Disclaimer: I own nothing but the paper this is printed on, and since this is not printed on anything… (Unless you printed it out on your own, then… yeah I don't know. Let's say we would both own it fifty/fifty but I'm letting you have it on an indefinite lease free of charge… yeah… that'll work...) but then that only applies to the paper and J.K. Rowling would still own all of the copy rights… so…. I'm just going to shut up now…
Chapter 4
The Delacour family mansion was located a few miles west of Menton, just off the glittering coast of the Mediterranean. The home in its ideal setting was usually a place of peace and serenity, but any casual observation of the interior could discern that that atmosphere of quiet was obviously lacking today.
Gabriel Delacour gazed at his oldest child from across his desk with a look of incredulity. There was no way that he could allow her to do this! He knew that Fleur was more than capable of handling herself; she had been a Triwizard Champion after all, not to mention she had trained with the French Gendarmeries before she decided she wanted to go into politics. The Minister had worried for his daughter's safety when she decided to join law enforcement and rejoiced when she decided to try cleaning up the political world as opposed to the criminal one, although from his own experience Gabriel knew that all too often the similarities between the two were haunting. Fleur's maternal Grandmother had been more than willing to pull a few strings behind the scenes to allow one of her granddaughters to enter into the political arena and had spoken to some of her other sons-in-law and grandchildren and so had helped secured Fleur a position as a French representative to the ICW.
Although Fleur had been introduced to the committee that appointed the representative at her grandmother's urging, it was her own prodigious talent, natural determination, and uncompromising sense of right and wrong that had won her the position. She had since become one of the strongest advocates of universal wizarding rights in the international forum, and also one of Lord Voldemort's most outspoken critics. That criticism was why her father was convinced that her present course of action would get her killed.
The youngest representative to the International Confederation of Wizards in recent memory wore an immaculate blue sun dress over her perfect body and a look of determination on her beautiful face. "It makes the most sense for me to go and you know it papa! I have all of the qualifications that anyone could possibly need to be the ICW ambassador. I am very popular internationally, my English has greatly improved, and I became friends with many of those that now lead the resistance while I was a Triwizard Champion."
"I always knew that you were stubborn, but to insist on this? Fleur, you want to go to a country controlled by a power-hungry prejudiced madman! You may wish to make a difference for those poor Muggle-born people, but when you arrive, that monster will spout grand words about his wish to cooperating with the international community…." Gabriel Delacour then leaned forward in his chair, planted his hands on the surface of his polished mahogany desk, and spoke his next words very carefully and slowly, emphasizing every word, "Then you will simply disappear and never be seen or heard from again. That man, though I don't think he qualifies to be called a man, has murdered hundred or even thousands of his own people just because they were born from Muggle stock. What do you think he will do to you who have a grandmother that isn't human?"
Fleur leaned forward as well, a glint of fire shining in her eyes as she responded. "That is exactly why it should be me who goes! This Voldemort monster may have taken control of England, but his precious purebloods have paid for it with rivers of their own heart's blood! Over the last two wars that that beast has poured out on that country, well over half of the pureblood families in Briton have been driven to extinction, and many of them he has exterminated by his own hand for not supporting him! He can no longer be as selective about who he calls Pure-bloods and Half-bloods or he would be left with only the persecuted without enough of a base left to continue persecuting them!" Fleur's mouth twisted into a humorless smile as she continued, "According to his Ministry's new definition, a Half-blood is someone who has at least one parent and one grandparent who was a wizard and a Pure-blood is someone with both parents and, at a minimum, three grandparents that were of magical decent. What makes me perfect is that Grandmother mated with a Pure-blood when she had mother, and you are from a long line of Pure-bloods on both sides, so technically I'm a Pure-blood as well by his definition.
Voldemort agreed to have an ICW observer come to England as long as that representative was a Pure-blood. By sending me the international community is technically assenting to his requirements, but at the same time is throwing his ridiculous hypocritical standards back in his face!"
"That only makes it more likely he will simply kill you for the insult of sending you as opposed to a purebred wizard or witch!" Gabriel's tone was becoming more and more desperate as he continued to argue with his beloved eldest daughter, there was no doubt in his mind that if he allowed her to do this he would never see her beautiful shining face or her bright smile again and his mind rebelled from it.
