Chapter 3

Potter hands the scroll to me before putting his bag against the wall.

"Will there be more essays?"

"No," I say as my fingers unroll it. "From here on, I want you to focus on clearing your mind every night before bed. Today, I we will go over a few things you can do to help with that."

"Like what?"

I look up from his essay to stare at him. "Mostly they are various forms of meditation."

"Like the Buddhist monks?"

I nod. "That is one way, but there are many. Hindus use Yoga. The Abrahamic religions, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, prefer prayer. Others take up journaling or exercise. Some nap."

Potter snickers.

"You will not be napping as you are about to go to bed. The point of meditation to is to let go of any pent up stress you have and when you do, build defense in your mind. Anything that calms you is good. Some use a wall or a curtain. Others use a dark room. It can vary from person to person."

"Okay. So…"

"So which would you prefer?"

"I don't know."

I conjure some pillows. "Lie down on those. You can, if you like, close your eyes. Focus only on breathing. Nothing else. Not what you had for lunch. Not something your friends said or I said. Not anything."

Potter blinks, confused. "And you?"

I hold up his essay. "I will be looking at this. Now get."

He lays down on the pillows, hands clasped over his stomach. His chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm. Up…down. In…out.

I read through the essay, scanning it. I'll count it as extra credit for Defense class.

Well, it's fairly good, if a little illegible. I'm used to his writing so I follow it well enough.

I glance at him.

In…out…in…out…in…out.

I swallow. Classes during the day are safe. Very safe.

But here, I am alone with him—alone with my desire for him. I should be fine, but for how long?

I can keep telling myself it's for The Hobbit movie in Dumbledore's possession. I can keep up that pretense. Besides, the lessons are only one day a week.

"Potter?"

"Hmm?"

"How are you doing?"

"Mm…"

"Don't fall asleep."

"M'kay."

Of all the stupid…his defenses are down!

I cast a tickling charm on him. He screeches and I remove the spell. "What the fuck—"

"Potter, don't fall asleep."

"I heard you the first bloody time!" he shouted. His chest rose and fell.

"Let it go, Potter. I didn't curse you. I tickled you. It's not worth throwing a tantrum over."

He's shaking. I watch him. Will he calm down and return to his position on the pillow or will he do something he'll regret? Will he attack or will he let it go? What will he do?

He sits back down and lies on his back and disappointment settles in my chest. I wanted him to attack. I can't say why. Well, I actually can. But it's improper…inappropriate…

I look back at his essay.

His breathing steadies after a few minutes. He's calm again.

When the hour is over, I send him away.

"Don't forget you have detention tomorrow," I remind him and myself.

"Yes Sir."

The door closes behind him. I'm tempted to throw him to Filch but not enough to act on it.

The mark on my arm burns.

Perfect. Just great.

I stand and grab my death eater robes, pulling them over my shoulders. I cast a disillusionment charm on myself before exiting the classroom and walk to the exit. Filch is fast asleep, waiting for renegade students to try sneaking out of the castle.

I pass him without bothering him too much. I had to stun him once, last year. I couldn't help taking a little glee in that, as the fool had thought Umbridge was a godsend. The woman could have had his job as easily as she did mine or anyone else's.

I apparate to the meeting place and remove the charm on myself. There are only a few of us left in comparison.

The Lestranges, the Malfoys, Crabbe, Goyle, McNair, the Carrows, Pettigrew, Parkinson, Zabini, Yaxley—and myself.

There used to be more. And probably still is, but we here are those considered closest to him who had survived the years.

We grovel at his feet. I myself am choking back a lot of pride just by doing this and kissing the hem of his robe. Do you know how dirty the hem of a robe actually is after a while? It's disgusting!

"Draco's progress?"

"He is working as fast as he can," I say. "The cabinet won't be ready for some time still."

"And his other task?"

"Dumbledore still lives, but not for much longer. He is old and it is only a matter of time before Draco succeeds."

Actually, he's only attempted once and it was foiled. He'll try again when he can.

But there is no need for Lord Stick-up-his-ass to know that.

Voldemort continues to talk about how it is important to kill Dumbledore so that he can kill Potter and so on. So forth. God damn, the man's ego is so huge! Who likes to hear themselves talk that much?!

Apparently narcissistic dark lords with deadly vipers.

Nagini slithers her tongue at me. I resist the urge to make a face at her in return.

What? If you think I'm mature, you're sadly mistaken. Men don't officially reach adulthood until…sixty? Seventy? I don't know.

Dumbledore's older than that and he doesn't seem like a mature adult to me. Does he to you?

"My lord, what news of our man in the ministry?" Parkinson asks.

Voldemort turns to him, fixing a cold stare on him. "Everything is on schedule as it should be. The ministry will be in our hands perhaps sooner than expected."

There are happy murmurs at this.

Do they not know what they are trying to do? They are thinking of creating anarchy and chaos under a dictator fueled with racism which he deems is power. He is a communist. I know they don't care, but if I were to explain the evils of such a thing…would they understand? Do they not understand that what they want is genocide?

No.

They don't. They are racist and even sexist. They believe they are superior because they are from a series of great and noble lines.

Noble my foot.

Degenerate and failing is more like it.

I hide whatever horror I have and whatever anger.

We are dismissed and I go back to Hogsmeade, casting a disillusionment charm on me again and returning to the castle.

I barely make it to the grounds. Instead, I fall off the path and hide behind a tree, trying to calm my shattered nerves.

It takes a lot of effort to keep up appearances when I'm actually horrified by what I hear and see. Terrified of what I must do.

There will be a raid soon.

I will not go.

Voldemort will understand if I do not. He believes me his man in Dumbledore's folds. He will believe, while also doubting, I am doing my work for him.

Composure regained, I continue to the castle. Filch is still asleep. Good.

I pass him and almost run to my chambers. I don't. I almost do. I stride instead, reciting Tolkien's walking song (In the Fellowship of the Ring. The movie rendition only used the last verse and not even the whole verse in The Return of the King. It's semi-disappointing):

"Upon the hearth the fire is read, beneath the roof there is a bed; but not yet weary are our feet, still round the corner we may meet a sudden tree or standing stone that none have seen but we alone…"

I told you I was a die hard Ringer, did I not?

"Still round the corner there may wait a new road or a secret gate, and though we pass them by today, tomorrow we may come this way and take the hidden paths that run towards the Moon or to the Sun."

I'm not yet at my room. I turn another corner. I can see my door.

"Home is behind, the world ahead, and there are many paths to tread through shadows to the edge of night, until the stars are all alight. Then world behind and home ahead, we'll wander back to home and bed."

I enter my chamber and close the door behind me. I remove the charm and discard the heavy robes.

I walk slowly to my bed upstairs. I enter the room, past the office, and into the bedroom. I collapse in an armchair, massaging my temple.

Though I am home, my heart is heavier than my eyelids.

Though my hearth is crackling with life, I feel cold.

And though blood pumps through my body, I feel dead.