SEPTEMBER 2ND, 1997
Draco walked toward Voldemort's house, his stomach twisted into a horribly tight knot. He had barely been through writing his report for Yaxley and Thicknesse when his Dark Mark had burned, demanding his presence here. Not daring to keep Voldemort waiting, he had run full-speed to the Ministry Floo network, Floo'd to the manor, ran outside, and Apparated as soon as he was outside of the manor's wards— a longer process than Voldemort probably wanted when he summoned one of his servants.
As he hurried toward the front door, he kept his eyes on the sky and his mind on the sea, pulling every single spare thought deep under the waves. He didn't know exactly what he was walking into, but given that Potter had escaped… he was certain it would be a punishment of some kind. He had never been punished by the Dark Lord before, and hoped for but did not expect mercy. Whatever it was, he would have to survive it. Ginny had survived an entire month of Rookwood. He could survive whatever this was.
Still though, Goyle's agonized face refused to stay below the sea waves, floating back to him again and again. Was that what he was going to look like in a few minutes? His stomach lurched, and he had to force himself not to vomit as he opened the front door and started toward the ballroom. Whatever it was, he would survive it. Ginny needed him. He would have to survive it.
His mind on the horizon line where the sky met the sea, he opened the ballroom door, his hand slick with sweat.
They weren't alone. The Dark Lord was on his throne, Ginny beside him, and there were a handful of Death Eaters here— all senior-ranking. Draco gulped as he bowed to the Dark Lord before walking further in… an audience wasn't a good sign.
"Finally, you arrive," the Dark Lord said, the Elder Wand held loosely in his right hand. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to show up at all, Draco. That would have been a profoundly foolish decision."
Draco bowed again as he came to a stop about two-thirds of the way into the room. "Of course, my lord. I will always come when you call."
"Hmm. Perhaps you will," Voldemort said. "But your inaction today says otherwise."
Draco's stomach lurched again as he rose from his bow. Inaction? What did that mean? What had he not done? Stop Potter? But how—
"Your Occlumency skills are very good," the Dark Lord said in a bored voice, "but not better than my Legilimency. I can feel your panic from here, boy."
"I know I have disappointed you, my lord—"
Voldemort laughed. "Disappointed. Yes, disappointed could be a word for it. Today has been a day of disappointments, of near captures and quick escapes. On top of this Ministry fiasco, the Mulcibers report nearly capturing their errant daughter along with her half-blood child, and they let them slip away, but not before possibly killing someone whom I had expressly ordered not be killed."
Draco didn't know anything about the Mulcibers having a daughter, besides the now third-year that was at Hogwarts. He didn't dare ponder it too much though. He stayed silent, waiting to be asked to speak.
"Young Harry sneaks into the Ministry, protected by Polyjuice Potion, and not only do we have no idea why he infiltrated the Ministry, neither you nor Yaxley managed to detect his presence nor stop him once he was on the escape path. Yes, I would call that a disappointment."
"I… I'm sorry, my lord," he stuttered, his heart pounding. "I tried—"
"You tried? I think you're confusing yourself with Yaxley. You ran after him, of course, and fired off some minor jinxes, but you made no real effort to stop him or his little friends. Yaxley, unlike you, held onto the Mudblood Granger— taking a leaf out of young Goyle's book, perhaps— and was at least able to deliver me something."
Draco held his breath. What did that mean? Had Yaxley captured Granger? He hadn't seen that… it had seemed like they had gotten away, all three of them. He glanced at Ginny, who stared straight ahead, stony-faced. Surely if Hermione Granger had been captured, Ginny would look more upset?
"I now have access to the Black family residence, which Potter was using as his hideout," Voldemort said. "Yaxley broke through the protection of the Fidelius Charm, and Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place is no longer a secret from our ranks. If Harry is foolish enough to return there, we will catch him in an instant, but even if he does not, it is possible he left clues behind. The place will be searched for anything useful."
Draco remained silent. Yaxley was here too, standing in line with the others near the base of the dais. His long hair was disheveled and he looked like he had been sweating.
"Eamon, Everard, and Corban have all had their punishments, Draco," the Dark Lord said in a soft whisper. "For… disappointing me. Now it's your turn, don't you think?"
His throat was so dry. "Yes, my lord."
Voldemort chuckled. "Our little Gryffindor has rubbed off on you… such bravery. So unlike your cowardly friend."
"My lord—" his father started.
"Lucius, if you speak one more word without my permission today, I will rip your tongue clean out."
Lucius fell silent.