"He wouldn't dare do such a thing father! He knows as well as you or I that his opinions on Blood purity are not shared by the majority of wizards around the world, in fact, the only countries I know of that are prominently Pure-blood are the German empires, well besides some in eastern Europe but they are too busy dealing with their own problems to offer England's Dark Lord any succor."
Fleur leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs daintily as a smile spread across her face. "In fact, the Americans are virtually all descendants of Muggle-borns, Muggle-borns that were driven from their homelands because of their "Blood status." I heard from the American ambassador at the last ICW Defense Council meeting that when their public heard of the treatment those with Muggle heritage receive at Voldemort's hands there were riots in the streets demanding the government take action. The American people and government are primed for war. The only reason that they have not acted already is the threat of German intervention, but all they need is an excuse, just one reason, and they will descend on England in a tide of war. Voldemort won't risk a conflict with them or us by killing the daughter of the French Minister of Magic. After the decimation that Voldemort himself has wreaked on the British wizarding population he can't hope to triumph in a war against the combined might of France AND the most highly populated country in the western wizarding world. While I'm in England I'll be safer than if I was here, Voldemort will be sure of it or he will have hell to pay."
"It is not as simple as you try to make it!" Snarled Gabriel as he slammed his fist into the polished wood of his desk. "Even though the Americans and many others are firmly on our side, that doesn't mean it is as cut and dry as you try to make it seem! The Americans may have more wizards and witches than any other country in the world, but if you combine the German and Austrian populations they almost equal them, and both are fiercely Pure-blood. Even in our country there is a very powerful minority that sympathizes with the Dark Lord's aims. England is a powder keg that could ignite the wizarding world in an explosive conflagration of war, and you could be the spark that starts it all!"
Fleur refused to back down either, a flush came to her cheeks that made her appear even lovelier. "And should we do nothing while witches and wizards are being persecuted just across the channel? Should we ignore their suffering and cries for relief because of a fear for what could happen? These depravities are only happening in England right now, but if a strong stand is not taken immediately then who can tell where it will spread to tomorrow? Will we stay here and play our fiddles, justifying our actions by saying that we do nothing because of the greater good, while the world burns around us? No, we must act, and the ICW agrees with me. I have already been appointed to this position, I simply came for your blessing, but I will still go, with or without it."
The French Minister was desperate, so he pulled out his one last desperate hope. "Your Grandmother cannot approve of this Fleur, what does she have to say?"
"It was her idea in the first place papa."
His last resort exhausted, and with great reluctance and sorrow, he finally nodded his head in agreement. "Very well, I see that there is no dissuading you. When will you be leaving?"
"In two days papa." The young French beauty then tossed her long silver blonde hair over her shoulder and flashed her father a shining smile. "Besides, there is another reason that it should be me. Every time I walk down the street in Paris I receive at least two offers of marriage and another half dozen proposals of a more indecent source. I am sure that with a little flirting I could convince someone in his government that there would be no harm in showing me some of his Dark Lord's secrets. I will be careful, I doubt it will come to what you say papa."
The Minister was less than pleased with the thought of men propositioning his daughter, but decided that now was not the time to bring it up. If Fleur came back from this he would talk to the captain of the Gendarmerie about an escort to discouraging such behavior from men around Fleur in the future. "Very well, please stay for dinner, your mother and sister would love to spend some time with you before we say goodbye."
Perhaps forever, Gabriel mentally added with despair.
~All is Dust~
Hermione was stumped. She had searched through what seemed like the entire twisted contents of that corrupted bloody bibliotheca and had only come up with one lead, and it led in a direction that she wasn't sure she wanted to go.
The Black library was a cesspit of dark spells and disturbing rituals, but unfortunately for Hermione Granger, she had yet to find anything specific on the particular brand of villainy she was searching for. After days of searching, Hermione had unearthed only one scrap of knowledge that might help them. The critical piece of information was contained in a tome about the history of the dark arts. It was written in archaic English, which made it somewhat difficult to understand, but it had basically stated something along the lines of "The Dark Lord Konrad was the first to chain his soul to the purpose of his own immortality." Hermione's senses had immediately been set on high alert. If anything explained what Horcruxes were in layman's terms it was that sentence.
If that paper was right, then this Konrad was the one who invented Horcruxes, and if that was so, then if anyone knew a spell or enchantment that would allow the location of one it would have been him, or the ones that ended his reign of terror. The only problem was that Konrad had lived and died in Austria over four hundred years ago, and there wasn't enough information about him in England to draw any useful conclusions.
