WEASLEY
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Ginny snarls at Hermione's retreat; a bitter, accusing sort of thing. It is like her, these days, as much as it is like Hermione to storm out while house elves scurry to get out of the way. "Intimidating helpless creatures, muttering dark spells, letting her robes billow like she's the second coming of Severus Snape…" t's the sort of thing Ginny mutters when she thinks no one is listening. But someone is always listening these days.
Neville Longbottom, Bearer of Gryffindor's sword - kind gentle Neville who never used to let anything die in his hands – watches her with wary eyes and shakes his head. "Shut up Ginny and help me weed out these Touchlings." She glares his way but does as Neville says. Even a hothead like Ginny knows better than to stir the wrath of two heads of the Resistance Faction.
As the sound of Hermione's agitated footsteps echo away, Ginny's erratic breathing shallows into something less desperate and more restrained. She comes to the greenhouse most days to watch the peace that radiates from Neville no matter the circumstance or tragedy, but there is a danger lurking close to the surface that keeps her cautious today.
"It's smart," he says, more to himself than to her. "Kingsley's shady and connected enough to be in the know about news on the surface. And… he's managed to stay alive this long without our protection. His talent for political strategy is an asset."
"Until we become expendable."
"We'll deal with that bridge when we get to it, Gin."
"How could you just let them…" she shakes her head, fuming, "They're going to let him take them!"
"Gin!"
"They trusted us to keep them safe! Protected us when it mattered. You're just as heartless as your Master!"
She expects Neville to shoot her a glare when she says it. Nev, like George and Dean and Susan, follow Hermione these days with the kind of fierce loyalty that borders on devotion. She understands why - remembers better than anyone what it was like in those early days after Harry had died. The ruthlessness of Voldemort's assaults, the utter chaos when Moody and then McGonagall finally fell. It was the grief and the starvation. The fear of being hunted. The hiding out in the darkest corners of the Forbidden Forest while grown men and deranged murderers hunted them.
It was salvation and light the morning Neville's Patronus finally found her.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," she whispers, finally noticing the dirt that's ruined the seams of her last wearable slacks. Molly would chastise her for being so unladylike if she were here. Ron would laugh at her, merciless. Harry would love her regardless, if not because of her boyishness. What good does it matter? They're all dead now anyways. Hard Hermione and cold Neville and mindless Georgie are all that's left. And maybe she can make it all that matters, make it the only thing that's important before it becomes the death of her.
"She decides," Neville says, and she pretends the burn in her throat doesn't choke her even after all these years.
"She decides," she returns.
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NOTT
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The tap of a wand. A whispered Leglimens. Bella's usual cackle as Amina Zabini dips delicately to a low and graceful bow. Her son – wisely – pauses in his rousing speech to offer one of his own to their master, drawing all frenzied eyes to their Lord and Master, who presides like choirmaster over their entire show. For the first time, Senior Nott eyes the Zabini heir for a moment, noting his subtle cunning and smooth approach. He's got a good head for politics, he thinks fleetingly. It will serve him well.
"My… Victorious… People…" The Dark Lord begins, and despite his age, skill, and experience - Nott can't help but flinch at how the words crawl sharply across his thoughts. He feels the quick search of the Dark Lord across the mind (ignores the urge to hide his ever-growing disgust towards his only son) and welcomes the intrusion. That the Dark Lord can command so many thoughts in a moment is a feat as astounding as it is legendary. The Elder Death Eater can sense the pride his brother-in-arms feel to witness such supremacy, and their fear such influence can turn against them at any moment.
"Last night, with the fall of the last known illegal Mudblood residence –" The crowd boos viciously at this, and Bellatrix laughs in delight at the sound. The Dark Lord offers a sympathetic smile at them, as a pleased father might indulge the whims of his favourite child. "Our worthy soldiers captured the last dying embers of the Order of the Phoenix!"
At this the crowd grows wild with hoots and hollers, fists pumping against the air and chants of 'AVADA THE SCUM!' spread across massive gathering. Nott notes with dismay the shrivelling numbers of their Wizarding population. Soon, very soon, he will be forced to suggest a marriage law as a solution to their declining numbers, as none of those other dimwits are brave or perhaps foolish enough as to imply any sort of problem with the new Regime. Senior Nott, however, has played the game long enough to know that bearing the brunt of the Dark Lord's ire temporarily for the long-term benefit of their group will mean gaining the trust of their Master in the long haul.
"Watch, my children, at how the vermin scatter for scraps while we feast in luxury!" Voldemort laughs, and the crowd goes wild. Still high off the bounties they have secured for themselves in the wake of their recent victories.