"Your son is a man grown," the Dark Lord continued. "I'll hear no further nonsense of you coddling him, or demanding he quit his job at the Ministry. He has adult responsibilities, and is ready for adult consequences."
Draco kept his gaze away from Ginny as he flexed his fingers, preparing himself for the Cruciatus Curse. He had not felt it for very long, or very often, but today, he knew, would be different.
"However," Voldemort said in that same soft tone. "It would be unfair to give you the same punishment Yaxley just received, considering Yaxley did manage to salvage something out of the situation. And really, endless use of the Cruciatus can grow so tedious…"
Ginny's head whipped toward him, and he laughed loudly.
"That would be delicious, little saint, but no, that's not what I have in mind. You're staying right here, don't worry."
Was Ginny worried about her being tortured in his place?
"You've had a very privileged upbringing, Draco," Voldemort said. "Your passion to advance our mission is admirable, but you've only heard tales of Muggles. You've never really been around them, to understand them."
Draco remained silent, his palms sweating, unsure where this was going.
"Wizards have always been able to rely on the Cruciatus, and really, why use anything else when it's so effective? But Muggles have had to be more… creative. You should understand how brutal, how cruel, your enemy can be."
Draco's stomach dropped. He knew in that moment, by the cruel glint in the Dark Lord's eyes, that he was in more danger than he had ever been in in his life.
"Turn around, Draco."
If he looked at Ginny now, he would lose it. She had been so, so strong. He could be strong too. He had to be.
He turned around.
A light sound behind him told him that the Dark Lord had descended from the dais.
"Hmm," the Dark Lord said, pretending to consider. "I suppose they didn't take into account wizards' robes… we'll just do this."
For a split second, Draco thought the Dark Lord had made him naked. His robes were gone, and his chest was bare, but his bottom half was thankfully covered in Quidditch-style trousers.
"Put your hands up, straight out in front of you."
"Please."
Ginny's voice.
It's okay, he sent down the bridge, even though it wasn't, it wasn't at all, but she couldn't get involved, she couldn't—
"It's not your turn to speak, Ginny. Be quiet."
Ginny didn't speak, but she must have thought something, for Voldemort laughed.
"Yes, I suppose that is what a saint is for," he said, amusement in his tone. "Would you like to pray, Draco?"
He had to protect her, and their plan.
"No, my lord. I accept my punishment."
"Even though you don't know what it is yet?"
"Y-yes, my lord."
"Finally some fear. Something you'll be familiar with by the end of today."
A thick wooden post appeared in front of Draco, and in an instant thick ropes bound his arms around it so that he was hugging the post. He clenched his teeth, trying to fight off panic. What in Merlin's name was about to happen?
"You can start standing if you wish, but if you have to kneel, I understand," Voldemort said, and then a resounding crack filled the air, almost like Apparition. For the briefest second, Draco thought nothing had happened, and then his whole back was on fire. It felt just like the Sectumsempra had… oh gods, was that what was happening?
"That's one," Voldemort said. "I think we'll do seventeen— one for every year of your life. The Muggles call these lashings. No longer practiced, as I understand it, but this was a common disciplinary measure for centuries."
Crack. Draco clenched his teeth as tears pricked his eyes.
"Two."
Ginny sobbed, and Draco's bound hands tightened into fists.
It's alright, Ginny. Don't respond to me in case he hears you now. It's alright. I'm with you. I'm always with you.
Crack.
"Three," Voldemort said, and Draco could not help but scream here— talking to Ginny had distracted him. The skin on his back was ripped open, he could feel it. It burned without ceasing, so shocking it took his breath away.
As the Dark Lord predicted, he dropped to his knees at eight, and lost the ability to form conscious thoughts somewhere around eleven. There was only the pain, only the screams scraping his throat raw, only the sharp edges of the post digging into his arms, leaving splinters behind.
He wasn't brave like Ginny. Not even close. He wouldn't survive this, he couldn't, how was he not dying—
"Seventeen," the Dark Lord said, his voice dripping with satisfaction.
The ropes binding Draco's arms disappeared, and he collapsed backward, screaming again as his raw flesh hit the stone floor. He blinked, his vision spotty as he tried to focus.
"Well would you look at that?" the Dark Lord said. "Now the back matches the front. Lucius, clean up this mess and get your son out of my sight. I will let you know when he is invited back."
A flash of blonde hair appeared in Draco's line of sight. There was a murmur of words, something Draco couldn't quite make out, and then he knew only blackness.
…
He woke up screaming.
"I'm sorry, my darling, but I have to, I have to!" his mother cried.
