something." Draco's sure she didn't. Dumbledore is a great wizard, even the Dark Lord knows it. He won't be careless about such information.
"Still sounds strange," Draco murmurs, straightening up and dusting off his clothes. He cannot afford to ruin a second set of school robes.
"Strange," Potter gives a small, hollow smile, making Draco frown, "That about sums up my life."
##
He stays for fifteen additional minutes after Potter leaves, it's ridiculously late, especially since Potter showed up so late, but Draco is too cautious to be seen with the other boy in any shape or form. So he generously offers Potter the leaving slip and settles back on the ground, watching Potter disappear from view.
His mind has a lot to catch up on. Draco is painfully aware of how Potter seems to be surprising him on every turn, he'd expect him to do something and Potter completely disheveled every possible expectation by doing the opposite, or offering something entirely new to the table. Potter is supposed to be predictable. It is disorienting. Off-putting. And Draco doesn't like it.
It's derailing his tactics, not that he'd show them, of course, but Draco knows that in order to have the upper hand on Potter in this strange dance that they're doing now he needed to get his act together. Potter's relatives were dead, he was still being tortured by a maniac and he was just… Not Potter.
Draco mulls over this as he gathers his empty vials into his school bag, and vanishes the bloodied rags, he thinks about how Potter is nothing like he had thought he'd be in the last few years.
He heaves his bag over his shoulder and walks out of the bathroom, and then almost groans, only smothering it by the thinnest thread of will. He doesn't let his steps falter as he walks, keeping one eye discreetly at the shadow tailing him not so discreetly.
He walks, feigning ignorance for about two floors down, and turns a corner and waits instead of going forward, and when she turns too, he speaks, grabbing her forearm to keep her from bolting, delighting in the small spark of satisfaction when Pansy jumps. This conversation has been long overdue.
"Haven't your mothers taught you not to spy on people, Parkinson?"
To her credit, and Draco is not above giving credit where it's due, just not aloud, she regains composure remarkably well, although she still looks slightly disgruntled, "Hasn't yours taught you not to sneak around late at night?"
"Sorry to inconvenience," Draco isn't sorry in the least.
"You're not forgiven." she huffs at him, firmly trying to pull her forearm out of his grasp.
"Why are you spying on me?"
"I'm not." Well, there goes her composure.
She was easy, Draco had known her weak spot twenty minutes after first meeting her when they were seven. He knows exactly where to push, really push. Strike for the kill. "This is ungraceful," he drawls. "I thought you should know." he shrugs with a crafted nonchalance shrug. "Pathetic even, for any daughter that was raised by Valentina and Selene Parkinson. I suppose you would know all about that,"
"Stop talking," her jaw is clenched so tight she can almost hear her teeth grinding.
"Then stop stalking me,"
"I have my duty," she says, looking like she opened her mouth with some difficulty, "and you have yours." she looks strikingly like Valentina whenever her face hardens, the harsh cheekbones and the slightly pruned nose, and narrowed black eyes, but as far as Draco is aware, that's where the resemblance ends.
'She's been brought up too softly,' his father had said once, to his mother when he thought Draco was asleep. It was long after the party was over, and Draco had dosed in the library, in front of the flickering fireplace as his parents conversed about the guests.
'She is only eight, Lucius,' Draco could practically hear his mother rolling her eyes. 'I think Valentina would wait a few years before handing her a dagger and letting her into the wild,'
Lucius hummed. 'It's not her, It's the other one. Selene is too gentle with the child. Valentina seemed barely involved. The knight is laying low,'
'We all have our own demons, my love. You for instance, gossip too much,' she clicks her tongue, a smile evident in her voice and Draco had slumbered for the rest of the night. Undisturbed.
"Why won't you be honest with yourself?" Draco sneers now. "Do you really think that you could ever in any capacity, live up to your mother's reputation in the dark lord's eyes? Either of them? He doesn't, and I bet this is fun for him."
"As if you're doing any better yourself, Malfoy."
It has taken spending so long in the 'After' not to stiffen. He makes himself give her a nasty smile, and lets her arm go, taking a step back and straightening up.
"You pretend to know things about me that you don't. Sloppy work, Pansy."
"I know someone must have screwed up in that fucked up family of yours, or else our lord wouldn't have granted me with this mission,"
She says 'mission' as if it's a good thing, something to be proud of, and perhaps, once, Draco would have thought that too, would have probably taken that as an honour. Not anymore, not really. Somewhere, in the corner of his mind that's not too numb, he pities her a little. He is waiting, almost. For her reckoning.
Draco chortles. "Trust me, Pans, he didn't entrust you with anything, he tossed it at you for his own carnal amusement and your mother's embarrassment."
"You're going to regret saying those words one day."