"I am proud to declare that we have taken Wizarding Paris, The Enchanted Forests of the German Fae, and soon – will crush the traitorous Seers of Icelandic descent!" There are more roars and applause now, the crowd becoming unhinged and boisterous. Nott can feel the beginnings of a spell upon the group and turns his eyes quickly to Bella to make sure. Sure enough, a wide grin spreads across her sharp features as she mouths an incantation, her fingers swift and dexterous as she works at complex movements. The haze that falls over his own mind is intoxicating and delicious, darker than lust, and he grins as he lets the darkness wash over him. No wonder they consider her insane, he thinks. To feel this, always, would drive most men to the brink of Insanity.
Suddenly, stunning men and women of all ages are ushered into the room by the new recruits. The descendants of the ancient German Fae – from the looks of it, and all go mum at the sight of them. They are beautiful. Veela and Fae and everything else in-between. Less than Wizards and Witches. Creatures really, worth only servitude to them in any number of creative ways. Some of the small ones are snivelling pathetically, clinging to others. Others sway with hunger or fatigue. But Nott only sees one of them, his mind marketing her out quickly as he identifies almost immediately what it is about her that calls out to him.
Lord Voldemort's voice slips into silken tones as Bella's spells slips even further into his mind, planting seeds of torture and savagery. He will have her. He will devour her. Break her small, little body and fold her until her mind breaks in half. He did it before once, many years ago. To the only woman foolish enough to give him a son.
He'll do it again, tonight. Smother out the righteous fire in her eyes.
"And now, my children," the Dark Lord continues, a sweetly serene smile gracing his scaly features, "Enjoy your winnings!"
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ZABINI
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"You've been twitchy all evening."
Pansy's movements are their usual sleek and easy as she makes her way towards him. Her crimson silk swirls invitingly around her figure, and not for the first time, it astounds Blaise that she can wear so much and so little simultaneously.
He lifts a shot of Firewhiskey off the nearest floating tray, loosening his tie as he does it. Pansy, customarily, slips a hand into his jacket, her smile aimed at another socialite who's made a joke ay her date's expense. "So tense," she whispers into his ear, "Whatever it is, stop it."
Its enough to snap him out of his riverie. Pansy, contrary to whatever she portrays, is as intelligent and cunning as any Slytherin. He follows her eyes subtly enough to notice two unfamiliar faces watching them, and he forces himself to smile at her before dipping his head to kiss her neck.
She bats him away as his kisses grow feverish, laughing as a delicate blush steal across her cheeks. "Get a room, you guys!" He hears Tracy's voice from somewhere across the room, "It's been years. It can't still be that good." She grins.
"If only you knew," He smirks in return, earning a warning glare from his… 'girlfriend.'
With a roll of her eyes Pansy grabs his hand, dragging him towards the dance floor much the same way as she'd dragged him to this event. It was imperative, she'd said, to present a united front these days. The world was going crazy, and her mother was asking her questions about their plans for their future. It hadn't escaped anyone's notice that they were the only two purebloods in their circle who still weren't married.
"Merlin I'm too old for this," Blaise says, glaring at the overhead lights and their multi-coloured reflections. "What is this, Hogwarts?"
"It's a party. When's the last time you attended one of these things?"
Too recently for his liking. Seeing his face- and perhaps reading his mind despite his Occlumency shields - she frowns at him. Blaise sighs. He enjoyed these things too, once. Found a way to fade mindlessly into them like Pansy does. There was a time when he was young and reckless, and possibilities stretched out before him like the morning sun. But then Draco died, and he learned what it meant to be practical. To worry about the thinks lurking in the Dark.
"You are becoming soft at a most inopportune time…" Is Pansy's non-sequitur. He finds it hard to contest her.
Instead, he curls a hand most intimately around her waist, letting the other trail to the expanse of her bared back. Pansy's uncharacteristic blush is immediate and subtle, and he enjoys it enough to dip her into a small bow in appreciation. He pulls her flush against him, a warning in his eyes.
"You are a fine actor," he murmurs in a tone far removed from romantic one most might expect. "Put me to shame. What are you doing, silly rabbit, dressed like that at a Death Eater suare?"
She brushes against him in a way that abruptly reminds him of his masculinity. "Reminding you that I am a woman, because it seems you've forgotten."
Her answer, while very Pansy-ish, confuses him for a moment. It's the sort of thing he heard her say to Draco at least half a dozen times throughout school. The sort of argument that led to the slow unravelling of their relationship years ago, even before Draco died. And it is completely against their unspoken agreement not to push at the limits of the agreement they've created.
Because, no matter what carefully detailed ruse they might have constructed these last few years, he and Pansy are not actually in a relationship.