It took him a second to come to enough awareness to realize that he was laying facedown in his own bed at Malfoy Manor, and his mother was sitting beside him, dabbing some kind of potion on his ruined back. She touched him again, and he screamed.
"Draco, I'm sorry—" Narcissa sobbed.
"He needs to be knocked out for this," Lucius said stiffly, from slightly further away. "Stupefy."
Draco fell into darkness once again.
…
He woke up again, and he wasn't screaming, but he was still on his stomach. His back felt very sticky. Judging by the lighting in the room, night had fallen. He tried to sit up, and immediately gave that up as an impossible option. He would be remaining on his stomach for… well, he didn't know how long. Maybe forever. That didn't sound so bad…
Lucius stepped into Draco's line of sight, magicking a chair over to sit next to Draco's bed. His pale face was ashen as he sat down.
"I'm sorry, Father," Draco said, even though he didn't quite know what he was sorry for. Sorry he was in this situation in the first place. Sorry his father had had to watch. Sorry his father hadn't been able to do anything about it.
"I am forbidden from forbidding you from working at the Ministry, so I will not," he said in a monotone, "but I am not forbidden from saying this. I once told you that Ginny Weasley would be the key to securing our family's future in the new regime. I was wrong. You are to stay away from her as much as you possibly can."
"What?" Draco demanded, pushing up a little bit on his arms and wincing.
"I know you see it. We all see it."
"See what?"
"Don't be stupid. If you think that punishment wasn't personal, you're fooling yourself. I will not allow it. I will not allow you to needlessly throw yourself in harm's way for a girl who nearly tore your arm off—"
"She didn't do it."
"So she says. A wise thing to tell you, given her circumstances."
"I saw the memory. She didn't do it."
"You're ripped to shreds, and all you can think about is defending her," Lucius said with a sneer. "You seem to be forgetting your lessons, Draco. Malfoys first."
"We did the Rite of Anam Cara," Draco blurted, blinded by pain and desperation and weakness. "Weeks ago. She's a Malfoy too."
Lucius seized Draco's shoulder, and Draco cried out, and Lucius immediately let go, seeming to come back to himself.
"Tell me you didn't," he pleaded.
"We did," Draco said, already regretting saying anything. "And the Dark Lord has no idea. He can't see the memories of us speaking through the bond, just like the Alys memories. My secret is safe… as long as you keep it."
Lucius angrily flicked his wand, and one of Draco's bookshelves exploded, paper flying everywhere.
"You stupid, stupid boy," he snarled. "Why would you do such a stupid thing?"
"We were going to be married anyway."
"You assume you were going to be married anyway. That's looking less likely with each passing day. And now, if the Dark Lord finds out…"
"He won't. He probably doesn't even know what it is. Ginny's part of the Sacred 28 and she didn't know what it was."
"Ginny is a blood traitor," Lucius said with a sneer. "Whatever the Dark Lord decides to call her. She knows nothing of tradition, of legacy."
"And neither does the Dark Lord."
"Do not speak treason!" Lucius had risen to his feet.
"I'm not," Draco said, fighting to keep his tone patient. "The Dark Lord didn't grow up in a Wizarding household— it's clear. He didn't know who Beedle the Bard was, remember? If he doesn't know that, what makes you think he knows about this? He doesn't know about it, and has no reason to go looking for something that's protected against outside access, unless you tell him, Father."
Lucius said nothing for a long moment. "So what would you have me do with this information, my son?"
"Nothing. Leave it alone."
"And the next time I have to watch you being whipped, or worse?"
"Well, I'm hoping to avoid a repeat performance," Draco said, trying and failing for some levity. "But you and I both know the Rite can't be undone. Telling the Dark Lord wouldn't go so well for me, don't you think?"
After a long, tense moment, Lucius sat down again. "Well, no one can say you're not a Malfoy. Blackmail runs in our blood. We aren't usually using ourselves as the threat, but bravo. Well-played."
"Thank you, Father."
"So what will you do, then?"
"Serve the Dark Lord faithfully, of course. Once I'm healed up, I will return to the Ministry and continue my work there, and, until I directly hear otherwise, I will assume that I am still supposed to be prepared for public appearances with Ginny. When he allows, I will return to his home—"
"You need to stay away from her, do you understand?" Lucius interrupted, his eyes wide and his voice laced with desperation. "You're antagonizing the situation."
"I am obeying my lord faithfully. I have not done anything he has said he does not want."
"I don't…" Lucius trailed off. "I do not think the Dark Lord is clear on what, exactly, he wants. But I have known him a long time, and his behavior toward the girl is unlike how he has behaved toward anyone else."