Hermione was faced with a choice. Either she would have to abandon this line of inquiry, or she would need to grasp ahold of this thread of data and follow it to its source, wherever it may lead.
She already knew what she needed to do, she needed to go to the source and find the answer. The problem was what would happen to the resistance while she was gone? The only reason that they were still alive was because of Hermione. Voldemort was not stupid by any stretch of the imagination, he had already pulled off half a dozen plots that almost destroyed them, they had been foiled, mostly anyways, because Hermione had figures out the plans before they could come to fruition. If she left, she was honestly terrified that the resistance wouldn't be there when she got back.
She trusted Cedric implicitly and Sirius knew when to play and when to work, well, usually anyway. Ron… well Ron was dedicated to the fight and a good strategist but he had a tendency to lead his cell into places where even angels feared to tread. If there was anyone that she was worried would get themselves killed while she was gone, it was Ron. Hermione know that Cho would be able to handle the network while she was gone, but though she was smart, she was nowhere near Voldemort's level of cunning brilliance.
Hermione rubbed her temples as she contemplated her options. She didn't like the comparison of herself to Sherlock and the Tom Riddle to Moriarty, it was Rodger Davis who had started that running joke, but it was true she ended up matching wits with the Dark Lord often. She was scared of what he would do to her friends without her there to guide them, but if they didn't discover a way to find the other Horcruxes then this war would drag on in an endless cycle of attrition that they couldn't hope to win, no matter how many times she outfoxed Tom. The truth was that each time had been a close thing, and all Tom had to do was slip one plan past her and it was all over. It was only a matter of time.
In the end there really was only one option, go, accomplish her goal as fast as she could, and then get back before Riddle slaughtered all of her friends. No pressure at all.
Hermione sighed, picked up a pen and piece of parchment, and began to write a letter to Victor asking him to meet her in Prague. If she was going to go on this quest which could lead her God knows where, then she might as well take her Bulgarian bonbon along with her for comfort.
~All is Dust~
I look at myself in the full-length mirror in the master bedroom of Malfoy Manor. My reflection displeases me greatly. I'm dressed in long flowing black robes of the highest quality, have a top hat perched atop my head, and a cane clasped in my hand. The top hat makes me feel like a fool, the robes are of such a fine weave compared to what I'm accustomed to they make me feel naked, and the cane makes me feel a cripple. My mother's words about important people having to be seen doing things that important people are supposed to be seen doing, comes back to me. "I feel like a pansy." I grumble to myself.
"Well Draco, if it's any reassurance, you look like a pansy as well."
I idly twirl my cane in my fingers. The cane is, in reality, Katrina in disguise; she had been more than willing to show me how to enchant a scabbard to disguise her, but was less enthusiastic when she saw her new role as a sword cane, pun intended.
"Yeah Katrina, that really helps me feel better about the whole situation."
"The situation isn't about you feeling good Draco; it's about making the right first impression to those you meet. In this case the desired impression would be that of a proper Pure-blood of impeccable breeding and training, or in other words, a pansy.
I snort softly to myself as I leave my room and begin to descend to the living room. "Were you this critical of wizards back in your day? I can't imagine that the men found it very appealing."
"Wizarding culture was different back then, we didn't have the statute of secrecy for one thing. Muggles knew about us and we knew about them, and we slaughtered each other on sight, or at least that was the way of it in Prussia during my youth. Wizards of noble birth would train from birth to be warriors and fully expected to die young and bloody deaths. The only thing they hoped to accomplish was to have children that would remember them, and to prevent the shedding of their loved one's blood by the spilling of their own. Even regular wizards were expected to know how to defend themselves regardless of their profession."
Hu, if that truly was the way of life during her time, maybe there was a deeper reason to why she always calls me a pretty boy, but still, one thing that she said did raise my incredulity. "Muggles, Really? How could they ever be a threat? I mean, what could they possibly do to a wizard?"
"You would be surprised Draco, the things you take for granted today that make it to where you don't even have to deal with Muggles, like repelling wards, the flue system, and the like, my generation developed out of desperation to keep from being destroyed by them. You would be horrified if I told you how many wizards died from gunpowder before the bullet ward was invented, I understand that the runes for it are sown into every piece of clothing that wizards purchase nowadays."