"And you will never get to call yourself 'Valentina Parkinson'. The Dark Lord's feared knight… isn't that the most tragic accomplishment of your life?"
"I'm of the same blood," she mutters, almost as if she wants to convince herself in addition to Draco.
"But you couldn't be worth more than a mudblood living in muck," he hisses, leaning closer to her than he ever wishes to be. "At least your mother knows exactly what role she serves. The Dark Lord's Knight in his elaborate game of chess." her breath hitches, and Draco carries on. "We're all just pawns to him. Me. You. Cedric Diggory. My mother." He purses his lips, his jaw clenching to stop himself from giving anything away. Pansy doesn't know. Nobody knows. Draco should be more careful.
"Do you see?" he mutters, but she doesn't reply.
He doesn't wait for her response, turns around and strides away instead, his stomach churning a little unpleasantly at the thought of the words that rang too close to home, even for him.
##
"That would be enough, Minister," says a man in his thirties, with honey-colored hair and dark red robes, almost the shade of blood. Both men look rather small in the imposing office, Fudge looks comically tiny behind his desk, pretending to arrange papers as cameras flash for the interview.
John Wallwind twirls his wand and the charmed camera stops. Even magic cannot cure some images. Minister Fudge smiles at him with a force that prunes his eyes and gestures at John to take a seat.
"Please, Mr. Wallwind," he waves a hand and John settles in the gigantic armchair, feeling as if he's sitting in a dollhouse, playing pretend with Fudge.
"Do help yourself to some scones," The man says, his plump face testimony of how tasty said scones are supposed to be. John politely shakes his head and takes out his parchment from his dragon-leather messenger bag. It was a gift from Anna for their tenth year anniversary and John hadn't stopped using it since.
"I'd rather not, Minister. Though they look very tantalizing indeed."
"I should hope so," Fudge says with a pointless chuckle as he twirls his own quill in one hand, his small beady eyes size John as if he's a dress robe, put behind a glass for sale. John Wallwind steadily holds Fudge's gaze, for nearly half a minute before he starts.
"Shall we get to it then?" John keeps his face carefully blank, pasted with an afterthought of pleasantness, he has chosen every word with care as to not aid the man in any way.
"Yes, we shall... John? May I call you John?"
John inclines his head and Fudge nods.
The Minister swipes a scone off the platter for himself and carefully starts unwrapping the white powdered treat with devoting care. "Then please," he says, the tips of his fingers powdered white already. "Feel free to start any time now, John."
John tries to keep his expression the same as it was before. "Vague reports thus far indicate a Death Eater attack in the muggle community occurring yesterday afternoon, taking the lives of ten muggles, three of which were relatives of the Boy-who-Lived, or they are claimed to be as such, do you confirm this statement?"
Fudge's mouth is full, and he cannot answer for a beat, his chin is dusted with white, and the man hastily reaches for a napkin as he washes down the rest of his scone with a long swig of his teacup. John patiently waits, the perfect image of professional journalism.
"Well, John," Fudge says, wiping his mouth with the napkin. "I wouldn't quite call it a Death Eater attack. A bit too strong-worded, isn't it?"
"Then what would you call this incident? It seems that the targets were ambushed in a muggle mall, there are claims of a dark mark hovering over the bodies for hours, and Obliviators were sent to the scene."
Fudge opens his mouth for a beat and then occupies it with another nervous sip of his tea. The cup clatters against the china saucer with a loud 'clink'.
"Foolishness," Fudge says and stares at John, who has carefully not instructed his quill to write down a single word.
"Pardon me?"
"I would call it a careless bout of foolishness, John. This is clearly the work of a sole fanatic." Fudge discreetly reaches for another scone, and John watches, only watches for a moment before he can trust himself to speak.
"Of course this is the work of a fanatic. They're called Death Eaters," the clock on Fudge's wall provides a rhythmic click as the silence between them turns from interrogative to awkward, dwindling as Fudge swallows down his scone and taps his desk with chubby, nervous fingers.
He waves his hand at John as if he had just told him a funny joke, "Of course this is the work of a Death Eater, sir," the tone is ridiculously condescending. "I have had reports of the mark myself. But there's no reason to chalk this up as an organized attack."
"So you do not believe that Harry Potter's relatives were specifically targeted to send out a clear message?"
Fudge's smile fades into a stressed frown. "Here's the thing, John. I do not believe in stringing theories and causing unnecessary panic. You know how Muggles are yourself, always running around, doing their thing, living their lives… I honestly think the chances of this being an accident is much more probable than that of an organized ambush."
John finally wills his Quill to move, frantically scratching against the parchment roll hovering near the desk and carefully nitpicking Fudge's every word. The minister looks highly uncomfortable in his seat, under the man's gaze. John finally brings his head to nod.
