Losing Faith

Chapter Twenty-Six : Beta

(or, The Running Joke of Speeches)

(or, The Fine Art of Being Slytherin)

The library in the Delacour Manor is an exquisite chamber to behold when darkness falls. Moonlight softly drifts in through every crystal window and rests gently upon the thousands of scriptures and the hardwood floors. A circular table constructed from oak is placed in the centre of the library, three of the four walls surrounding it are bookshelves, and the fourth is the double mahogany doors. Upon the table are three short stacks of night-bound books, several unrolled scrolls, and a large map of the United Kingdom and surrounding area. The map is kept in place by the sword Excalibur and Merlin's Book of Shadows. Scattered across the map are coloured pins--red where Camp Phi used to be, orange where Hogwarts stands, yellow at London, and green at Peterborough.

"Neville Longbottom is being held prisoner at Camp Beta in Peterborough. That's approximately eighty miles North from London and, coincidentally, his hometown. Beta is a large camp, one of the largest next to Alpha, and the guards have been extended to include Dementors. So I've decided that we're not going to attack Beta in hopes of liberating Neville as we did to Lockhart--"

Severus Snape quickly looks up. "What?" he demands in such a tone that his comrades gape at him in disbelief. Quietly clearing his throat, he turns a cold eye upon each of them, but doesn't let his gaze waver from his superior.

The commander of the Last Alliance fixes Severus in a glacial glare. "You never let me finish, Snape. We're not liberating Beta and jeopardising hundred of lives when we don't have to," he continues. "We have two capable Animagi with us who can sneak into Beta undetected."

"Where is the honour in that?" Severus spats. "There is nothing honourable about slipping inside of a stronghold with your tail between your legs." He crosses his arms, ignoring the threatening glare being given to him from Sirius Black. Beside him, Igor Karkaroff places a yielding hand on his forearm, but Severus jerks his arm away, scowling at the white-haired wizard.

"What good is your honour if you're dead? What good would it do anyone? Some misty-eyed people might sing your praise over a mug of beer, but do you know who won't be singing? Those people in Britain. Our friends. They won't be singing of your heroic deeds. They have to fight just to stay alive, so if you're dead, who will protect them? No one here will die heroically in battle next week. We won't be singing each other's death songs."

Solemn looks drift over faces, and they cast their eyes down, thoughts wandering over to friends or lovers who might be captive. Karkaroff nods slowly in agreement, and Severus shifts in his seat. The words may not have affected him on the outside, but they did on the inside. Sirius glances around, noticing that morale has taken a nose-dive. He begins applauding, slowly at first, but it quickens rapidly. "Encore! Encore!" he shouts out as Remus snickers beside him, and Severus kicks him underneath the table.

"Oww . . ." Sirius mutters, rubbing his calf.

"Sirius and Remus will Apparate to the Northern boarder of Belgium," the commander continues as he places a blue thumbtack on the coastline. "There, Hagrid will be waiting with a Romanian Longhorn, and he will fly you across the North Sea. Once there"--he stabs an indigo tack on the shoreline of Britain--"you will Change, follow the river till you reach London"--he taps the yellow tack--"and then head North towards Peterborough. You will find Camp Beta on the southern border." He shoves a violet tack below the green one. "I want you to carry the elf's amulet."

Simultaneously, Remus and Sirius stare at each other. "You will carry it!" they shout out in unison, pointing an index finger at the other. "No, I won't! You will! Like hell!" Creepily, in harmony again. They burst into laughter much like little children, the little children they once were.

A tide of joy washes over the wizard at the bond that was created long ago between Sirius and Remus, but it quickly fades into grief as he remembers the sight of their tombstones in the dream that came to him two weeks ago. "Don't make me get into my speech about honour," he threatens jokingly with a slight smile and sparking eyes. "Remus will wear it. They're more likely to kill a werewolf than a large black dog. I don't know where Neville's living quarters are, but do not split up to search for him. When you find him, make sure no one--and I mean no one!--follows you. You must convince him to Change."

A look of uneasy puzzlement casts itself over Karkaroff's face. "Change?"

With a deep sigh, the commander explains. "Godric Gryffindor gave his son one gift--the ability to polymorph into a griffin. I thought we'd discussed this," he drones.

"We have, sir," he simply replies with a polite nod as an apology.

"Don't let it slip again. Now, Sirius and Remus will leave Sunday night, and I don't expect your return for at least a week. Remus, will you be able to Change and stay in form for that long? I know you prefer to Change during the full moons, when your power is at its highest, but we can't wait until then."