It really is fascinating to hear the stories that Katrina could tell, it's so different from the history that I was told by my father, that of a wizarding society that could raise castles and shatter mountains with flicks of their wands whilst Muggles were still scraping sticks together for a spark.
Finally I make it to the fireplace. I grab a pinch of powder, throw it into the fire and watch as the flames change from a burning red to an emerald hue. I step up to the hearth but hesitate at the edge of the green flames. This would be the first time I have walked on the streets of Diagon Ally since the day I ran away all of those years ago. In fact, this would be the first time I have been in the company of other wizards for over two years, and I had to fool them all.
"Don't worry too much Draco, just pretend that everyone else you see is beneath your notice and that they should be flogged for daring to breath the same air that enters your noble impeccably pure nostrils and you should do fine. Besides, all you are doing is going to Gringotts and claiming your vaults. It's not like you are attending a state ball where the entirety of the Pure-blood upper crust will be present watching your every move just waiting for you to commit some unforgivable social faux pas. That's next week. So suck it up and be a man."
Oddly enough, I actually find that reassuring, although the elation in her voice when she mentions a ball nudges my male fight or flight instinct distinctly into the direction of flight. I can only hope she doesn't plan on making me go shopping, but I have a sneaking suspicion I already know the answer to that.
I call out "Diagon ally" and step through the flames.
I am very abruptly reminded that I haven't traveled by flue since I was twelve. The only thing that keeps me from falling on my face are all of the times that Boruta blindfolded me, spun me around a few thousand times and then threw me into a pit, or at a pack ghouls, or once in the direction of a middling sized basilisk, where he got a bloody king of serpents I will never know. But I manage to get out of the fire place with a modicum of dignity.
Diagon alley, what was once both the beating heat and veins through which the wizarding economy of Briton flowed, is now nothing more than a pale shadow of its former self.
Where once there were hundreds of shops with brightly colored awnings and signs painted in vivid hues proclaiming the merchant's wares, now the shop fronts with boarded over windows and tattered notices of foreclosure nailed to their door outnumbered those that still offered their services.
Once throngs of colorfully dressed laughing people had shone brightly through the streets, now only a faint glint of commerce is evident through the smog and corrosions of poverty and neglect.
"Pick your jaw up off of the floor before someone trips on it. I am as surprised by the conditions here as you are Draco, but now is not the time to stare like a moon eyed fool. The curtain has risen; you must remember your part in this play or you will have far more to fear than the jeering of the audience."
I begin to walk forward. Every step I take is heralded before me by the reverberating sound of my cane striking the cobblestoned streets. As I walk through the streets, dirt covered young children cower before me, like dogs that have been kick by their masters. I've never considered myself particularly empathetic to the plight of my fellow beings, but the sight of those young emaciated children covered in dirt and shying away from me because I was dressed like those that had abused them, stirs even my hardened heart to compassion, even if only little.
I simply keep my gaze fixed forward and continue walking.
On my right I pass the run down remnant of what used to be Flourish and Blots, the last time I was there my parents were purchasing my books for my first year at Hogwarts and had scolded me for wanting the Harry Potter storybooks. I still haven't read those books, though by this point it's more because of a lack of interest than any loyalty to the wishes of the dead.
Further on and to my right I spot the dilapidated ruins of Zonko's joke shop, I had always wanted to go there but my father had refused saying that it wouldn't due for someone of my status to be spotted in such a disreputable and childish establishment. That a joke shop was an anathema for a family of our standing, yet Knockturn ally, one of the most sordid places in the wizarding world, was a favorite destination was lost on me at the time.
Looking back now through the lens of life experience as opposed to the rose colored glasses of indoctrination it was clear exactly what my father was. He was a hypocrite. He may have been a hypocrite, but he was a filthy rich hypocrite; my family had its redeeming qualities besides my mother I suppose.
The last thought goes through my mind as I stride through the glittering solid gold doors of Gringotts.
"Well, Diagon alley may have changed since I was here last, but Gringotts is exactly the same as I remember, from the delightful little ditty over the entrance, to the bright shining smiles of the employees eager to cheat you out of every piece of gold and sliver of brass you own."
I ignore Katrina with the exception of making a mental note to ask about her previous visit to Briton, she had never mentioned that before.
With robes billowing behind me I come to stand before the goblin at the front desk who looks up at me through narrowed eyes. "My name is Draco, of the noble house Malfoy. I have come to claim my family's vault." I declare condescendingly as a look down at the diminutive green banker. It isn't really hard to look down at him, since I'm well over six foot, and he is, well, a goblin and so could stare into Dobby's eyes without either having to elevate their gazes too high.
