This Chapter is huge and it's also probably some of my best work behind the "The Right Hand", which will be posted sometime next week.
Chapter Sixteen: Ripples
"You need to trust me, and you need to drink this." I thrust the Draught of Living Death into Dumbledore's hand, uncorking it when he makes no move to do so himself. The man seems oddly weak and even unstable.
"Blaise . . ." he mutters so low that I have to lean towards him to hear, "Don't surround yourself with darkness—"
"—Don't get me started," I cut him off, "Trust me, I'm here to save you."
"Blaise . . . it's my time, son. You need to let me go." Dumbledore sighs and smiles halfheartedly as though he decided this months ago.
"No, it's not you stupid old bat!" Dumbledore jumps at such names, but I'm not in the mood to care. Of the many things I am, patient isn't one of them.
"You think you can boss everyone around and use them like pawns on your giant game of chess, but you can't. This war will be lost if you keep everyone in the dark. Hell, Harry doesn't even know about the Horcruxes; or if he does, it's not nearly enough to end this war quickly. The war must end quickly, otherwise you waste lives. And you know all about wasted lives, Professor.
"You think that you can somehow redeem yourself from the death of Ariana, but you can't: not like this! This will only lead to a thousand more deaths: a thousand more Arianas. This scheme of yours is ridiculous and shows you for what you must truly be if you think that this is the best way to save the world: praise-hungry. But you know what, it's not time for people to start writing biographies now! You have to live, sir. Living is how you will redeem yourself from Ariana's death, not dying like a martyr and certainly not by making killers of conflicted boys."
Dumbledore's eyes widen, clearly unaware that I knew any of this. He thought that he had tied every loose end, but in truth there's always a loose end somewhere.
"How . . ." he gets out before I cut him off again.
"You didn't think I knew about any of that, did you?" I demand with an irritable sneer. "Well, there's actually a lot that you don't know about me, but we don't have time for that now. For once in your life I need you to stop playing chess and DRINK THE BLOODY POTION!"
Dumbledore falters, but he doesn't open his mouth to retort. It's like he's part of a different world for a moment, and when he rejoins mine everything is different. He nods slowly, seeming to have resolved an issue that's likely haunted him for years. For him playing these games has always been necessary, but I've long suspected that it's also been a cover: a cover to hide everything that he's done and a way to redeem himself.
"What is it?" he suddenly asks, some of his usual Dumbledore demeanor returning: he sounds like he's trying to explain to a first-year that stealing is wrong.
"I'm not a bloody child, Professor, and I very clearly know what I'm doing, so just trust me! I don't have time to explain myself, and I would think that you of all people would understand not telling someone nearly enough information and yet expecting them to blindly follow you. It shouldn't be that surprising, and I would think that since you apply the method so often yourself, you would be willing to give it a try! I will not ask again. Drink. The. Bloody. Potion."
My final words are unnecessary, however, because I can see in his eyes that he's already decided to do this. He gulps down vial, and just in the nick of time. I can hear pounding on the stone steps, the sound of several Death Eaters coming all at once. I nod to Dumbledore and then swiftly hide myself in the shadows beside the door and behind a rather random tapestry that I placed here earlier in the year for this expressed purpose. I'm not leaving anything to chance if I can help it.
The door explodes open, and in march the Death Eaters. They always have had a flare for the theatric. Perhaps that's why I've always had a knack at blending in with them. They cackle threateningly as the entire group floods the area, wands swiftly pointed on Dumbledore.
At the front of the pack walks none other than Draco Malfoy. He looks so broken that my heart goes out to him. His always-rigid mask seems to have slipped, and I can see a look of sorrow, regret, and confusion deep in his eyes. I almost want to kill him right now, because I know that would be easier than all that he's about to be put through.
I know that he'll be tortured for failing to complete this task and that he'll be holed up at Malfoy Manor for probably the rest of the war, constantly forced to watch the murder and torture of countless Muggles, Muggleborns, and Blood Traitors. I know that it will break him inside, and I don't know if anything will be able to save him from that or if he'll ever be the same again. But I guess I don't know that I'll ever be the same after this either.
Draco is followed by the Carrow siblings and Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf that I put under the Cruciatus when I first became a Death Eater. I'm going to need that same kind of hatred that I used then today, the kind that makes everyone know that you mean it, that you want them dead.
"It's okay Draco," Dumbledore says, his words slurring only slightly as the potion begins to take effect. Draco holds out his wand, his hand shaking and his eyes filling with tears.
It's okay Draco, I think, I'm going to take care of this for you.
"No!" Draco shouts out. "I have to do this; you need to die." His voice sounds venomous, but it's the usual tone that he adopts when someone sees him crying, the same tone he used with Harry the last time I saw him. I've been avoiding him partially to avoid seeing that pain.