Remus's yellow eyes drift to the quarter moon outside the highest window in the library. Closing his eyes, he inhales deeply as though he is inhaling the moon itself. "I believe I will be able to."

"I need to know for certain, Remus," the commanding wizard emphasises strongly. "There is a lot running on this campaign, and we cannot afford errors."

Remus nods, clearing his throat to speak with confidence. "I will Change."

"Nothing less than I expect. Any questions?"

Severus's umber eyes are haunted by inner anxiety, and he drums his fingers on the table and speaks quickly with a voice filled with tension. "I want you to send me on this mission, as well."

Merlin's heir shakes his head. "That's impossible, Snape."

Severus fixes his superior in an intense gaze. "No, it's not. There's something I haven't told you--"

"If it's you being the heir of Balthasar, Jasper told us," Sirius interjects brusquely.

"There's more to it than that, Black," Severus snaps. "Two sons were born to Ouranos Slytherin--Salazar and Balthasar. Ouranos bestowed his sons with two gifts--the ability to talk to snakes and the ability to polymorph into a snake. Salazar received the Parseltongue, and Balthasar the Animagi gene."

Sirius's elfish eyes widen in realisation. "So you were that snake in our Commons! Bloody hell, I should have killed you when I had the chance! I had the fire poker in my hand! One jab and poof!"

"Do snakes go 'poof'?" Remus inquires.

Sirius shrugs. "I always thought so."

The leader declines immediately, but not only because Sirius and Severus might kill each other if they are alone for an extended period of time. "Sirius and Remus can easily handle this mission. Besides, there's something that I need you and Fleur to do. While Sirius and Remus are sneaking into Beta, I want you two to appear around the castle. Severus, in his Animagi form, will slither in and listen to what is being said, while Fleur makes sure she's seen. I know this is risky, and I want you to Apparate the hell out of there before they attack you. Just get their attention, and make sure they don't realise what's happening right beneath their noses. Karkaroff and I will handle the refugee as well as the identity of the heir of--"

His next words are sounded out by the double doors of the library hammering open, and in rushes a young witch with a maidservant on her heels. The witch's complexion is unnaturally blanched, and she has shark-like hazel eyes. Her hair is coarse and the colour of chestnuts, falling listlessly below her shoulders. Her cheekbones are hollow, and her face Nordic. She walks with confidence in her step although there is a faltering that can be seen in her eyes.

"What is she doing here?" the commander asks the blonde aide. "I specifically said that we are not to be disturbed. Did this slip your mind, Dubois?"

The witch runs her tongue over her lips, inwardly building courage. "I-if you have a question, you will direct it to me," she stammers, unaccustomed to speaking her mind, and even more unaccustomed to someone's reaction. "Please. S-sir," she adds as an afterthought.

He decides to humour her. "Fine, Miss Morgan. What are you doing here?"

Elizabeth Morgan starts, shocked that he listened. "I-I couldn't sleep."

"Dubois, please give Miss Morgan some chamomile tea and send her to bed, please." And for a moment, he felt as though she was a six-year-old child, and he was her over-caring father. "See if she's hungry as well."

"No, d-don't," Elizabeth speaks with much effort. "I couldn't sleep because I didn't want to sleep. I-I want to know what's going to happen to us now."

He smiles, but he has the inclination to create a sign the next time someone asks him that question so he won't waste breath replying to them. It'd be much easier to hold up a sign with the answer. "We are still treating those injured in battle. Once their injuries have completely healed and they are well enough to travel, they will be escorted to a safe-haven. Hagrid and the giants in Romania have agreed to house many, and Karkaroff is kind enough to lend us the use of his manor in Iceland. Those who are capable warriors have the choice of staying here."

"I want to stay here," Elizabeth says quickly.

"That's out of the question."

"I want to avenge her death."

"Whose death?"

"Cho's. They killed her."

A fleeting moment of silence, and the commander inwardly winces. "We don't have time for vendettas, Miss Morgan. Everyone has had deaths affect them; it's a fact of life. I've had friends die, I've watched friends die, and I've had to kill friends because they were Death Eaters. I'm not doing this because Voldemort and the Death Eaters killed the people closest to me; I'm not that selfish. I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do. Now saunter off back to bed, and leave the wars to be fought by those who have reasons to fight them." Around him, his comrades nod in agreement, but remain quiet at the memory of the events that unravelled at Phi.