The goblin simply narrows his eyes even further until they are just red slits, nods, and takes me to his supervisor, who then guides me to his manager, who finally leads me into a back room. That isn't the end unfortunately.
You can give a shark a briefcase and a hat and call him a lawyer all you like, but it's still a shark beneath its outer trappings. In the same way you can put a goblin in a suit and call him a banker, but he is still a vicious, greedy, clever, covetous little scumbag. Luckily for the goblins, and unluckily for their clients, those characteristics allow them to excel at their chosen profession, that of making wizard's lives miserable with fees, paper work, and red tape. I think I go through ten rolls of parchment and used enough of my blood signing them to tide a vampire coven over for a week, but finally the manager looks up from the mountainous pile of documents and nods.
"Everything seems to be in order Mr. Malfoy; here is your key and a statement of your accounts and investments. As you can see your portfolio showed an excellent profit for the first four years or so after your absence, but the returns have slacked off significantly over the last two."
I lean forward in my chair and inquire with all of the arrogance that I can force into my voice, "I noticed that many of the businesses in the alley are no longer in operation. What is the reason for such laziness and lack of production?"
The Manager's face splits open in feral grin. "Unfortunately, due to the…. recent unpleasantness, many of the shop owners were unable to do enough business to pay their mortgage and obligations, and were thus foreclosed upon for lack of payment." As he says the word foreclosure his voice takes on the tone of joy that a human saves for speaking of his firstborn child and his eyes alight with a savage glee.
I merely nod, collect my papers, and leave.
As we exit the opulent lobby and resurface into the squalid surface world I hear Katrina's soft voice resound in my mind.
"Goblins have always delighted in the suffering of mankind. Centuries ago they would steal human children from their beds just to hear the anguished and despair filled cries of their parents. It was purely secondary to them that they could use those children as slaves for years doing backbreaking labor in their nightmarish subterranean caverns. The same thing applies today. The sadistic joy they gain from inflicting pain on a wizard through taking away that which they love and cherish is the true profit in their eyes, not gold.
"Why would wizards entrust their gold to those sadistic buggers anyways?" I murmur back.
"It was a compromise of war. In the few hundred years before the establishment of the international statute of secrecy, something I didn't live to see might I add, we were fighting for our lives against the Muggles. We couldn't afford to wage a two, three, or even four front war. So we did all we could to unite all magical beings behind one banner. Some we made deals with, like allowing the goblins to hold our gold hostage in exchange for their good behavior and forging weapons for us, even though we knew the bargains we struck would come back to haunt future generations. With others more…. extreme measures were taken."
"I'm guessing that it was those extreme measures Boruta was carrying on about when we first met?"
"Right in one Draco, some of the creatures that ravaged the earth in my time were truly terrible, Boruta's race being chief among them. Boruta and I didn't see eye to eye for the first few hundred years, but centuries of loneliness tend to alter one's perceptions somewhat…. But enough of my history! You now are officially the wealthiest bachelor in Europe! Don't you think it's time we celebrate? I have a feeling that you intend to make the festival a two person affair, so I'll show you how to write an invitation that no one can refuse! And you must be dress appropriately for the occasion as well! I think Dobby must be done fetching my brother's armor by now. If he followed my instructions on restoring it you will look quite intimidating, in a dashing sort of way of course."
I watch the sun set behind the horizon, painting the sky a brilliant shade of crimson as I stride back towards the flue point. The work of the day was done, and the night was about to set in.
I smile. Katrina was right; I was now one of the richest, if not the richest wizard in Europe, which certainly called for a celebration. Most wizards my age and in my shoes would raise hell to commemorate their good fortune. Not me. For one thing if my mother was alive she would kill me if I did, and for another I have a better idea. What better way is there to commemorate the return of the house of Malfoy than a little vengeance?
I have a rat to catch.
~All is Dust~
It was good to be Peter Pettigrew. When he had betrayed his best friend to the Dark Lord out of fear for his life he had been promised that he would live the good life, and although he had survived as a rodent with the Weaslys for years after his betrayal, the payoff after he had returned his Lord to life was most rewarding. He had a cushy position at the ministry where he simply sat around and did nothing besides harass his attractive secretary. He had a beautiful house on a country estate that the Dark Lord had gifted him for his loyalty with five Hit Wizards on duty at all times to ensure his safety, and the promise that he would have the youngest Greengrass girl's hand in marriage when she graduated Hogwarts. All of those things were nice, but what made Peter feel true contentment with his lot was that he was finally respected, respected and feared.
