Losing Faith
Chapter Thirty-Seven : Secrets
"Percy!" Penelope repeats uneasily.
Percy's eyes focus on Roger and the baby he cradles in his arms.
"She's not Roger's," Penelope answers before Percy proposes the question. She steps forward to place a shaking, but comforting hand over Percy's forearm. She feels him flinch beneath his over-robes, assisting in the lowering of his wand. "I wanted to tell you . . . " She hangs her head.
Percy's jaw collides with the ground, the revelations of her words still echoing in his ears. He stares vacantly at nothing, his thoughts incoherent and jumbled. "Whose kid is that?" he questions, his moment of stupidity almost over.
Penelope smacks her hand to her forehead, mumbling beneath her breath, "idiot." With a stinging sensation, she realises her hand didn't leave her forehead, and she lets it fall to her side, locking her eyes with Percy's. With her mouth moving before the gears in her mind start spinning, she let's slip everything.
"Her name's Rayne-Flynn. . . . The Last Alliance has eyes in Hogwarts and all over Britain. . . . Charlie's with them . . . He proposed to Fleur. . . . Me and Roger have been helping them, and your family too . . . Ron and Hermione are getting married in a few weeks . . . They are collecting the descendants of the founders. . . . Rayne has her father's eyes . . . I didn't tell you to protect her . . ."
Roger's eyes widen with panic, the realisation that his life will be forfeit. "Penelope!" he shouts.
About the time that Penelope runs out of words, the gears in her mind start working. She turns to be greeted with the horror-stricken face of Roger. "What!?"
Percy raises his hand for silence, forgetting the Ravenclaws before him aren't Death Eaters. "Oi," he bellows then both to silence. "Wait. Let me get this straight. Who's Rayne? Why are Ron and Hermione concerned with founders? What are founders? Who're you protecting? Charlie's with the Last what-now? And how does it this all concern you?"
Penelope's cheeks burn with mortification, as she comprehends the words that left her mouth. With a deep breath, she explains the past ten months to her love.
---
A nightmare born from rock, soil and death weaves its way through the walls of the castle. Time-washed blood tarnishes the stone, a reverence to fallen Death Eater heroes who are honoured with war songs and fire whisky. The corridors leading downwards into the cold, distant dungeons are dimly lit with a few candelabras; the stench of mould is overpowering, and the ghostly nightmare enters through an iron wrought door, its emerald eyes flashing at the scene unfolding before him.
Manacles decorate the northern wall of the chamber, hanging three feet above the ground. They hold the rotting, skeletal remains of Graham Pritchard--former Death Eater and disgrace in Marcus Flint's eyes. The tattered black robes hang limply from the remains. White shards of bone peek their way through the putrid flesh. Emerald eyes are forced open--their eyelids eaten away by aged maggots.
The nightmare that the ghost comes to a stop in is his own. With a sound resembling a sigh, the ghost of Graham rejoins what little is left of his body. His eyes flash around the room.
An empty flask of fire whisky is discarded next to the fireplace. Charcoal stains embellish the walls surrounding the mantle; the flames unsteadily flick around the wood that never consumes. An army-styled bed that Marcus Flint rarely sleeps in is against the eastern wall, adjacent to the fireplace that does nothing to warm the forever-chilled room. Dried blood stains the walls and floor; it grows to be denser beneath the manacles and medieval, gore-encrusted weapons that adorn the walls.
The emerald eyes of the skeletal remains gleam towards two humans.
Rae Landon rises from her knees and angles herself away from Marcus, who grins toothily as he buttons his black robes.
"You're off the team," Marcus says after several seconds.
"What?" Rae exclaims, spinning around to defiantly stare Marcus in the face, her dull brown hair whipping across her cheeks.
Marcus captures Rae's eyes with his. "Must I repeat myself?"
"No. I heard you," Rae says in a biting voice. She avoids Marcus's eyes as she drags her own gaze towards the stone of the walls and downward to a black satchel she had with her when Marcus stopped her in the corridors. "Are you daft? Where are you going to find another Beater as good as I am this close to the match?"