"She's immortal, that only makes sense."
"Draco. If you love me at all, you will heed my words— there is only danger in that direction. Keep your contact with her minimal if it must happen at all— it will be better for you and better for her."
"Now who's blackmailing?"
Lucius said nothing.
"I'm tired, Father. I need to rest."
His father stood up. "Think on what I've said. I… I love you very much, and I can't stomach the thought of anything taking you away from me. The world tries hard enough to destroy us, Draco; don't make its job any easier."
He swept from the room, and when the door closed, Draco said, "I love you too, Father."
He laid awake, still on his stomach, for a good while longer, his mind on Ginny. He tried briefly to reach out to her, but she didn't respond. It was likely too late at night— she was probably already asleep. It would have to wait until the morning.
SEPTEMBER 3RD, 1997
"I was beginning to think you weren't ever going to fall asleep. I was growing impatient."
Tom's voice. Ginny kept her eyes resolutely closed. She had tried very hard not to fall asleep, but she had apparently lost that battle. She vaguely remembered the room growing impossibly warm, like she had stepped into a great big bathtub and was being gently lulled under.
"I didn't want to go to sleep," she said.
"I can see that. You must have been practically falling asleep standing up, with all the pacing you were doing."
"Please just let me wake up," she said. "I can't take anything else today."
Draco's screams, his back torn to shreds, the way he arched away from the whip... it all flashed in her mind again and again.
The air wherever they were grew colder, and Ginny shivered.
"I'm tired of disappointment, little saint," he said in that same soft, cruel whisper his physical counterpart had spoken in this afternoon. "Open your eyes."
Her left arm pulsed, and her eyes snapped open, but she saw only darkness. Terror raced through her— had he made her blind?— but then he stepped into her line of sight. They were in the same blackness that they had been in during her first dream... in the vault. Ginny had the feeling of dangling in the air— there was no ground for her to rest her feet on, but it was like she was invisibly suspended.
"I was going to let you choose the scenario, since you were so good for me this morning," he said, taking a step closer to her, "but I've had a very... disappointing afternoon, to use your beau's word."
Ginny said nothing as she experimentally wiggled her wrists and ankles, trying to figure out if she could move freely in the space or if she was restrained.
"Where would you go, even if you could move? This place isn't a place— it's potential. There's no ground for you to run on, not even any distance to travel. Until I will it otherwise, there is only this."
Ginny's chest tightened. She knew that, or had at least suspected it, but hearing him say it made her heart clench uncomfortably.
"Harry Potter slips through my Death Eaters' grasp, right in the heart of the Ministry itself," he said, his voice growing sharp. "And we have no idea what he was after. Freeing Mudbloods? Possible, perhaps... he does have a bleeding heart, just like you. But why today? Yaxley went through the logs, and no one on the list for trial today had any connection to Potter, or his two friends."
Ginny stayed quiet. She had asked herself those same questions earlier today, though not in the same words, and had been unable to come up with any particular answers.
"Although, I do have to remember that Potter is only seventeen," he said, seemingly more to himself than to her. "He's no great military strategist, and he no longer has Dumbledore to guide him. It's entirely possible that today was random chance. Bella is spending the next couple of days searching the house, as it rightfully belongs to her, so we will see if your dear Harry left any hints of his plans behind."
He took another step closer to her, and Ginny tried and failed to back up.
"You almost gained a friend back today, little saint," he said, his dark eyes roving over her face. "Kathleen, I believe her name is."
Ginny's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"
"She didn't tell you? Her mother is a Mulciber. Cordelia ran away from the family when she was still in school, and after a time they presumed her dead. But she was, in fact, pretending to be a Muggle," he said, disgust dripping from his every word.
Ginny's eyes widened further still. Kathleen, descended from Death Eaters? It was impossible... but why would he make this up? And Kathleen did say her mum ran away from the Wizarding world...
"Cordelia Mulciber's father and brother went to retrieve her, and her half-blood daughter, who so happens to be a close friend of yours, and somehow they couldn't manage it," he said with a sneer. "Kathleen and her filthy Muggle father managed to escape through an unauthorized Portkey, and Cordelia Apparated away soon after, though not before her father hit her with a curse so badly that it will be a miracle if she survives it."
Ginny's eyes filled with tears as she gasped, and Tom turned his back on her.
"She is welcome to turn herself in at St. Mungo's, of course," he continued, crossing his hands behind his back, "but I imagine she's not amenable to the conditions that would require."