Respect was what he had always wanted more than anything else. With James and Sirius he was seldom respected and never feared. They had seen him as a sort of pathetic younger brother who they could take under their wing and protect. He had always been taken along by them when they went on their adventures, but he had never truly been a part of them, he was just along for the ride. Now HE was the one that called the shots.
All of these thoughts ran through Peter's mind as he sat in the overstuffed armchair in his study sipping a lavish wine from an expensive goblet reading an invitation to dinner at the Malfoy estate. That was another thing he loved about his position, it allowed him to rub elbows with the rich and powerful, not as a servant, but as a one of them. Perhaps he would take the young Malfoy boy up on his invitation; it never hurt to have more friends in high places and the boy was the richest man in Briton.
Peter put the beautifully rune covered invitation down on his side table and leaned back in his chair. It would be another year and a half till his wedding to Astoria, but he was counting the days. She was already a beautiful girl, and would hopefully become as stunning as her older sister who was to marry Barty in the fall. Lord Greengrass most likely wouldn't have approved of either union, but seeing as how he had "disappeared" because of his lack of loyalty to the Dark Lord, he couldn't protest if that Dark Lord gave his daughters hands to whom he would. Perhaps he could talk to his Lord and ask if perhaps his marriage could be moved forward? Why would Astoria need to finish her education at Hogwarts anyways? It wasn't like he would ever let her leave the house after they were married. Yes, Peter was sure that the Dark Lord would agree with him there, he was the one that had helped him return to life after all.
Peter smiled. Life was indeed good.
Unbeknownst to Pettigrew, on the shadowy lantern lit cobblestone road that twisted and turned its way to his country manor, frost began to form on the road and one by one the lanterns dimmed, flickered, and went out. He didn't realize that a figure wrapped in darkness like a cloak slipped into the guard house at the entrance of his estate and sliced the Hit Wizards on duty to pieces. The only sign of their demise was the splatter of blood spraying over the windows. He didn't even notice anything amiss as a slow tide of hoarfrost and icy mist rolled across his lawn and enveloped two more of his guards, the thick freezing air stifling the death rattles as their lives abruptly and violently ceased.
Ironically enough, it was all of the years that Peter had lived as a rat which left him intrinsically in tune with the movements of the animal world that he sensed first. It was the sudden deafening silence from all animal life as they fled that alerted him that something was amiss. It was the same sort of silence that came over a forest when a pack of wolves began its hunt, the same stillness that descends on the savanna when a pride of lions stalked the night. It was the quiet of the world when an apex predator was on the prowl, and it caused Peter to instinctively grow uneasy. Pettigrew slowly and cautiously stood from his chair and walked over to his window to gaze out over his front lawn. Ice crystals slowly spread across the glass and his breath misted in the air.
Peter was never in the top of his class in anything, but even he knew that frost wasn't supposed to form in the middle of June, during the day or at night. It wouldn't surprise anyone that Pettigrew stayed true to form and decided that discretion was the better part of valor. He hurried over to his glowing fireplace, grabbed a handful of flue powder, and, while tossing it in yelled, "The Ministry!" What was surprising was that when he threw the powder in, nothing happened except for a few green sparks shooting up the chimney.
Had someone disconnected his flue access? When he returned to the Ministry someone's head would roll for this Pettigrew swore to himself. Well, if the flue wasn't working then he would just have to try apparition, it was his least favorite form of magical travel, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
Peter pulled out his wand, focused on his destination, and turned on the spot. He almost fell on his face when he felt himself begin to travel but become caught in some kind of anti-apparition ward.
"You can try all you like, but you won't be going anywhere Mr. Pettigrew."
