A/N I am having a problem with saving my scene change strings. It doesn't like this **** or this ^^^^. We'll see if it puts them through this time. If it doesn't, I've made the first bit of every new scene bold text so that it will be understandable until I can fix it. :) Also, the Devlin/Voldemort snippet is up.
I wanted to send a "yay!" out to my second reviewer! So: YAY! :)
"Let me help you with that." His voice is as smooth as the marble floors the woman has tripped on. Her papers lay strewn across the marble. Still on the ground, she flicks her wrist slightly and the papers, even the ones in his hands, fly to her - neatly stacked, just as they had been before. She lifts herself up, ignoring the hand he offers her.
"I'm fine, thank you very much." Undeterred, he walks beside her as she makes her way down the hallway.
"I was looking to speak to Mr. Potter, would you know where he is?" She pauses for a moment, frowning as if running some kind of information through her mind, and then turns to glare at him.
"I do run my husband's schedule, Mr. Malfoy."
"Nor was I implying such. Would you know if he where in the office today, though, or is he stuck in traffic?" Her head snaps to his grey eyes, and once again, a scowl, deep and sharp, molds itself onto her face.
"He is out of the office today, I believe. I'm headed there right now, to drop off a case file, if I am mistaken I will send a paper to your office." He bowed his head slightly, a charming Malfoy-smile ever present on his face.
"Thank you, Mrs. Potter. Mr. Potter does seem to have a lot of big case files in his office, doesn't he?" This was not meant to be answered: it was a question designed for pleasant parting, and that is just what Draco Malfoy did, he turned gracefully from her and down another hallway in the Ministry building.
Alexandra quickened her steps...
"No, but the ministry is considering the option of changing that form of the law to add more leeway-" Hermione paused, catching site of red hair, which, once its length registered, meant Alexandra. She excused herself from the conversation and went over to her friend, who was leaning on a wall nearby with all the appearance of someone waiting patiently to talk to a friend. Alexandra's appearance often lied.
"We need to talk." She said softly.
"Okay." Alexandra and she often had Order things or Ministry things to discuss; her asking to speak with her triggered no alarms. Then Alexandra took hold of her arm and led her to an empty hallway space. Finally, not only trigger the alarms but, put them on full volume, she casts every silencing charm in existence, except for the one any semi-intelligent wizard knew had the side effect of deafness for those who tried to get past it.
"I think there is something go on in Harry's office…"
He has hit the mark. It has, however, come at an expense: he must remember the memory he refers to - a night in his life he would rather pretend had never happened. "You cannot do worse." He says, paying the bill for this comment too; trying hard to cling to the anger and fear that keeps his legs from failing him.
Potter is not sure what to do, Dubhán can smell the uncertainty, yet he finds the courage - Dubhán will call it what it is - to take a step forward, toward him. It is foolhardy, however, when he tries to reach a hand out to Dubhán.
"Its not a very well known fact, Mr. Potter, but as an Auror you should be aware of it: werewolves maintain some of their poison in human form." Harry closes his eyes, yet his hand remains were it was. Dubhán calls this bravery. His grandfather would say it is "bravery: Gryffindor style".
"I'm going to trust that you wont bite me, Dubhán." He inched forward again, like he was approaching a wild, wounded, animal.
"Didn't they teach you anything in training, Potter? You shouldn't trust anyone!" Dubhán threw his weight onto his palms, which had not moved from their position against the wall, and then quickly into his legs, kicking out at Potter before he knew what was happening.
It was only Potter's luck that his office door opened to admit two witches, one of which brandished a wand and spelled Dubhán frozen in the air, before she flicked her wrist and he was floated down to a chair, where he still could not move.
"What is going on here, Harry?" She gave Dubhán an appraising glance, as if she were looking for injuries, and when she found none, went over to Harry who was bent over in pain.
"Damn!" He leaned his bent back against the wall, arms wrapped around his stomach. Geoffrey did not move from his position, and Hermione only shut the door, standing stone-like in front of its closed surface.
"I didn't hit you that hard." Dubhán mocked from his position, though he could not see Potter, and his mind was more on the witch at the door and the one behind him.
"I don't want to know what he thinks is hard!" Potter coughed out, allowing Alexandra to cast a pain-relieving spell on him.
"You must keep in mind, Mr. Potter, that Dubhán is both a werewolf, which allows him to take more brute injuries and heal from them quickly, and is very talented at suppressing discomfort." Geoffrey said, looking at the boy in disappointment.
"I was referring to his tantrum."
Nagini's head rises off of the floor, tongue flickering in and out like some kind of sonar. Slowly, Voldemort looks up from the book he has been regarding and turns to his snake, and then to the door her eyes bore into. He smiles: "Draco, do come in."
There is no hesitancy in the hand that turns the knob, no pause in the footing; each is done in one fluid movement. Entering, he is as polished and primed as always, as calm in appearance and as willing to bow lowly to his master as any other day.
"He is with Potter, My Lord." He is intelligent, calculating; he needn't be told Voldemort's mood will not tolerate small talk.
"Do I have a traitor on my hands?" He asked, motioning for Malfoy to rise from his bow. He is a master of reading others; he wants to see Malfoy's eyes.
"I do not believe so, My Lord, but my calculations are nothing compared to yours." He is meticulously mannered in the way of speak to those below and, more so, above himself.
"I want them both alive." Voldemort holds up the book he had been reading for Draco to take. Draco does not stare at in confusion, he keeps his gaze with Voldemort, and waits for the explanation he knows will come. "When you first find him, I doubt you will be able to get him out. He was reading this book, make sure he gets it, and make sure you only fail to retrieve him that once."
"Yes, My Lord." He is alert, cunning; he never turns his back on Voldemort: he bows lowly and walks to the door. "I will do as you ask." He does not say he will do his best, or he will try; such weak assurances are useless, there only reward is punishment: he tells his Master that it willbe done.
Desires are worthless causes...in the end, they don't do anything helpful; in the end, they make things worse. To desire to do something is to be crestfallen when that desire does not happen; Dubhán cannot risk such weaknesses. He learned this when he had wished to go home the last time, when, at the age of four, he had wanted his mother. It was only after he had thrown that desire away, labeled it impossible, and left it to the wind, that he had been able to think about survival.
It is harder when the woman is in front of him.
When she looks up from the letter she has finished to Dumbledore and the one she is beginning for another 'friend', and gives him a secret smile.
It is harder when she asks if he is all right.
It is hardest of all when she tells him everything will be all right.
"Nothing is ever alright," Dubhán whispers to her, and for a moment her secret cheer falters, and he can throw the desire away.
"Sometimes things change," she says, finishing the letters and walking behind him, to where he cannot turn, for he is still frozen, and sends the envelopes through the fire.
On her way back, she sends a slight glance at him, but then deems it better not to speak to him again, or flash him another secret smile, and walks over to Potter, and the brown haired witch who are talking together. Perhaps she thinks he does not want it; he will not ask for it.
Desires are best ignored; otherwise, you're only living for them.