"What conditions would those be?" Ginny asked in a tremulous voice. Maybe she could negotiate some kind of safety for them... she couldn't let Kathleen's mum die... but how would they even find her?
Tom laughed, sharp and cruel. "You are impossible. Perhaps I should remind you of the terms of our agreement. I told you that your family will not be killed under any circumstances, and anyone else on our agreed-upon list won't be killed unless it is absolutely unavoidable. It is not up to you to decide their circumstances beyond that— those decisions rest with me and me alone. If and when Cordelia Mulciber is apprehended, or she chooses to turn herself in to save her own life, she will give up her foolish Muggle husband and make a proper, pureblood match instead. She would be a good candidate for your tattoo." He glanced over his shoulder at her, looking at her left arm, before facing forward again. "And I was considering giving her daughter to you as a companion, but perhaps not. Perhaps she'll simply go back to school, where she's supposed to be."
"What if I gave you something else?" Ginny said, scrambling. "Would you save Cordelia's life then, without all of that?"
"It is unlikely we'll find her before the curse runs its course," he said before turning back around. "But what would you give me?"
Ginny had not thought this part through. "I don't know. I'll... I'll hold Nagini."
He tilted his head, nonplussed, before laughing. "You'll hold Nagini," he repeated. "Why would that do anything?"
"I don't know," Ginny said desperately, squirming in her invisible bonds. "I just know that you wanted me to. I'll hold her here, just like... just like the first time. You don't have to make me."
He was silent for a long moment. "In exchange for Cordelia Mulciber's life."
"In exchange for her life, and letting the three of them go free," Ginny said. "They're not Order members, they're no threat to you. Let them go, and do whatever you can to save Cordelia's life, and I'll do this for you."
He walked several paces closer to her, stopping when he was right in front of her. She was dangling a little bit up in the air, she realized; she was just slightly taller than him from this angle, when normally he dwarfed her.
"What if I have a higher price?" he asked, reaching out and cupping her chin.
Ginny gulped. "I'm open to negotiating."
He tilted his head again, his eyes never leaving her face. "You are unusual, Ginny Weasley. Fine— my terms are these: we repeat 'the first time,' as you called it, but not just Nagini— I want all of it. You won't be held down, you won't be magically compelled, I won't even correct you if you falter. But if you falter... the deal is off. I am tired of being disappointed, and if I end the night disappointed, so will you."
Ginny opened her mouth to agree, but he wasn't done speaking.
"And," he said, tilting her chin in his hand a bit, "I want a repeat of the other dream you prematurely ruined, or at least part of it. I'm not going to make you forget who you are, and you don't need to pretend we're anyone different, but the rest... the rest is the same."
"You want a dance," Ginny said dubiously.
"And a walk in the gardens, as that did seem to be where the dream was heading next. Same rules apply— no compulsion, no corrections. It will be up to you to make sure I'm not disappointed again."
Ginny stared at him for a long moment, her mind racing as she tried to figure out what trick he was trying to play. Or… was this an opportunity?
"I'm waiting on an answer, Ginny. You're the one who offered to make this deal, and now you keep me waiting."
"I accept the terms," she said. These things were inconsequential, weren't they? Especially when compared to an innocent woman's life?
Tom's face lit up like Christmas had come early, though he mastered himself quickly. With a wave of his wrist, whatever invisible bonds were holding Ginny disappeared, and she dropped down to her normal height. He stared at her for a moment before taking a step back.
"This place responds to my will and my will alone, but I'll give it one exception: focus on how you want to change your appearance, and it will be so."
Ginny took a deep breath and closed her eyes, remembering what she had looked like in the mirror in that first dream. She needed to get this exactly right, for Kathleen, but also… this was a potential opportunity to gain information. If her audience was watching her, perhaps she could watch him too.
She focused on the way the gold sparkles embedded in the satiny cream fabric had glinted with every bit of light, on how the skirt had seemed to fill the entire bottom half of the reflection, on the way the off-the-shoulder sleeves had barely grazed against her upper arms… She imagined her hair up in a bun, the snake locket glinting on her chest. With a shiver, she felt her robes shift, and once she could feel the tightness of the gown's bodice against her, she opened her eyes.
Tom stared at her for a long moment. "You have an impeccable memory. But a couple of edits." He walked toward her, and Ginny held her breath as he reached straight for her neck.
"It's very sweet that you're still trying to follow my rule, but you don't need this tonight," he said. He pulled on the locket, and it came free from her neck. An instant later, it vanished out of his hand. "And…" he said, trailing off for a moment. "Hair down." He reached higher, and her hair came free of its bun, cascading over her shoulders.