Marcus folds his arms over his chest, shaking thick black hair from his cold eyes with a tilt of his head. "We can manage with just one," he reinforces, raising his upper lip in disgust at the woman he chooses to take to his bed. "I have to make sure that you don't make anymore mistakes. Some just can't be fixed!"
Rae flexes her fists and casts her eyes, which are fiery with hatred, towards the ground. She inhales deeply, slowly exhaling. "I thought we had a deal," she growls.
"You thought wrong," Marcus snarls.
Rae's eyes narrow into thin slits. "Who'd you find to replace me?"
"Alexei Smirnov."
Rae brusquely raises her head. "He's not Slytherin!"
"He's a Death Eater."
A sudden breath escapes Rae's lips as she folds her arms. She glances around the room, her mouth twisted as she chews the inside of her lip. "He's inexperienced and Hufflepuff, probably guaranteed to fall from his broom. So what's this really about, Marcus? The child growing inside of me? You're just fucking angry 'cause that tight leash you fancy keeping me on has broke, ain't th--"
Before the next words could form and exit her mouth, Marcus is facing her. A thick growl emerges from Marcus's throat as he strikes out at her with the back of his right hand. "Keep yer fuckin' mouth shut, whore!" he bellows, raising his hand and stepping forward for another blow.
Rae staggers back a step, her cheek and jaw hammering with crimson pain. "It's always been about power and control with you!" Rae rambles, her eyes cautiously watching Marcus's raised hand.
Marcus's upper lip twitches with hatred as he advances upon her again, his eyes the embodiment of an intense fire of adrenaline. With a swift motion, Marcus balls his fist, raises and releases.
He belts Rae in the abdomen.
He sends her screaming, crashing into a mirror. Rae bows beneath an array of shattering glass. Her shaking hands find and clench her stomach.
"Does the phrase, 'till death do us part', have meaning to you?" Marcus grumbles between heavy breathes as he approaches her, his black combat boots crunching the glass in a ringing melody of violence.
"You can't kill me," Rae whispers as she staggers to her feet.
Marcus stares down at her with unparallel contempt, thick black strands framing his pallid, twisted features. "Stay on your knees, Rae. That's where a good bitch belongs," he commands in a cool tone, ready to exercise his power with another fist if she disobeyed.
Rae remains kneeling. Her left hand seizes a slim shard of glass, her knuckles fade white, only to be coloured by blood seeping through them.
"D'you wanna see how long I'd beat you before the fuckin' brat inside you dies, Rae?" Marcus calmly asks as he stares with a flicker of amusement at Rae's left hand.
The ghost of Graham slowly remerges from his rotting body.
With a deep breath, Rae dives towards Marcus.
Marcus laughs and grabs Rae's wrist. He snaps it back.
Echoes of Rae's screaming cries and the splitting of bones fill the chamber.
The ghost resumes his own nightmare, leaving Rae to hers; he floats through the doors of Marcus's chambers, continuing the journey around the castle he's trapped to make for an eternity, always returning to the remains Marcus had shackled and cursed.
"I love it when you scream," Marcus murmurs and Rae whimpers fade, her tears fall silently. "When I find out who the father of that brat is, I'm gonna kill 'im. You're mine! Never forget that." He grabs Rae's broken wrist, his mouth crooking into a grin at the piercing sounds of her screams.
With little effort, he shoves her out the door, slamming it shut. The bound remains of the unfortunate Death Eater quiver at the vibrations sent through the chambers.
Marcus angrily turns, his eyes landing upon the black satchel Rae carried with her when he took her into his chambers. He kicks it, and it spills its many secrets onto the floor, one of its secrets being the sketchbook Adrian has kept coveted for many years.
A quirk of confusion seizes Marcus as he suspiciously picks up the book
Many of the pages are filled with nothing but sketches of Rae, some more risqué than the others. There are also portraits of Adrian's parents, Terence in the middle of what seems to be a werewolf transformation, and a quick sketch of the Sorting Hat chained in a white room.
Marcus curses loudly and hurls the sketchbook into the fire pit.
"I should have known," he muses. "I'll fucking. kill. him!"
---
"Charlie's what?"
Gene Avery blinks in amazement. "Gone. Saved. Liberated," he repeats with bewilderment, counting each syllable of the words on his podgy fingers. "Didn't anyone tell you this?" he inquires, glancing at the four Weasleys left in the quaint little household. "Do you fancy more vowels to further explain his position?"