"You're not . . . you're not one of them." Dumbledore begins to tip dangerously to one side. It's almost time.
"I am!" Draco shouts, gruffly pulling his left sleeve up before pointing his wand at the Headmaster again.
And now is my cue. I slip from my hiding spot and pretend to enter through the door. I stalk confidently past everyone, halting only when I reach Draco and his shaking arm.
"Am I too late?" I ask, turning my head to sweep the room a bit more dramatically than necessary, but Draco's too busy to notice. "I'm sorry, my invitation must have been lost in the mail. That stupid owl of yours always was terrible, Malfoy." I sneer pointedly at him. As a Death Eater, I have to pretend to hate all the other Death Eaters, because in this game, everyone is at odds and all that any of the Death Eaters want is to be at the right hand of the Dark Lord.
"Zabini!" Draco breathes sharply, about to unleash a year's worth of irritation and bottled up hurt.
I cut him off first. "One moment, please." I look over at Dumbledore, a few seconds I'd guess from collapsing. "AVADA KEDAVRA!" I shout, the anger resonating in my voice as I hit directly behind the Professor, the portrait that I actually hit falling and knocking into his head, hopefully unviewable in the blinding green flash. The Draught of Living Death will do the rest. The rush from the curse is tremendous, and it's all I can do not to fall over. I must be strong now, strong and nearly euphoric for the "death" of the Dark Lord's biggest obstacle.
Draco gapes at me, all the fear in his eyes suddenly pointing at me, the person who claimed to be his best friend: a murderer. I know I'm not really a murderer, but I rather feel like one under his terrified gaze. He's looking at me like I'm something other, some great evil—like I'm inhuman. He shakes his head in a few jerks and as the mask is repositioned, a triumphant smirk pulls at all his features. Draco Malfoy never ceases to amaze. Still, that real look, the look that told me what he's feeling: I can feel it burning a hole through me, a hole that will never shrink unless we both survive this blasted war and I somehow manage to get him to listen to me.
Around me the other Death Eaters cheer, but I pay them no mind. I can barely hear them through the rush of my heartbeat and I follow blindly to wherever we're headed next. I notice that Severus Snape is with us, and for a brief moment I wonder why, but I shove that thought away. I have much greater weights to carry. The whole pack leaves the Astronomy tower and begins to cast curses left and right, laughing as though they are children who have just received a coveted present that mum has sworn they can't afford this year. I need to keep my cover, so I join them, though this laughter doesn't make me cheerful. It's simply a slight resonating feeling in my chest, leaving me rather empty inside. All I have now is the rest of my mission and then I'll be like a wilted flower or an empty box.
Eventually we make it to the Great Hall and I'm vaguely aware of the doors as they swing open to reveal the night sky. About half of the Death Eaters around me begin to skip like they've never been outside before, the other half still shrieking with delight. Bellatrix Lestrange even begins an eerie song, though I'm not entirely sure when it was that she joined us.
Snap out of it! I yell at myself. You are overjoyed. OVERJOYED! Dumbledore is dead and that is supposed to make you happy so snap the hell out of it and act like you're thrilled! I nearly slap my own face but am spared the trouble.
I spit blood out of my mouth onto my hand and glance up directly into the face of none other than Harry Potter, his fist still taut from the blow he just landed.
"YOU KILLED HIM!" he shouts in my face as I shove him to the ground in surprise. A dozen hexes hit him in an instant, a greedy look in half the Death Eater's eyes before Snape shouts at them all and tells them that Potter belongs to the Dark Lord and is his alone to kill. At this they all begin to trot along again, but for some reason I freeze, unable to leave this square of grass.
"YOU WERE A STUDENT OF HIS! HE TAUGHT YOU EVERYTHING, AND YOU KILLED HIM!" Harry doesn't even bother trying to hurt me this time, but I can see the pain written on every centimeter of his face. I always thought that he rather loved Dumbledore, but I'm certain now. Tears stream down his reddened face and in his green eyes ripple with this utter confusion, like a dog whose kind-hearted master struck him. I feel sorry for him, I really do. This war sucks, but most of all for him. Harry Potter has no father figure to look up to, and I noticed already how much he was hurting after the death of Sirius Black, probably the only chance at a happy family that he had even the slightest chance at.
But now, now the great and powerful Dumbledore is dead . . . well, not actually, but for all intents and purposes he is. I almost want to apologize to Harry, to explain the truth, to tell him it's going to be okay, for in his eyes I see my own, the same sorrow and confusion . . . the same look of doubt and wondering if there wasn't anything that he could have done to prevent his father figure from dying, or in my case walking out on my life. But instead of an explanation or expression of understanding, I turn on my heel and follow after the others, cackling as if I can't feel a thing while he sits there, crying his eyes out and probably wondering if anything will ever be okay again.