"How can you be so insensitive? What happened to the boy I knew at Hogwarts?" asks Elizabeth, outraged and only showing it slightly on the outside. Her face flushes, and she vividly hears her heart thumping in her chest. She crosses her arms over her grey-robed chest, wondering if they can hear her nervousness.

"He died," is the simple reply.

The twenty-one year old Gryffindor swallows and uncrosses her arms. "I want to do what's right, too," she states. "They've killed everyone I've ever cared about. All I've seen these past three years is death and decay, and just when you give us hope, we have to sit around while other people die?"

"You are not cut out for war," the commander tells her dryly, glancing her over. He knew her briefly while at Hogwarts; she was a year older than him. She never played Quidditch, and she never participated in the after-hours debates arranged by Professor McGonagall because she didn't like arguing. She isn't the type to don armour and go running off into battle, if only she could see that.

Elizabeth scans the faces in the library. "Is this because I'm a woman?"

"What? No! Of course not. Listen, I'm not going to send you into war because you have a few vendettas you want to carry out. There are more important things in life," he states firmly.

"Well, what if . . ." she pauses. "I . . . How about . . . What don't . . ."

The leader chuckles. "You are out of your league, Miss Morgan."

Elizabeth's mouth drops. "I am not! All I want is to help you! Why won't you let me do that?" she shrieks, clenching her fists at her side. She throws a scorching look at the wizard, bound and determined to help in this cause. There are people who need her, friends who she might be able to save.

"Because revenge is not a good reason!" he snaps.

With her face etched in sorrow, a wounded look appears in Elizabeth's eyes. "But then what else can I do?" she chokes, her voice distant and not her own. She saw Cho die, saw that Death Eater snap her neck. She couldn't stand around and let that happen to other people.

"You can sit still."

"I won't. I won't let what happened to Cho happen to someone else."

A spasm of irritation enters the commander's voice. "What will it take to end this ridiculous act of revenge? You want to go into war with your wand blazing and avenge the deaths of all you knew? Fine. You want war, then I'll show you war. You can go on the mission into Britain with Severus and Fleur. And Merlin help us, I hope you don't bugger it up." He glares, hoping she can see her selfishness, her immaturity.

But she doesn't. "Thank you!" she cries, and hugs him tightly in gratitude.

He shoves Elizabeth off. "Sit down, Morgan! We still have business to conduct here," he orders, and she takes a seat next to Severus, who shoots millions of daggers at her with his eyes. "Each of you will be expected to pack your own supplies for this and prepare for it in any way you see fit. Elizabeth, I suggest you make peace with yourself this weekend."

"What does that mean?" she asks meekly.

"You are inexperienced in all matters of warfare. You are a child acting out some radical dreams. If this is the only way to teach you, so be it. I don't have time to teach you the use of steel, and I hope you know what you're getting yourself into."

Fleur chews her bottom lip. "Sir, maybe you should be easier on her."

He reels in astonishment. "Fleur, sending an inexperienced warrior to the battlefield is dim-witted. They might fail themselves, but more importantly might fail their comrades. I don't think I'm being too hard on her; this is a lesson that she will have to learn the hard way. Look out of the window--"

Everyone tilts their heads towards the large bay window facing the dense city. Below on the streets of Marseilles, few people walk the lantern-lit streets, and few houses have their lights on. Those that do, though, have parents who hug their children goodnight before drawing the curtains. Fathers let the dogs out, or the cats in, before killing the lights in their balconies. Lovers sleep naked in each other's arms, while others curl up before the television.

"--and tell me, what do you see?"

Everyone looks to another to reply, but no one speaks.

"People," Remus replies eventually.

He's clearly satisfied with the answer. "Exactly. People. There will be people who will depend on our success, as well. The citizens of Britain used to be like them--carefree, only worried about the small things in life. Teenagers had nightmares about their N.E.W.T.s, not if they'd live to see the light of another day. Girls found love in the boys around them, not aggressors. Mothers hugged their children with love; they didn't huddle in fear in dark corners with them. I don't want to send people to their deaths; I wish it wouldn't come to that. But it will, because every decision I make will end in death. Good people are going to die. Maybe you." He motions to the fighters in the room. "Maybe her." He turns to Elizabeth. "Probably me."