"H-H-how did this . . . how could this have happened?" Ron wonders, tripping over his tongue. He quickly glances towards Gene, huffing as he continues his chores of the day. Muttering non-verbal words beneath his breath, Ron lifts a cement incense holder of Hermione's off of an end table, running his moist dust cloth over the stained wood before placing the relic back.
Gene carelessly shrugs, his neatly cut hair falling loose before his plain-coloured, hazel eyes. "Stroke of dumb luck," he considers as he politely steps away from Ron and his new best mate--the soiled dust rag. "Didn't you question where he was?"
"We thought he was still with the traitor." Fred's unnaturally flat voice comes from beside the brick fireplace, followed by a soft snap! and a puff of silver smoke--George's double-checker king jumped backwards over Fred's white checker, obliterating it.
"If Charlie wants to spend time with the traitor, that's his fancy," George finishes.
"That traitor has a name," Gene snaps, folding his arms in a threatening manner.
George blinks up at Gene before watching Fred's game move. "Not to us." And, "Damn, that was me favourite draught!" he pouts as he removes the ash, lightly blowing it into the smouldering-red coals of the hearth.
"Why are you here, Mister Avery?" Fred asks after commanding his double white checker to jump over George's of the red colour. Running his index finger along his game piece, the checker softly purrs, sending vibrations through the black and red checkerboard.
"Business of the Last Alliance. I have something that I need you and yours to do," Gene whispers in a hushed voice.
Ron nods and grabs for an old corn broom resting against the wall beside the walk-in closet. "And what do you need me and mine to do?" he asks as he begins to sweep the living room--for the second time that day. Dust mites never sleep, according to Ron. "Bloody hell, I'm becoming an house-elf!"
Gene steps over the corn bristles and reaches inside his black robes, withdrawing a ratty, grey knapsack. He tosses it to Ron, who hurriedly leaps back. He stares at it vacantly as it falls with a thump! to the floor.
"Deliver these to some families in the area," Gene brusquely orders, raising his eyebrows as Ron jabs the knapsack twice with the end of his broom, taking a jump back in case it explodes.
"What's in it?" Ron asks as he cautiously picks it up, bringing it to his nose to sniff.
Gene snorts, shakes his head in amusement, and wonders what Ron could possibly smell from the bag. "A few wands, some common potions, and some medical supplies. The word's mum. The price we could have paid is still being tallied."
Ron salutes light-heartedly. "I'll get right on it, boss," he jokes, placing the bag underneath the dust-free end table and reaching down for his broom, hoping that he didn't splinter the wooden handle. "After the floors are swept and washed."
"Don't let the Death Eaters catch you. Or the traitor," the twins sing in unison.
Gene's eye twitches at Fred and George's comment and he crosses his arms. "Did you ever find the hero who killed Lord Voldemort?" he asks casually with an intensity hidden in his voice, watching with pleasure as the words lash against them, as Ron's broom collides with the end table, sending Hermione's incense holder crashing to the floor.
Fred pales. "How'd you--"
Gene bends forward and picks up the pieces of aftermath, sweeping cement pebbles underneath the scarlet couch when Ron isn't watching--he's still calming himself after hearing the infamous Dark Lord's name. "I hear things. Well, did you?" he replies curtly.
"No--" Fred starts.
"--Charlie burnt our paper--" George offers, his face dark at the memory.
"--Why?" Fred finishes.
Gene gives them a sideways grin. "Do you suppose that he could have known?"
"Did he?" George challenges.
"Yes." And, "Who was the first wizard you crossed off?"
"Harry," they speak with unity.
"Second?"
"The traitor," Fred explains, but only because George couldn't speak.
"Call him by his name, for he is your hero." And with that, Gene leaves.
---
Her cheek is swollen a shade of blue that was always beautiful in Adrian's eyes. Blood crusts the slight slashes adorning her pallid skin in blankets of crimson, and her stomach heaves as Rae Landon staggers into the infirmary. The doors swing shut behind her, and upon her entrance, Pansy Parkinson rushes forwards, sending an empty flask crashing to the marble in her haste.
