Chapter
Seventeen : Chess Strategies
The commanding wizard of the Last Alliance drops the Book of Shadows onto the oak table, and it lands loudly, startling the four wizards who sit with their hands folded neatly over one another. Most remain calm on the outside as well as in; only Fleur forces herself not to fidget. The commanding wizard looks intently at each of his elders. "We have information, new spells of attack and defence, and a new hope. Now, all we need is a plan." His eyes linger on an empty chair; a puzzled look drifts onto his weary facial features. "Where's Sirius? Snape, didn't you inform him of this meeting?"
Severus shrugs carelessly. "I may have."
"May have?" He shakes his head in disapproval, a black fringe falling before his eyes. "Well, we'll just have to start without him, then. Time is never a luxury." He takes a seat at the table, in a tall chair with a crimson velvet cushion, much like the other chairs, only varying in colour. "Snape, you'll take the minutes and fill him in on them."
"I most certainly will not," Severus declares defiantly, leaning back in his black chair with his arms folded rigidly over his chest. "It's not my fault that he thought something else was more important." Beside him, Karkaroff mumbles an agreement.
"Snape, you and Sirius are brothers in arms--"
"That doesn't mean that I have to converse with him. I'll fight by his side, save his life, let him save mine, but I will never talk to him," Snape cuts off, his smooth voice confident in his words. "I don't recall signing up to baby-sit Sirius when we came together."
A frustrated sigh escapes the heir of Merlin's lips, and he rubs the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "We don't have time for immature rivalries, Snape. You and Sirius are going to learn how to get along, even if it kills me. An army divided is not an army."
Silence from the others tells him that they are in agreement.
With the unpleasant banter out of the way, the leading wizard of the Last Alliance attends to the business they are assembled for on this foggy, late winter morning. "Now, an owl from his father"--a quick motion towards a brown-haired wizard--"tells us that Gilderoy Lockhart is imprisoned in Camp Phi. We'll have the element of surprise, and not to mention close to a hundred gargoyles," he glances at Diamond, one of King Arthur's gargoyles, who stands near the doorway in silence, "when we attack on the sixteenth eve of February. That's in only two weeks. We won't call upon the help of the giants at this time; we don't want the Death Eaters to know the extent of our forces. We still want the element of surprise to be on our side even after we attack."
"A sparse army of a hundred against half a thousand Death Eaters?" Karkaroff raises an eyebrow, regarding his fellows apprehensively. "We deserve to be killed if we go into battle as we are. Weren't the giants our arsenal of power?"
"Are you forgetting that we have this?" replies the alliance leader as he taps three times on the Book of Shadows with his index finger. "Besides the writings on the magickal attributes of herbs and gem stones, there are also a few spells which will surely help us. Standard teleportation, fireballs, lightning bolts, sleeping, and other defence spells suitable in times of combat. Study them and perfect them, because we only have one shot at this, and failure means death. Malfoy will execute us in the worst possible way. And I'm getting very sick of dying."
* * *
Burke is the sort of wizard you'd expect to surround himself with magical effects of the dark arts. His robes are black to symbolise the dark wizard that he once was, and the one he once served. He only wears them now because he hasn't the money for another pair of a different colour. His hair is washed-out grey, and flows ten feet behind him, the tips resting in the gutter of the low streets of Marseilles. His frame is skeletal, and skin seems to melt off his bones. People passing this wizard stop and stare in astonishment or disgust, for he has no eyes; they were torn out nearly seventy years ago for betraying his master. Once gifted with external sight and the power of foresight, the world he sees now is only glimpses of death and decay through eyes that don't exist.
Burke is a street merchant in the dirty streets of Hecate Alley. His kiosk--made of rotting wood--houses many titles the average wizard has never seen, and never will see anywhere else. Strings of garlic are strung around the top of the stand in hopes of repelling evil, and a sign in French reads "Stories Never Told."
Sirius Black walks past the vendor and is halfway down the street before he stops to read the sign painted in red block letters. The words, although in French, grab his attention, and he quickly backtracks with an avid interest.
"Uh . . . bonjour?"
"Mmmphf . . ."