On instinct, Ginny dropped into a low curtsy, bowing her head just a bit.
"What are you doing?" Tom asked.
"Curtsying? My lord," she said, rising up again. "Isn't that what princesses do when they're greeting someone important? I wanted to start our night off on the right foot."
Fast as a viper, he grabbed her chin, his eyes locked on hers, and she felt the scrape of Legilimency in her mind.
"What am I doing wrong?" she cried out, his mental talons digging in like a bird of prey. "I thought this was what you wanted."
"What I want is to understand what you want," he said.
"We just made a bargain for what I want," Ginny said, gritting her teeth against the pain. "Please stop."
"That's not all," he said. "There's something else."
She would have to give him something, and quickly, so that he would get out of her head.
"I want to understand you," she blurted. "You told me that once, remember? That I should understand things as you do. If I learn what you want… doesn't that mean I understand you better?"
She held her breath as he lingered in her mind for another long moment before finally pulling away. He, on the other hand, was breathing harder than normal— an unusual reaction, given how he was normally so aloof if he wasn't angry.
"Carry on, princess," he said.
This was going to be very, very hard. She could only hope it would be worth it. She inclined her head to him before turning around, where she knew, somehow, the throne would be waiting.
"Is it acceptable for me to sit on the throne, like before, or should I be kneeling?"
"… You may sit on the throne. We're replicating something."
Ginny nodded, and walked decisively forward, the layers of her skirt swishing audibly as she moved. Taking a deep breath, she sat down on the throne and looked out at Tom, who was watching her with rapt attention.
Anything's possible if you've got enough nerve, she reminded herself.
"Come, Nagini," she commanded, and Tom's eyebrows rose.
"I didn't expect you to choose her first," he said, as the sound of a slithering snake filled the space, and Ginny gripped the armrests tightly.
"We're replicating something," she said, and made herself not close her eyes as Nagini ascended the side of the throne. "She was first, last time."
Tom actually smiled as Nagini draped herself over Ginny's shoulders, and she let out the tiniest little squeak as the snake's weight settled over her.
She's not going to hurt me, she's not going to hurt me, she intoned over and over again, making herself take deep, steadying breaths. They were replicating a previous dream, and all Nagini had done in that other dream was sit here.
Nagini coiled around her shoulders, her grip tight but not uncomfortably so. Ginny waited several seconds before she made herself relax her hands.
"I'm ready for the diary now," she said, fighting to keep a quaver out of her voice. "Should I summon it somehow, or—?"
"No," he said roughly, striding forward. "I'll give it to you." He waved his hand, and the diary appeared.
Her arm shaking a little, she reached out her right hand towards him, and he gave it to her. It pulsed in her hand as she grabbed it, almost like it had a heartbeat.
Her breathing grew shallower. She had forgotten how heavy these were, like they had their own center of gravity and she was collapsing toward them.
"These feel so different than anything else you've given me," she whispered, reminding herself over and over not to panic.
"Yes," he agreed. "They are different."
"How?"
He was quiet for a moment. "They're magical. I suppose you could say they have a life of their own."
"Like the tattoo."
"Yes and no. They are… precious to me. Special. Irreplaceable."
"Like me."
"… Yes. Like you."
She took a deep breath. "The locket is next, I think."
"That's right," he whispered, and conjured it.
"You said it was out of order last time," she said as she inclined her head toward him. "Out of order for what?"
"Out of order for how I acquired them," he said, slipping the locket over her head. "This belonged to my mother… a marking of her heritage. This locket once belonged to Salazar Slytherin himself."
Was that why it was so heavy? It had belonged to Slytherin?
"See if you can make it lighter," he said. "Remember what I've told you."
That was going to be hard. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She and Tom— she and Voldemort— wanted the same thing in this moment. It didn't matter that their reasons for wanting it were different, or that she didn't entirely understand his motivations here. They wanted the same thing, she wasn't fighting him, she was actively obeying him in fact—
The locket lightened some, though it was still far heavier than it should have been. She opened her eyes, and Tom was smiling.
"You're perfection," he whispered, and a cold thrill raced down Ginny's spine.
"Th-thank you, my lord. Tiara next?"
"It's technically called a diadem," he said as he conjured it and placed it on her head. Her neck buckled, but only for a second. "Do you know what's special about this one?"
"No."
"It originally belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw."
Understanding began to dawn in Ginny's mind. Two items, and two founders. Did that mean the others—
"Patience," he said. "They all have their story, and I'll tell them to you as you take the items."
He waved the Elder Wand at his own hand, and the Resurrection Stone duplicated itself in its ring setting.