"By Merlin, what happened?" she requests hastily, although a solitary answer has already embedded itself into her mind. Pansy places an authoritative hand upon her patient's forearm to lead her into the ward, and she then helps her into the bed beside the sleeping form of a young red-headed woman.
"Fell down some stairs," Rae wryly explains.
Pansy raises a blonde eyebrow and her hands land on her shapely hips.
"Big stairs," Rae reinforces as she rests her head upon a feather pillow.
A frown tugs on the corners of Pansy's lips and she exhales disapprovingly. "And what happens when you are seven months pregnant?" she reproaches as she wheels over a pushcart, braking alongside the infirmary bed. Resting on the pushcart is a magically enhanced ultrasound unit--all electrical currents have been replaced with mystical ones, which run at a greater efficiency and enable the unit with technology undiscovered to the Muggle community.
"I learn to run . . . keep my mouth shut . . . bite down harder next time . . ."
"Don't you use that brash tone with me, young lady."
"I hold more sway over you, so shut up and finish your job."
"We don't have ranks, Miss Landon." Pansy shakes her head; blonde curls bob about her pierced ears. Pansy unhooks Rae's robes, exposing her faintly red stomach. Squeezing an excessive amount of Gilead Balm onto her patient's abdomen, Pansy then presses the Foetoscope to Rae's skin.
"He's unharmed," Pansy explains as she replaces the Foetoscope onto the cart, pushing it towards the end of the bed and out of the way. "I wish I could say the same for you, though," she continues as she takes Rae's broken wrist with her hand, inspecting it carefully at each angle.
Rae narrows her eyes. "Just fix me. I don't need a lecture."
Pansy nods and seizes her wand from the inner pocket of her white robes. She speaks two words of in the Language of Magic and the bones melt together, reforming their proper shape. "How's this?" she asks.
Rae flinches as the magic does its painful work; she bites down on her lip, forcing a cry of pain back down her throat and into the pit of her stomach. "Better, thank you," she answers as she rotates her wrist, the bones completely healed but the tears still rimming her blue eyes.
Pansy offers Rae a friendly, yet slightly patronising, smile as she returns her wand to the inside pocket. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"You can leave," a male voice coming from the doors recommends.
Pansy twists sharply on her ivory platforms, her eyes contacting with those of Adrian Pucey. "Mister Pucey!" she exclaims with surprise, her mouth gaping at the older Slytherin with black hair.
"Adrian," Rae welcomes him cautiously, offering only a conceited smirk edged with trickling blood from an opened wound from the L of her mouth.
Adrian politely inclines his head into a reluctant greeting. His heart caroms violently behind his chest as he stares at Rae, focusing upon her so intensely that her outline becomes blurred in his tired eyes. "Please leave us alone, Pansy. Miss Landon and I have some things to discuss," he tells the medi-witch through a cracking voice.
Pansy hastily obeys, taking her leave from the infirmary without word.
Rae smiles her most enticing smile as she sits up, the bed springs creaking. "How'd you know I was here?" she asks absently as she wipes the Gilead Balm clean with the white sheets of the bed, using them, as well, for the blood cornering her mouth.
"Terence awoke to your screams. He told me," Adrian answers straightforwardly.
Rae allows herself a rueful little chuckle, and she leans forward, half-rising from the bed. "Do you know that your bloody cousin betrayed you?" she growls. She collapses back onto the bed, sighing irritably.
Adrian slouches his shoulders, taking a seat on the edge of the chair nearest Rae's bed. With a crestfallen look, he clasps his hands together. "How is it betrayal? He was never on our side," Adrian contemplates softly, his mouth beginning a thin frown.
"I'm naming our son Emmett."
"Our son! Marcus is the father" Adrian snaps, his eyes narrowing.
Rae shifts awkwardly, hugs the feather pillow to her chest and frowns. Her eyes flicker to the fine rays of sunlight streaming in through the windows as the air suddenly becomes tenser between them. The redheaded woman next to her cracks open an eye and rolls over in the bed, falling back asleep without a second glance. "He knows, Adrian," Rae begins tensely after a moment, "he's threatened to kill the real father."
"If the gods truly care, Marcus won't find that out."