Sirius furrows his eyebrows and subconsciously takes a step back. His left boot splashes in the sullied water of the gutter, seeping up the hems of his grey robes. He reminds himself to wash them when he returns to Fleur's.
"Mamphf teef!" Burke points to a jar of thick liquid holding pearly white teeth.
Sirius passes the wizard his teeth, slightly embarrassed as wizards and witches stop to gape at him on the street. Little children point and snicker with their hands over their mouths, and their mothers quickly bustle them forward, suspiciously not making eye contact.
Burke shoves his teeth into his mouth and rotates his jaw to properly fit them. "I foresaw your arrival," he speaks, his voice a husky whisper. He hasn't used his voice in a while, and it's quite obvious. Not many choose to do business with this peddler, for reasons of his unsightly appearance.
Sirius looks around apprehensively, considering that coming here may have been a mistake. Early February sleet drifts past them sparingly with the passing winds, and he pulls his thick wool cloak closer. "Stories never told, right?" he reads from the sign, not noticing that this wizard speaks perfect English.
"Aha!" Burke raises his finger in triumph. "You seek the elves. I foresaw your arrival," he repeats, as though he's unaware that he's already said that. Standing on his tiptoes and ignoring the sudden crack in his lower back, Burke removes a jar with dried blue rose petals, setting it aside. Drawing a fancy black book from a row of volumes, he passes it to Sirius, and Sirius feels a rush of heat escape his body as his hand brushes past Burke's.
Shivering, Sirius nervously takes the book but doesn't look at it. He's not quite sure what's happening, and he doesn't know what he should be doing. Fluttering moths in his gut tell him to flee, while a curious feeling in his heart tells him otherwise. But information on the elves is what he seeks, and who knew it would have been the information that found him?
"That book will help you, yes it will. Has the answers that you seek, yes it does. I foresaw your arrival, I know that you seek information on the elves," Burke repeats unnecessarily as he turns towards Sirius, the sun behind him. Sirius notices a deep battle scar across his left cheek, and various other scars on the left side of his face. His right side, on the other hand, is void of any flaws, it's perfectly smooth. "What is your name, young man?" Burke asks when Sirius remains silent.
"Sirius Black."
Burke nods, and he searches his kiosk for another magical effect that Sirius could have. Rustling through parchments with ancient spells and rituals, he places them inside of a drawer and pulls out a plain navy book. He places it down, moving with a speed unusual for a man who physically cannot see. "I have foreseen your arrival, young Sirius Black. Humans who knew of the elves did not write about them, for their downfall is something we want to forget, but many others don't know about them. The princess of an elven clan wrote that book you hold before her death. Now, what was your name again?"
Sirius fights the growing urge to leave and dryly restates his name.
"Ah, yes, Sirius Black. Black, Black, Black," Burke repeats the name several times until it's an incoherent mumble, then clumsily passes the navy book he withdrew to Sirius. "This book is empty, you do not want it."
"Then why did you . . ."
"Speak not now, wizard who hasn't told me his name yet!"
Sirius inhales deeply, counting to ten mentally. He lets Burke take back the empty book, not asking any questions. If he does, who knows how long or repetitive Burke's answer will be. Burke places the book between two jars, one of batwings and the other with snake scales. "Take that black book, young Sirius Black. Ten galleons, please."
Sirius dips his hand into his pocket, and draws out ten golden coins. He drops them into Burke's outstretched hands. Burke takes one of the coins, and bites it. Satisfied, he drops them inside of a leather pouch tied to a post of his stand.
"My services are always open, please return if you seek more information."
Sirius now inspects the book and finds that he cannot open it.
"I foresaw your arrival. I know what it is you seek. You seek a key now, young Sirius of the Blacks. A key must be used to open that book, that book will only open with a key," Burke informs as he reaches for a small soapbox, around one inch in diameter. Holding it up to his ear, which is pierced, he shakes it and passes it to Sirius. "That will be ten galleons, please." But no noise came when he shook it.
"Ten galleons?" Sirius curiously opens the box and finds nothing.
"Ten galleons for the box. Ten galleons for the book. Ten galleons for the key. Separately." He speaks with a bounce in his voice, and smiles ear to ear, his pearly whites lighting up the kiosk from the cascading clouds overhead.