"Would you believe Dumbledore stole this from me?" he asked. "I had it long before he did, but I didn't fully know what it was. I descend from Cadmus Peverell, whose lineage was carried down through the Gaunts. They passed this ring down, father to son, for centuries. I took it from my uncle, after he died. It was always meant to be mine."
Heart pounding, Ginny extended her left hand, and he held eye contact with her as he slipped the ring on her finger.
"I can feel your fear practically leaking out of you, little saint," he said.
"I'm sorry," she said, grimacing. "I'm trying—"
"It's alright. You're allowed to be afraid. Not against the rules."
She just had to obey. She forced her jaw to relax, and Tom nodded.
"One more," he said. "Do you remember what it is?"
"The cup," she said.
"That's right. Helga Hufflepuff's cup."
He conjured it, and she took it from him, wrapping her left hand around its delicate stem.
Tom let out a shaky breath. "I was always so bitter that I could never acquire anything of Godric Gryffindor's. The only known relic of his is his sword, and it has eluded me all this time. My collection was incomplete, but it wasn't missing the sword. It was missing you, little lion."
She took a sharp intake of breath. The weight of all of these things combined was making her dizzy.
"Do you understand, how they're all connected?" he said urgently. He pulled the Invisibility Cloak from his robe pocket, and Ginny forced herself not to think of Harry. "My enemy's cloak— proof of my triumph over death. My connection to the Peverells, and to Slytherin. The Hogwarts founders, all grouped together, in one way or another. The wand, proof beyond a doubt that I am the greatest sorcerer in the world. All my precious things, all together. All mine. Do you understand?" He had gotten closer to her as he spoke, leaning down a bit over the throne.
Ginny nodded quickly, mostly in an effort to get him to back up. "Your precious things," she agreed. "All together."
Tom did not back up. He rested a hand on the top of the throne, leaning over her enough that she had to crane her neck to keep eye contact with him.
"Reason demands that I be patient, Ginny, but I am not a patient man," he said. "Not by nature. I have had to be, over the years, but I grow tired of waiting. My victory is so close I can taste it, and here you are… dangling this in front of me…"
This? What was 'this'?
"If I go too quickly, I will ruin it," he said, taking a deliberately deep breath. "Severus is right, as he always is. Do you remember what he said, a couple of months ago? Sometimes a subtle touch is what's best. Don't overplay your hand, unless you're content with the possibility of losing. And I am not content, Ginny, not at all."
Ginny's heart pounded in her chest. What was he talking about?
"Nothing for you to worry about," he said, finally letting go of the throne and taking a step back. "I am not a patient man, but I can wait."
She couldn't help it. "Wait for what?" she asked.
He considered for a moment before answering. "For this to become real. Or as real as it can be, anyway."
'This,' again. This dream scenario?
"All of them. For my imagined future to become my present reality. What is it that you think I'm working toward, if not that?"
"Becoming immortal," she said, confused. "Killing… killing Harry. Taking over the world."
"And after that?" he asked. "Once I'm immortal, and I have defeated my enemies, and I'm worshipped as a god the world over. What then?"
"I don't know," Ginny said.
"I didn't either, for a long time," he said, his eyes glinting. "But I'm starting to get some ideas."
Ginny held her breath, and he held out his arm.
"Come, Nagini," he said. "Ginny has held you long enough for today."
Nagini obediently slithered off of Ginny's shoulders, and she couldn't help but let out a gasp of air as the snake's weight left her. That had been impossibly, impossibly hard.
"And yet you still did it. Didn't you say something about that, about bravery? It's how you get through hard things?"
"Yes," she said, her mind flashing horribly on Goyle's torture, and then on Draco's.
"Enough about that now," he said sharply. "Don't think about anything else except this. Right here, right now."
"Right here, right now," she quickly agreed, tightening her grip on the diary and the cup, feeling the contrast between the leather and the metal.
"Good," he whispered. "I won't count that as a correction— my fault. Our deal is still safe."
"Thank you, my lord."
"Do you think you can stand up, or are they too heavy?"
They certainly felt too heavy. "I… I can try." She pushed against the armrests to give herself some momentum as she wobbled to her feet, swaying like she was on a boat in a stormy sea.
She couldn't think of the sea here.
"Here. Give me the cup and the diary. You don't need them right now."
Ginny extended her hands toward him, and he took the items from her, her arms reveling in the loss of weight, but now she was very top-heavy. She swayed, and for a moment she thought she was going to fall backwards into the throne, but Tom grabbed her right arm, steadying her.