"Of course," he says. "Accidents happen."
"Exactly. And speaking further on the attack itself, I can assure every wizard reading this article, that this was an unplanned, one-time occurrence, it will not happen again, and our top Aurors are leading an investigation at this very second to arrest the culprit."
"So this statement further confirms your last, regarding Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore's claims… claims that indicated You-Know-Who has returned and was responsible for the death of a seventeen-year-old student, namely one Cedric Diggory?"
Fudge hooks a finger in the side of his collar and slightly pulls before leaning onto the desk, interlocking his fingers as he regards John with a worried frown and a quirk of his mouth. He seems awfully uncomfortable.
He clears his throat. "I met young Potter after the Third task, John. I have expressed my concern regarding the poor boy's health time and time again to Albus to no avail. Diggory's death was a tragic accident indeed, and young Harry seems to be the most affected by what transpired last year during the tournament."
John lets the words float over him in the tensed air of the office before inclining his head. "Are you indicating that these claims are untrue?" He makes each word count, he has to, in his line of work.
"I'm saying that Albus Dumbledore, while having the best intentions at heart, is using a child's severe traumatic experience in order to further his cause in the Ministry, John. I'm not sure you've met the boy yourself… a very fine lad. Too impressionable. As is the habit of children."
And corrupt politicians.
John only nods and lets his Quill scribble away at the parchment, blackening one line after the other.
"Are there any further comments you wish to make regarding this accident, Minister Fudge?"
"Yes, my sincere condolences to Mr. Potter for his loss, and also the nine families of the muggles that perished, alas they will never know the truth. We will bring justice to those responsible, and make a fine example of them, let it be known that our Ministry is as strong as ever. Thriving on Justice, and the truth."
John never breaks eye contact with the man as he's speaking, and Fudge does the same, carefully uttering each word as if it's a carefully rehearsed speech he has been preparing for in front of a mirror all day.
Wallwind nods, slowly, letting his curly hair subtly shift around his head. "Strong words with meaningful intent, Minister Fudge. This interview was a pleasure," he stands to shake the man's sugar powdered hands.
"Same, John," Fudge vigorously returns the handshake. "The sentiment is fully returned."
Except that, of course, it's not. It never is in politics.
##
"This is outrageous!" a clenched fist comes down upon the staff table, rattling cups and clinking the silverware. Severus Snape calmly regards the snarling woman, as Albus does the same.
The staff room's other occupants are shocked into a bizarre silence, Pomona and Flitwick exchange an uneasy glance and Sinistra has paused her teacup midair, watching Minerva with a perplexed frown.
"Outrageous, Albus! Have you read this… this piece of garbage?!"
"Of course I have, my dear Minerva." The man sips on his tea and smiles at her softly, he gestures at the Professor to sit back down but Minerva just shakes her head at him.
"They're accusing you of interfering in the Ministry while his own crony is in her office drinking tea! And calling one of my students… delusional? How dare they?"
Poppy nervously frowns. "Minerva, shouting isn't good for your heart,"
Severus is more than sure that calling Minerva's outburst simple 'shouting' is a grievous understatement. Both regarding her heart, and Severus's now spilled tea.
"Oh Poppy, I could care less about that blasted thing." She whips her head to face Albus, her bun the image of a mangled mane around her face. "Fudge is discrediting you. And people are listening to him… can't you see what he's doing?"
Albus calmly blinks. "I happen to agree with Poppy on this matter, Minerva. I've rarely seen you this peeved after reading the Daily Prophet."
Minerva glares at him in a way that would have made a student cry, and then turns away. Tensed. Enraged. Severus has seen that look on her only a few times before. "They're slandering my student and the Headmaster of the most prestigious school in the entirety of the Scottish Isles. I don't see how you could be calm. You have to refute this, of course…"
"I see no need," Albus says, gesturing for Minerva to take her seat. Her mug of tea is already ready and kept on the table.
Minerva scoffs in disbelief. "No need? People need to know the truth, Albus. We are in a war situation. We barely need people believing whatever that is. If we wait on it, if we hesitate for a single moment, then we might as well not fight at all."
In the middle of that quarrel, Pomona makes a sympathetic noise in her throat. "I feel bad for Potter," she says with a shake of her head. "His name is getting dragged in the mud left and right… and with his relatives' deaths? Poor lad."
"He's Fudge's main target, much like Albus. I'm not surprised." Charity inputs.
"Still, such nasty claims." They look at the cursed article lying in the middle of their essays. Harry's face is plastered under the headlines. "I've known the boy since he was eleven,"
"He's a blind fool," Minerva growls, referring to Fudge. "He's disregarding the signs. Of course, this attack was planned, and of course, it was meant as a warning. It couldn't have been clearer if they were dancing right in front of him in death eater robes,"
"People aren't that blind, surely they'd know this is an overwhelming understatement? Some of them are old enough to remember the first war."