"I don't want a box, I want the key," states Sirius.
"You must buy the box before you can buy the key."
Sirius sighs, but he doesn't fight it. The faster they complete their business, the sooner he can hightail it out of here. Reaching back into his pocket, he withdraws a handful of golden coins and places them onto the kiosk with a clink.
Burke extends his hand towards Sirius, palm down and fingers bent, and places his left hand over it. Sirius watches as he removes the top hand and reveals a brass key that amazingly emerged from his flesh, or so it would seem.
Sirius takes it, careful not to touch the man's skin again. He places all three treasures in the safety of the folds of his robes, and thanks Burke.
"I shall foresee another arrival, farewell, uh . . ." Sirius's name flees from his mind.
Sirius quickly Apparates away.
* * *
The cool February air seeps in through the cracks of the stone chamber, collecting in invisible spirals along the floor and around the feet of two Death Eaters, one a former Slytherin and the other Gryffindor. Both are clad entirely in the standard black Death Eater robes, the only difference being that one is hemmed in crimson and the other, a golden colour. The companions are seated on opposite sides of a small table, and in the centre of the table is a chessboard, white and red marble pieces and black stone pieces eager to start the battle.
White moves first.
"Queen Pawn up two," Percy Weasley orders jadedly. He never wanted to commence this game, but he will admit that it's a welcome change from the bore that the winter has been for him. Percy leans back in his chair, his red-rimmed robes shuffling against the stone floor, an unwelcome noise in the silent chamber.
Terence Higgs smirks smugly. "Queen Pawn up one." Terence has always fancied chess, especially playing against people who can match his intelligence. There weren't many of those in his house, so Percy has become his chess mate. Bloody hell, even checkers was beyond Marcus's comprehension.
"Bishop to D5." Percy sighs wistfully, his spirit weighed down from loneliness and depression. Ever since Penelope took leave from the castle to stay at Camp Delta, he hasn't seen her. She doesn't return his owls, he sends messages with Hermes everyday, and everyday there's no reply. He'd consider going down there, but he and Penelope do have an arrangement. A deal is a deal.
"You're worrying about her again, arn'tcha?" asks Terence as he moves his Pawn in front of his King side Bishop up one. He's known Percy for fourteen years, and although he's only been friends with him for half of those, he's learnt to read him like an open book. Empathetic is what Terence calls himself, other Slytherins called him half-arsed.
"Every day," replies Percy, taking no time to consider his next move. "Queen to E2."
Terence first contemplates his chess move (Pawn to B5) then addresses the concerns that plague Percy, "Why don't you ask her to come back? She's been there for almost five months."
Percy shakes his head and moves his Queen to A7, taking a pawn of Terence's. "She'd never forgive me. Sometimes in a relationship you must make sacrifices." He shrugs and exhales, taking off his horn-rimmed glasses and cleaning them on his robes. He feels empty, as though a part of him fled from his essence, and tired beyond belief.
"But what has she sacrificed?" And, "Rook to A7. Hah! I got your Queen."
Percy doesn't answer. Whether it's because he doesn't want to, or because Penelope hasn't made any sacrifices, it's not clear to Terence. All he does is move his white knight to C3.
"She has your love, she has her freedom, she has money and status." Terence counts each privilege on his left hand as he points them out. "But, she had all of those before the hostilities as well. Look at everything you've sacrificed just to keep her. Is it all really worth it?" His tone is quiet and understanding; he doesn't want to offend Percy with his words, although he hopes the love-struck wizard will see his point.
"Of course it's all worth it," Percy snaps defensively. "You've never been in love, so I wouldn't expect you to understand what it is I feel for her." Just as people write what they know, people don't have a foot to stand on if they don't understand the context of the advice they offer. Terence has not known love; Percy sees no reason to listen to him.
But although someone hasn't experienced something, it doesn't mean that their words are void. Terence sees the conflict with impartial eyes. "I may not have the love of a beautiful lady, but that doesn't mean that I don't understand love," he replies kindly.
Percy pauses, then nods miserably, knowing he's wrong in this matter.