The pencil scratches against the rough paper with every curve and line. His hand moves swiftly, drawing out the form he's come to memorise in his mind's eye. He leans over the sketchpad that is filled with pencil sketches of landscapes, people, and animals, his black hair falling freely before his blue eyes. Black robes, which are unbuttoned down the torso, showing off his chiselled chest, drape off his shoulders, and a small flash of gold reflects from his right nipple.

"Are you almost done?" a young lady drones impatiently. She rests on a white chaise lounge, a sheer black sheet spread lazily over her bare thighs and hugged tightly above her breasts with slender fingers. Auburn hair is tied tightly into a bun at the top of her head, leaving a few strands flowing before her empty blue eyes. Thick black eyeliner and dark grey eye shadows are painted on her eyes, and her lips are the darkest shade of black. Her complexion is unnaturally pale, white flour was used as powder.

"No," Adrian Pucey replies, as he flinches from the breaking of silence, his pencil lead cracking and ruining a fine line. "Bloody hell, can't you sit still for more than five minutes, Rae?" Setting his pencil down, he reaches for a kneadable eraser buried in a box of miscellaneous art supplies. His robes slip from his shoulders, and he removes his arms from the sleeves, letting the garment bunch around his waist.

"Why do you insist on using Muggle art supplies?" Rae rolls her blue eyes; she's tired of posing for this portrait, it's all they've been doing all week. They live in a world filled with magic for a reason; they were given this gift to use. Besides, she can count at least a hundred and one other things that they could be doing, all of which have the same conclusion.

"Because I get more satisfaction if I use the Muggle methods. Anyone who is a wizard or a witch can draw, but it takes a special kind of person to draw the way humans were supposed to," Adrian replies, reaching for a piece of granite and an overused smudging stick to soften the lines of the shadows of the picture.

A low and mocking chuckle escapes Rae's lips. "That's gotta be the gayest thing I've ever heard," she mumbles as she sits up, much to Adrian's irritation. She swings her legs around and leans back against the chaise lounge, letting the sheet slip from her fingers as she spreads her arms on the lounge's back. She cocks her head, pressing her lips together in contemplation.

"There's just no pleasing you, is there?" Adrian jokes, flipping his sketchbook closed. He clears his throat loudly and forces his eyes away from Rae and her lack of modesty.

"So, when can I see the picture?"

"Not before your birthday."

"But that's"--Rae counts on her fingers--"three months away."

"Two months," Adrian corrects.

"Whatever." Rae wrinkles her nose, replacing her arms on the back of the lounge.

Silence. An awkward, expecting silence as Adrian places his sketchpad and pencils back into his black case, which was a gift from his mother. Very large and thin, the artist's case fits perfectly beneath his bed. Adrian's quarters, much to Rae's delight, are what some people might called cultured. Expensive paintings from famous artists such as the Muggle Van Gogh and the wizard Picasso hang from the walls. The wallpaper, what can be seen of it, is a light shade of tan, and bead curtains cover each doorway. Most of the furniture is a replica from the fifteenth century, and the ornaments that he has are cement candleholders, or stone statues of grinning gargoyles, or miniature Zen gardens from the orient.

"Listen, Adrian . . ." Rae starts, her tone nervous. She stands, quickly grabbing for the sheet that fell to the floor and wraps it around her body, keeping it in place with her left hand. Adrian glances up, waiting for her to continue, but she doesn't. Instead, she circles away from him, trying to appear preoccupied with stone statues. "There's something I need to tell you . . ." She cracks her knuckles; a knot twisting inside of her stomach urges her to keep this inside of her.

"You should know that you can tell me anything." Adrian grabs Rae's hand with his and presses his lips to it. He tastes the flour they used to pale Rae's skin and pulls away, the bitter taste now on the tip of his tongue.

Rae snaps her hand away from Adrian's touch. "I'm holding you to your words, I hope you know that," she states, licking her lips. With a deep breath, she continues. "I'm pregnant." Rae casts her eyes towards Adrian, hoping to see a pleasant reaction although he doesn't yet know the full story and circumstances.

"Sod it all, it's become baby central around here," Adrian scoffs, rolling his ice blue eyes. "Like Village of the bloody Damned. I suppose congratulations towards Marcus are in order?"

"That's some backwards troll logic," Rae replies, her voice flat and unemotional. She glances into Adrian's eyes and swallows a forming lump in her throat before adding in a small voice, "Maybe he should be congratulating you."

Adrian stares at her with a dropped jaw, visibly not liking what he's hearing. With a step away from Rae's touch and a stony expression, he glares at her. Slowly, he runs his tongue over lips. The only thoughts running through his mind are not ecstatic ones; rather, he's unable to believe that she did something as important and risky as this without consulting him.