The unexpected voice behind him caused Peter to spin around as fast as he could. There, sitting in his armchair, was the most intimidating figure that he had ever seen. The man was dressed head to toe in a pattern of dragon leather armor he had never seen before, over which he wore a tabard of such a dark red color that it almost appeared to be black. Covering his head was a hooded cowl of the same red color that cast his face in shadow. If Peter had gone to a magical school besides Hogwarts, one where the history of magic class didn't consist entirely of a succession of lectures on the goblin rebellions, he would have known that it was the uniform was that of an ancient order of German warrior mages called the Blutritter. Even without any true knowledge of what the man's guise meant, it was clear to Peter he was deadly, from the lazy confident way the man sat in his chair reading the invitation to his dinner with the Malfoy heir, to the hilt of the sword protruding from over his shoulder. Even the way he idly twirled his wand in his free hand gave off an air of deadly confidence in his abilities.
"The reason that you are entangled in your own rat hole my dear little rodent friend is because of this." The figure held up the invitation and rotated it so Peter could see the intricate web of faintly glowing runes on its surface. "This is both the cheese and spring in my little mouse trap, Pettigrew. The best translation for it in English would be simply "a net of lace." Basically think of it like a spider's web inside a paper, that when opened, anchors to, and is powered off of, the wards already in place. It blocks all forms of magical travel, but its range and power are limited and a powerful wizard or witch could simply blow right through it, but we both know that isn't something that we need to worry about from you, is it Pettigrew?"
Peter always hated fighting since it entailed the risk of him becoming injured, when given the option he would always choose flight, but now he could feel in his gut that he either had to fight or die. He decided to try his favorite combo, a bombardment curse followed by a speedy transformation into a rat and a break for the closest sewer.
Pettigrew leapt into action, but even as the spell left his wand the black clad stranger already had his sword out and on an intercept course. Peter watched in incredulity as his spell was batted back over his shoulder. The wave of concussive force sent out by his curse impacting the wall behind him launched Peter through the air and into the far wall. He could hear the ribs on his right side shatter with the impact and feel the arm holding his wand snap like a twig.
"Who are you?" The squeak in his voice when he forces out the words through the terror and pain chocking him is audible as he watched his assailant stalked casually towards him, his every step filled with a deadly grace and purpose.
"That's an understandable question I suppose, but one I won't bother answering. I think it's far more important you understand the "why" instead of the "who." Although it's a little more complicated to explain, I care far more that you know why I'm here than whom I am. But, if you apply yourself, listen carefully, and put two and two together you may figure it out before the end." Finally the stranger reached where Peter was leaning against the wall, squatted down and leaned forward so that Peter could stare into the empty blackness of his hood.
"Right now you are probably trying to figure out who you were responsible for killing that would make someone want to harm you. I'm sure your mind would then lead you to believe I'm here to avenge Harry Potter's death. You are probably thinking I'm from the resistance, here to claim your head because of your role in bringing about the end of Briton's anointed one. All logical conclusions, but the funny thing is, I'm not from the resistance, and I'm not here about anyone you killed.
I'm actually here because of someone you saved, namely Barty Crouch. You rescued Crouch from the prison of his father's home. If Barty Crouch Sr. were still alive he would be counting his remaining days on one hand for freeing his spawn from Azkaban in the first place, but seeing as how you and his son have already paid him back for that sin, I suppose I'll have to settle with punishing you."
Pettigrew was so overcome with fear that the only sound that could escaped through his quivering lips was a strangled whimper of dread as he ducked his head to hide from the terrible empty gaze of the dark armored and cloaked figure.
"Shhhhh… Pettigrew, shhhhh….." Gently, the figure placed a gloved hand under Peter's chin and raised his gaze to meet his own hooded visage. "I'm not here to kill you. A very wise man once told me that the punishment should fit the crime. You should have been rotting in Azkaban for over a decade by now, but justice, though slow, has come for you at last."
Slowly the dark figure leaned forward until the dark mass of shadows that made up his face was mere inches from Peter's. "Look into my eyes Pettigrew, and see your fate."
Suddenly the temperature of the room plummeted. Cold rolled out in a freezing tide from the figure, making Peter's body go numb as the warmth was leeched from his body, but Pettigrew didn't notice, all he could see were two glowing blue eyes that shone out of the darkness with a savage light.
Slowly, a rising tide of nightmarish horror swept over and penetrated his consciousness, bathing his mind in a limitless swell of terror and despair. The wail of shear horror that ripped its way out of his throat shattered the silence of the night.
Peter Pettigrew was still screaming when his assistant at the Ministry came to find him the next morning.
AN: Well there you go! Draco's alter ego's début! The only problem is I have no idea what I should call him… any suggestions? If I like the idea you come up with I'll credit you in the next chapter! Thanks for reading and please review!