Terence moves his black Queen side Bishop to B4, finding it hard to concentrate on two things at once. Chess is a game of war; if humans were really as smart as they say they are, battlefields would be checkered. "You're a fool, pal. You nearly drove Penelope into the arms of that Davies fellow. When she starts to fancy that bloke, you have no one to blame 'cept yourself."
"I don't need you to tell me what it is I already know," Percy snaps.
Outside, the winds howl and whip against the stone walls, and Percy's Knight moves to B5. He removes another Pawn.
"I just don't know what I'd do if I lost her."
Terence looks up, a miserable, sympathetic look upon his face. "I've lost people, Perce. And, believe it or not, it really isn't the hardest thing to get over. Six years ago a Death Eater killed my aunt, but as time went on, I got over it. And so did her son, who is now an orphan because of that Death Eater." He quickly moves his Bishop to D2.
Percy shifts uneasily, awkwardly listening to Terence's words.
And Terence continues with a calm voice, "I haven't seen my mother since her twin's funeral, and I rarely get along with my egotistical bastard of a cousin, although I see him almost everyday. Love is useless and overrated; look where it gets people. People should never love anyone because they'll just be taken from them."
"You sound very much like a Slytherin."
"I am a Slytherin."
Percy glares and harshly commands a Knight to D2; the marble piece nearly topples over in his haste to reach the square. "I hardly see how this is relevant, Terence. Family love is different than the love you feel for a woman," Percy informs him firmly. "Just shut up, Higgs." Terence's last name comes awkwardly to Percy's lips.
"It's not you I obey, Weasley."
Percy glares daggers at Terence. "You don't have that troll Flint or that git Pucey to watch your back, so I'd watch your mouth if I were you," Percy threatens awkwardly, standing and knocking his chair over. Terence jumps at the disquieting noise. "I don't have time for you, and I certainly don't have time for this." Percy grabs the white king and whips it at Terence.
Terence ducks, and the king lands on the floor, the white marble shattering into a thousand splinters. As Percy leaves, slamming the door on his way out, Terence stares down at the pieces of the grey and white marble king, musing to himself with a melancholy smile.
The commanding wizard of the Last Alliance drops the Book of Shadows onto the oak table, and it lands loudly, startling the four wizards who sit with their hands folded neatly over one another. Most remain calm on the outside as well as in; only Fleur forces herself not to fidget. The commanding wizard looks intently at each of his elders. "We have information, new spells of attack and defence, and a new hope. Now, all we need is a plan." His eyes linger on an empty chair; a puzzled look drifts onto his weary facial features. "Where's Sirius? Snape, didn't you inform him of this meeting?"
Severus shrugs carelessly. "I may have."
"May have?" He shakes his head in disapproval, a black fringe falling before his eyes. "Well, we'll just have to start without him, then. Time is never a luxury." He takes a seat at the table, in a tall chair with a crimson velvet cushion, much like the other chairs, only varying in colour. "Snape, you'll take the minutes and fill him in on them."
"I most certainly will not," Severus declares defiantly, leaning back in his black chair with his arms folded rigidly over his chest. "It's not my fault that he thought something else was more important." Beside him, Karkaroff mumbles an agreement.
"Snape, you and Sirius are brothers in arms--"
"That doesn't mean that I have to converse with him. I'll fight by his side, save his life, let him save mine, but I will never talk to him," Snape cuts off, his smooth voice confident in his words. "I don't recall signing up to baby-sit Sirius when we came together."
A frustrated sigh escapes the heir of Merlin's lips, and he rubs the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "We don't have time for immature rivalries, Snape. You and Sirius are going to learn how to get along, even if it kills me. An army divided is not an army."
Silence from the others tells him that they are in agreement.
With the unpleasant banter out of the way, the leading wizard of the Last Alliance attends to the business they are assembled for on this foggy, late winter morning. "Now, an owl from his father"--a quick motion towards a brown-haired wizard--"tells us that Gilderoy Lockhart is imprisoned in Camp Phi. We'll have the element of surprise, and not to mention close to a hundred gargoyles," he glances at Diamond, one of King Arthur's gargoyles, who stands near the doorway in silence, "when we attack on the sixteenth eve of February. That's in only two weeks. We won't call upon the help of the giants at this time; we don't want the Death Eaters to know the extent of our forces. We still want the element of surprise to be on our side even after we attack."