He senses eyes on them and does a quick study of the room. Frustrated when he sees nothing out of the ordinary. Pansy was right to warn him about fixing his attitude. Everyone is suspect now, everyone a Dark Lord Spy. He might not be a good wizard by any stretch of the word, but it would not do to be caught sympathising with magical creatures, not even if they were raped and tortured as a rally pastime.
"Heard about Nott?" Pansy asks.
"Nott?"
"Yup. Apparently Daphne's been betrothed to him."
There are no words to describe the dread that washes over him at the thought. He remembers senior Nott's face, the way he'd singled out the girl at the rally, the brutality -
Pansy's words draw him out of his horror, her face compassionate, and he knows immediately that she's drawn to the wrong conclusion. "I know you two have history… you've always been protective of her in a special way, but Theo will be good to her. Sure, she'll probably spend a lot of time hiding from her insane father-in-law, but… it's a good match, all things considered."
Blaise knows better than to mention that it takes two people to make a successful marriage, but he doesn't think his bitter tone will go well with the woman that's suddenly trying to trap him in an engagement for some unknown reason.
He decides to deflect instead, "I do like the dress Pansy, really, but I would wear it less often in your place." At her annoyed face he adds, "Never know who might try to steal your heart from me."
Pansy senses his warning immediately and pales, "Who? Senior Nott?" she asks teasingly, glancing about them as though concerned someone might be listening.
"Lestrange has a thing for brunettes," he mentions flippantly, turning her.
"He's married!" Pansy protests. And he only shoots her a deadpan look in return.
Barely, Blaise admits in Leglimens, and be more discreet. According to Fenrir, your disappearances have been noted. Who is he?
He?
At her feigned confusion, he shakes his head . Don't play me for a fool Pans. Not a half blood this time, is it?
Her incredulous laugh catches him off guard, and he realises belatedly that they're no longer dancing. "Jealous?"
Far from it. He's furious if anything. They never talk about it, but Draco's death has left them both damaged in ways that are difficult to explain. She's kept him from the worst of his darkness, and in return, he's kept her safe from the other Death Eater's notice as best as he can, though their ruse is contingent on their perceived sense of fidelity. If anyone suspects she's sneaking around behind his back...
"For Merlin's sake, get yourself together!" he hisses. "Merlin forbid one of the wolves come across you smelling like something unsavory —"
He growls before he can even finish the sentence, so furious he can barely see straight. She calls his name as he tears away from her grasp, storming away as the slight throb in his temple grows into a headache. He shouldn't have come. This cave is crawling with snakes, and he's not in the mood to charm.
He crashes into a mass of acromantula silk as he turns the corner, grabbing hold and turning on instinct so he will take the brunt of the fall and whoever he's collided with. The length of her is soft and warm, whimpering as she tumbles onto him, her breath hit in his ears. For a slow, heady moment, Blaise's hand curls into the skin of her waist, his nose drawing in her soft, sultry scent. His body awakens in a way that reminds him that its been a long time since he touched woman – really touched a woman – and sharply, almost in retaliation to the thought, he pushes away.
He disentangles himself swiftly, smoothing out his robes quickly before holding an arm. "My apologies, I did not see you there."
He trails off as she lifts her golden eyes to him, pushing her long tresses out of her face, and in one sharp horror-filled moment he recognises her. She is out of place here, in her glittering gold dress and the bruises and bite marks along her face and collar bone. Her cheeks and lips are pink though, and strangely enough, remind him of rose petals.
His step back is instinctual, as though to keep her out of his thoughts. How had he not recognised her that night, at the party. How had he forgotten her at all?
"Lovegood," he says. And catches himself before he can utter another apology. Knowing what she is now, it would label him an Order sympathiser. Which he isn't and has never been.
"Seems you're looking with more than your eyes." Is all she says, before another voice calls out her name, drawing them both back to the present.
"Father will be expecting us shortly," Is all Theo says as he steps towards them, his eyes suspicious but impatient as he eyes Blaise. Vaguely, Blaise notices the low, deep bow Luna offers to her new owner.
"Zabini."
"Theo. I hear congratulations are in order. Daphne's-"
"Yes, yes... If you'll excuse us, Blaise…" Theo says absently, grabbing Luna's arm and dragging her away. It is clear to Blaise, even now, that the young Nott heir is enamoured with his father's slave.
He realises, belatedly, that he never recognised her as a Veela, even though her golden features have always been an indicator.
"Don't disappear again," Theo orders sharply, and Blaise hears the young woman's sharp gasp, as though he's applied pressure to one of her still-healing scars. "Like father, I am not a particularly patient man."
Ignoring his sudden unease, Blaise turns away and slips away into the darkness.