"Adrian?" Her voice shakes.

He blinks once. "I can't believe you did that," Adrian whispers, his thoughts coming together in his mind. Irritation and nervousness boils in his veins, and he grits his teeth, forcing himself to think rationally. But fear, fear of Marcus, overpowers him, and with a sharp look at Rae, he reprimands, "You're not with me; Marcus is the one you're with. You're supposed to have his children, as much I bloody hate that. And now, he's going to be the father of my child. Did you stop to think that maybe I don't want that to happen? I would rather have some other woman--someone I don't even love--be the mother of my heir than have Marcus believe its his. Bloody hell, you're a selfish prat, Rae. Thinking only about yourself. You never stopped to consider the consequences. Marcus'll know that he's not the father; he may be dense, but he'll be able to tell if his offspring doesn't take after him. We don't look alike--he's one-fourth troll for Merlin's sake! He'll piece two-and-two together, and do you know what? He'll bloody draw and quarter me!"

Adrian's words cut through Rae, but instead of taking his words like a disobedient child would, she replies angrily. "I don't want Marcus to be the father of my children. I don't love him, and we don't need a little Marcuses running around, with their trollish features and trollish IQs and trollish attitudes. I could have chosen anyone; Merlin only knows that I've shagged nearly every bloke in our year--"

"Don't remind me," Adrian grumbles under his breath.

"--but I don't want just anybody. I want you."

Adrian ignores her latter statement, continuing with the thought that ran through his mind before. "Could have chosen anyone? So what stopped you from shagging Bletchley or even Montague? Or that whelp Michael? You have yet to ball my cousin; if you aim to hurt me, why don't you just shag Terence?"

Rae's mouth quirks in annoyance.

"Do you know what you are, Rae? You're a damn slag. And you're never gonna change. Has there been a bloke you haven't stripped off your clothes for? Even now you're with two people, and who knows who else you've been shagging when you're not with me or Marcus. I'm just another notch in your bedposts. Careful, or you might need new ones soon," Adrian snaps, his hurt overpowering his sense of compassion. Forget that he doesn't really mean the words; they leave his mouth before he even hears them.

"When did this become an issue on how many people I've taken to my bed?" Rae pushes past Adrian and furiously grabs for her army green robes, which are tossed chaotically across Adrian's bed. "You know everything I've done, but that never changed your feelings before."

"I've never realised how much of a bloody Slytherin you are before!"

Rae pauses, letting the sheet slip through her fingers and land on the floor around her feet. She stands before Adrian in the nude and doesn't care. "Slytherin? Where the hell have you been for the last decade or two? I was sorted into Slytherin, I'm the offspring of two Slytherin Death Eaters, and I am a Death Eater! You say Slytherin as though I should be ashamed of it! As though you are ashamed of it, and you are one, too!" she screams, her eyes sharpening as she throws her robes over her shoulders.

"Since when do you let your house determine your destiny?" Adrian's brusque voice seems to surrounds her. "You are not what your house makes you, but you use that as an excuse to be who you are."

Rae whips around to face Adrian. "And you are the one who fell in love with me. So what does that say about you?" she asks matter-of-factly.

Adrian shrugs. "I've been a fool, convincing myself that you actually cared for me when all you care about is yourself. You see, Rae, if you cared for me, as you say you do, you wouldn't disrespect me by having my child without my consent. That's called logic. You might have heard of it," he speaks, shaking inwardly. He wishes they could stop arguing; nothing good is born from conflict. Everything just came crashing down at once, and the pieces are cutting into their hearts.

"I chose you over Marcus! Over anyone else that I could have!" Rae shrieks, grabbing a stone statue of an eagle and hurling it at Adrian's head.

Adrian ducks, and the eagle crashes into the wall and into a myriad of dusty pieces. "Bloody hell, Rae! Have you cared for anyone in your entire life!?" His voice rises once again to a bellow.

Rae blinks in surprise and looks for something else to throw at Adrian's head. She doesn't find anything, much to her irritation. "I guess I don't. Because no matter what I say, nothing matters to you. I could tell you that you mean more to me than anything else, but if you don't even believe me then what's the point?"

"Go back to your boyfriend, Rae," Adrian snaps, grabbing her at the wrist and shoving her towards the door. Throwing her out on her arse, Adrian slams the door shut. And with it, his heart drops to the Earth's core.