"A sparse army of a hundred against half a thousand Death Eaters?" Karkaroff raises an eyebrow, regarding his fellows apprehensively. "We deserve to be killed if we go into battle as we are. Weren't the giants our arsenal of power?"
"Are you forgetting that we have this?" replies the alliance leader as he taps three times on the Book of Shadows with his index finger. "Besides the writings on the magickal attributes of herbs and gem stones, there are also a few spells which will surely help us. Standard teleportation, fireballs, lightning bolts, sleeping, and other defence spells suitable in times of combat. Study them and perfect them, because we only have one shot at this, and failure means death. Malfoy will execute us in the worst possible way. And I'm getting very sick of dying."
* * *
Burke is the sort of wizard you'd expect to surround himself with magical effects of the dark arts. His robes are black to symbolise the dark wizard that he once was, and the one he once served. He only wears them now because he hasn't the money for another pair of a different colour. His hair is washed-out grey, and flows ten feet behind him, the tips resting in the gutter of the low streets of Marseilles. His frame is skeletal, and skin seems to melt off his bones. People passing this wizard stop and stare in astonishment or disgust, for he has no eyes; they were torn out nearly seventy years ago for betraying his master. Once gifted with external sight and the power of foresight, the world he sees now is only glimpses of death and decay through eyes that don't exist.
Burke is a street merchant in the dirty streets of Hecate Alley. His kiosk--made of rotting wood--houses many titles the average wizard has never seen, and never will see anywhere else. Strings of garlic are strung around the top of the stand in hopes of repelling evil, and a sign in French reads "Stories Never Told."
Sirius Black walks past the vendor and is halfway down the street before he stops to read the sign painted in red block letters. The words, although in French, grab his attention, and he quickly backtracks with an avid interest.
"Uh . . . bonjour?"
"Mmmphf . . ."
Sirius furrows his eyebrows and subconsciously takes a step back. His left boot splashes in the sullied water of the gutter, seeping up the hems of his grey robes. He reminds himself to wash them when he returns to Fleur's.
"Mamphf teef!" Burke points to a jar of thick liquid holding pearly white teeth.
Sirius passes the wizard his teeth, slightly embarrassed as wizards and witches stop to gape at him on the street. Little children point and snicker with their hands over their mouths, and their mothers quickly bustle them forward, suspiciously not making eye contact.
Burke shoves his teeth into his mouth and rotates his jaw to properly fit them. "I foresaw your arrival," he speaks, his voice a husky whisper. He hasn't used his voice in a while, and it's quite obvious. Not many choose to do business with this peddler, for reasons of his unsightly appearance.
Sirius looks around apprehensively, considering that coming here may have been a mistake. Early February sleet drifts past them sparingly with the passing winds, and he pulls his thick wool cloak closer. "Stories never told, right?" he reads from the sign, not noticing that this wizard speaks perfect English.
"Aha!" Burke raises his finger in triumph. "You seek the elves. I foresaw your arrival," he repeats, as though he's unaware that he's already said that. Standing on his tiptoes and ignoring the sudden crack in his lower back, Burke removes a jar with dried blue rose petals, setting it aside. Drawing a fancy black book from a row of volumes, he passes it to Sirius, and Sirius feels a rush of heat escape his body as his hand brushes past Burke's.
Shivering, Sirius nervously takes the book but doesn't look at it. He's not quite sure what's happening, and he doesn't know what he should be doing. Fluttering moths in his gut tell him to flee, while a curious feeling in his heart tells him otherwise. But information on the elves is what he seeks, and who knew it would have been the information that found him?
"That book will help you, yes it will. Has the answers that you seek, yes it does. I foresaw your arrival, I know that you seek information on the elves," Burke repeats unnecessarily as he turns towards Sirius, the sun behind him. Sirius notices a deep battle scar across his left cheek, and various other scars on the left side of his face. His right side, on the other hand, is void of any flaws, it's perfectly smooth. "What is your name, young man?" Burke asks when Sirius remains silent.