"This isn't blindness, Minerva," Albus says, the gleam in his eyes absent for the first time since the staff meeting. "It's fear. Quite simply, people believe that this cannot evolve into more of a threat if it is ignored."
"That's ridiculous,"
"And people do the most ridiculous things when they're afraid." Albus sets his cup down heavily, "Public denial is what's fanning Cornelius's flames. He would say anything to gain public approval. Not to mention, the Ministry is in no place to take part in a war. Not financially nor magically abled. Fudge is aware of that."
"And instead of answering—"
"He's skirting around the issue," Sinistra interjects, looking up from her mug.
"Slandering your name, and Potter's." Minerva sighs with a set jaw. "Oh for Merlin's sake! That boy's relatives just died!"
"Speaking of Potter, shouldn't he be getting ready for the funeral?" Pomona asks, frowning.
"He refused to go," Albus says, his voice soft. Refused to go? Severus derives that bit of information from the subject and saves it into his vault. Something to mull over later.
"That's odd." Filius voices everyone's thoughts.
"Not his most outlandish decision this year, have you seen how many detentions he has had with Dolores in the past month?" Minerva huffs, apparently on a roll.
Pomona scowls, the expression out of place on the usually gentle-mannered woman, "I don't think he can be blamed for that. That woman is intolerable!"
Severus puts his mug down in place, passively scanning the room to catch several heads bobbing in agreement. Minerva still seethes in her seat as the others settle into trial activities such as mass grading their papers, and quipping between themselves.
Severus nods at Albus and then stands to leave. He cannot tolerate socializing.
##
There's a certain skip in Rosier's step, not easily noticeable but there nonetheless. He feels content, on a high. The rush of blood and the ear-blasting sound of the explosion is still ringing in his ears, the sheer mirth and the sense of delight he had felt as he saw the muggles torn apart was almost immeasurable.
They had it coming, in all fairness. If anything, Evan personally thinks that an explosion was too much of a mercy. Too impersonal almost. But that was the way his Lord desired it to be done and Evan was in no place to argue.
What did it matter? He asks himself as he rounds the narrow corridor, his eyes idly running along the dark marble floor. Quite an exquisite taste, Evan has to admit.
One less muggle was one more victory in Evan's book, Potter's relatives were the perfect victims really, and the rest? They have been pardoned in a way. They died too quickly.
His jovial steps come to an abrupt stop before the double doors and Evan rights himself, slipping his silver mask in place with a smirk as he gently taps the wood with his knuckles.
"You may enter," The Dark Lord calls out and Evan does not hesitate. He's exuberant, in a way. In the way, a child is proud of a meager accomplishment. Killing those muggles were in no way meager but in comparison to his Lord? Mentioning it was a crime.
Evan walks in and immediately bows, sinking to one knee gracefully.
"My lord,"
The Dark Lord is sat on his throne, set in the middle of the Hall, the one that Malfoys previously used for gatherings, grand and decorated to hold feasts and the best of balls. Evan remembers attending Malfoy's bitch's pregnancy feast only fifteen years ago, as a teenaged boy. It was the talk of family circles for quite a while before the Malfoy brat was born. Now the Hall served a greater cause.
"Come closer, Evan," his Lord commands, and Evan does, ignoring the way Nagini is coiled around the marble throne, lethargically hissing at Evan as he strides to kneel before his Lord's feet. The snake's face is close enough for him to sense the rotting odor of death clinging to her like a cloak.
"They're gone. Your mission was beautifully executed," Evan bows his head.
"I'm beyond honored that you think so, My lord. I only live to serve you,"
"Yes, you do."
Rosier can hear the smirk in the man's voice. Playful.
"I might even forgive you for your shortcomings," Voldemort continues, caressing the end of Nagini's tail.
Evan's face stretches to a smirk once more, directed at the floor. "Your mercy is the reason I live,"
"Enough flattery, Rosier. Rise."
Evan is secretly relieved. He hates that blasted snake.
Voldemort regards him for a moment. "I'm pleased with you, enough to entrust something of utmost importance upon you."
Evan bows his head once more. He loves the thrill of a juicy challenge.
A/N; My Safest Sound is a very vast and multilayered story. Tara and I have put in a lot of time and effort into it, and sometimes not all of the things make it to the main storyline, but we still want to share them with you. For that, we have decided to add another story to the series called 'i'll trade you a memory'.
It'll contain snippets that didn't make it to the main story, deleted scenes, and other things that we couldn't fit in. We hope you enjoy!