"Sirius Black."
Burke nods, and he searches his kiosk for another magical effect that Sirius could have. Rustling through parchments with ancient spells and rituals, he places them inside of a drawer and pulls out a plain navy book. He places it down, moving with a speed unusual for a man who physically cannot see. "I have foreseen your arrival, young Sirius Black. Humans who knew of the elves did not write about them, for their downfall is something we want to forget, but many others don't know about them. The princess of an elven clan wrote that book you hold before her death. Now, what was your name again?"
Sirius fights the growing urge to leave and dryly restates his name.
"Ah, yes, Sirius Black. Black, Black, Black," Burke repeats the name several times until it's an incoherent mumble, then clumsily passes the navy book he withdrew to Sirius. "This book is empty, you do not want it."
"Then why did you . . ."
"Speak not now, wizard who hasn't told me his name yet!"
Sirius inhales deeply, counting to ten mentally. He lets Burke take back the empty book, not asking any questions. If he does, who knows how long or repetitive Burke's answer will be. Burke places the book between two jars, one of batwings and the other with snake scales. "Take that black book, young Sirius Black. Ten galleons, please."
Sirius dips his hand into his pocket, and draws out ten golden coins. He drops them into Burke's outstretched hands. Burke takes one of the coins, and bites it. Satisfied, he drops them inside of a leather pouch tied to a post of his stand.
"My services are always open, please return if you seek more information."
Sirius now inspects the book and finds that he cannot open it.
"I foresaw your arrival. I know what it is you seek. You seek a key now, young Sirius of the Blacks. A key must be used to open that book, that book will only open with a key," Burke informs as he reaches for a small soapbox, around one inch in diameter. Holding it up to his ear, which is pierced, he shakes it and passes it to Sirius. "That will be ten galleons, please." But no noise came when he shook it.
"Ten galleons?" Sirius curiously opens the box and finds nothing.
"Ten galleons for the box. Ten galleons for the book. Ten galleons for the key. Separately." He speaks with a bounce in his voice, and smiles ear to ear, his pearly whites lighting up the kiosk from the cascading clouds overhead.
"I don't want a box, I want the key," states Sirius.
"You must buy the box before you can buy the key."
Sirius sighs, but he doesn't fight it. The faster they complete their business, the sooner he can hightail it out of here. Reaching back into his pocket, he withdraws a handful of golden coins and places them onto the kiosk with a clink.
Burke extends his hand towards Sirius, palm down and fingers bent, and places his left hand over it. Sirius watches as he removes the top hand and reveals a brass key that amazingly emerged from his flesh, or so it would seem.
Sirius takes it, careful not to touch the man's skin again. He places all three treasures in the safety of the folds of his robes, and thanks Burke.
"I shall foresee another arrival, farewell, uh . . ." Sirius's name flees from his mind.
Sirius quickly Apparates away.
* * *
The cool February air seeps in through the cracks of the stone chamber, collecting in invisible spirals along the floor and around the feet of two Death Eaters, one a former Slytherin and the other Gryffindor. Both are clad entirely in the standard black Death Eater robes, the only difference being that one is hemmed in crimson and the other, a golden colour. The companions are seated on opposite sides of a small table, and in the centre of the table is a chessboard, white and red marble pieces and black stone pieces eager to start the battle.
White moves first.
"Queen Pawn up two," Percy Weasley orders jadedly. He never wanted to commence this game, but he will admit that it's a welcome change from the bore that the winter has been for him. Percy leans back in his chair, his red-rimmed robes shuffling against the stone floor, an unwelcome noise in the silent chamber.
Terence Higgs smirks smugly. "Queen Pawn up one." Terence has always fancied chess, especially playing against people who can match his intelligence. There weren't many of those in his house, so Percy has become his chess mate. Bloody hell, even checkers was beyond Marcus's comprehension.
"Bishop to D5." Percy sighs wistfully, his spirit weighed down from loneliness and depression. Ever since Penelope took leave from the castle to stay at Camp Delta, he hasn't seen her. She doesn't return his owls, he sends messages with Hermes everyday, and everyday there's no reply. He'd consider going down there, but he and Penelope do have an arrangement. A deal is a deal.
"You're worrying about her again, arn'tcha?" asks Terence as he moves his Pawn in front of his King side Bishop up one. He's known Percy for fourteen years, and although he's only been friends with him for half of those, he's learnt to read him like an open book. Empathetic is what Terence calls himself, other Slytherins called him half-arsed.
"Every day," replies Percy, taking no time to consider his next move. "Queen to E2."
Terence first contemplates his chess move (Pawn to B5) then addresses the concerns that plague Percy, "Why don't you ask her to come back? She's been there for almost five months."
Percy shakes his head and moves his Queen to A7, taking a pawn of Terence's. "She'd never forgive me. Sometimes in a relationship you must make sacrifices." He shrugs and exhales, taking off his horn-rimmed glasses and cleaning them on his robes. He feels empty, as though a part of him fled from his essence, and tired beyond belief.
"But what has she sacrificed?" And, "Rook to A7. Hah! I got your Queen."
Percy doesn't answer. Whether it's because he doesn't want to, or because Penelope hasn't made any sacrifices, it's not clear to Terence. All he does is move his white knight to C3.
"She has your love, she has her freedom, she has money and status." Terence counts each privilege on his left hand as he points them out. "But, she had all of those before the hostilities as well. Look at everything you've sacrificed just to keep her. Is it all really worth it?" His tone is quiet and understanding; he doesn't want to offend Percy with his words, although he hopes the love-struck wizard will see his point.
"Of course it's all worth it," Percy snaps defensively. "You've never been in love, so I wouldn't expect you to understand what it is I feel for her." Just as people write what they know, people don't have a foot to stand on if they don't understand the context of the advice they offer. Terence has not known love; Percy sees no reason to listen to him.
But although someone hasn't experienced something, it doesn't mean that their words are void. Terence sees the conflict with impartial eyes. "I may not have the love of a beautiful lady, but that doesn't mean that I don't understand love," he replies kindly.
Percy pauses, then nods miserably, knowing he's wrong in this matter.
Terence moves his black Queen side Bishop to B4, finding it hard to concentrate on two things at once. Chess is a game of war; if humans were really as smart as they say they are, battlefields would be checkered. "You're a fool, pal. You nearly drove Penelope into the arms of that Davies fellow. When she starts to fancy that bloke, you have no one to blame 'cept yourself."
"I don't need you to tell me what it is I already know," Percy snaps.
Outside, the winds howl and whip against the stone walls, and Percy's Knight moves to B5. He removes another Pawn.
"I just don't know what I'd do if I lost her."
Terence looks up, a miserable, sympathetic look upon his face. "I've lost people, Perce. And, believe it or not, it really isn't the hardest thing to get over. Six years ago a Death Eater killed my aunt, but as time went on, I got over it. And so did her son, who is now an orphan because of that Death Eater." He quickly moves his Bishop to D2.
Percy shifts uneasily, awkwardly listening to Terence's words.
And Terence continues with a calm voice, "I haven't seen my mother since her twin's funeral, and I rarely get along with my egotistical bastard of a cousin, although I see him almost everyday. Love is useless and overrated; look where it gets people. People should never love anyone because they'll just be taken from them."
"You sound very much like a Slytherin."
"I am a Slytherin."
Percy glares and harshly commands a Knight to D2; the marble piece nearly topples over in his haste to reach the square. "I hardly see how this is relevant, Terence. Family love is different than the love you feel for a woman," Percy informs him firmly. "Just shut up, Higgs." Terence's last name comes awkwardly to Percy's lips.
"It's not you I obey, Weasley."
Percy glares daggers at Terence. "You don't have that troll Flint or that git Pucey to watch your back, so I'd watch your mouth if I were you," Percy threatens awkwardly, standing and knocking his chair over. Terence jumps at the disquieting noise. "I don't have time for you, and I certainly don't have time for this." Percy grabs the white king and whips it at Terence.
Terence ducks, and the king lands on the floor, the white marble shattering into a thousand splinters. As Percy leaves, slamming the door on his way out, Terence stares down at the pieces of the grey and white marble king, musing to himself with a melancholy smile.