"I suppose it would be too difficult for you to dance with these on," he said, and he sounded… disappointed. Exactly what she didn't want.
"I can try, my lord," she said quickly, forcing herself to stand firm. "Just give me a moment."
He chuckled. "No. Another time." The locket, diadem, and ring vanished all at once, and she gasped in their absence. She was free again.
"I would call that a success, wouldn't you?" he said, his hand still on her arm. "You're halfway there. Let's give you your own jewelry back." In an instant, she felt the snake locket, the emerald tiara, and the snake ring replace where the other items had been.
"Is it going to bite me?" she asked, eyeing the ring warily.
"No," he said with a smirk. "It has no reason to. Now stand still. I need to create our setting."
He let go of her arm and walked away from her, raising his arms out to his sides like he was calling something. The darkness around them shuddered, and Ginny reached backwards to hold onto the throne, but it was no longer there.
Creamy, tiled floor appeared beneath them as a castle's ballroom took shape around them. Just to her left, the same long, carpeted stairs appeared, leading up to the mezzanine where the first version of this dream had begun. Across the way, a series of French doors led outside onto a patio and gardens beyond. All around them, people in dress robes congregated, clustered in little circles of conversation. Cello music played, deep and haunting in the background.
"Is this a real place?" Ginny asked when Tom finally put his arms down. "Or is it…" She didn't know the word to use. Imaginary? Pretend?
"No, it's not real," he said, turning to face her. "At least not yet. There will come a day when my current residence is no longer grand enough, and the home I will create might look something like this. But for now, you're right— it's pretend."
Ginny looked around, taking in the massive, Renaissance-style paintings on the walls, as well as the ornate, golden trim on the balconies' edges.
"It certainly is grand," she said.
He extended his arm to her. "Are you ready to dance?"
Ginny swallowed, nodded, and took his arm, reminding herself that she had lived this scenario once before.
"Interesting that you're just as afraid now as you were with Nagini," he said as he led her through the crowd and out onto the empty dance floor. "Your heart is pounding."
"Does that… disappoint you, my lord?"
He tilted his head as they stopped in the middle of the space. "No. It… intrigues me."
He stepped closer to her, taking her right hand in his left, and placing his right hand on her waist. She forced herself not to flinch as she put her free hand on his shoulder. Mint filled her nose.
"What do you think is going to happen here, little saint?" he whispered as he began to lead her. "What are you so afraid of?"
"I… I don't know. The last time we did this, I…"
"You what?"
"I didn't know who I was. Who you were. I didn't know anything at all. I was so confused, but I just knew…"
That something wasn't right, though she didn't dare say that out loud now.
"Yes," he said quietly. "That was a mistake, though I won't deny how enjoyable it was, at least at first. You were very unguarded, until we started talking about snakes."
She glanced down at the locket. This scenario was where it had made its first appearance. It had burned so badly that time, but now it felt like an ordinary piece of jewelry.
"Things are better when you play along," he said as he spun her around. "You've learned that, if nothing else, from our times together here."
Had she learned that? Perhaps, in a way. But not in the way that he meant.
"Tonight is different from before," he said. "You remember, now. Let's prove it. Who are you?"
He wasn't asking for her name.
"Your saint," she said, holding eye contact with him as they twirled. He smiled, but it was cold.
"That's right. And who am I?"
"The Dark Lord."
"Who else?"
She furrowed her brow, uncertain. There was no way he wanted her to say Voldemort, or Tom Riddle. He never wanted to be known by his name. He wanted…
Oh.
"The greatest sorcerer in the world."
His smile grew, and as the music reached a crescendo he pulled her in close, taking her breath away.
"Maybe you do understand me, after all."
She held eye contact with him, spellbound for a moment, and then he let go and took a step back. He bowed to her— not very deeply, but a bow nonetheless.
"Your highness," he said in a mocking voice.
She curtsied, and he extended his arm to her once again.
"We didn't get this far, last time," he said. "You were already running away."
"I'm not going to run away this time," she said as she took his arm, and he yanked her closer to him.
"No, you're not," he agreed.
He was right. Her heart was pounding. They were entering unfamiliar territory now— the first dream had ended by this point. Anything could happen now.
"What are you afraid of?" he asked again as he led her toward the patio doors.
"The unknown, I guess," she said, a lump in her throat. "I… I know I don't have any power here."
Her heart beat faster.
"If you did have power here, what would you use it for?" He opened the door, letting them outside. It was a balcony, not a patio, she realized— a large balcony made of thick, gray stones looking out over gardens, with a sweeping staircase off to their left. It was nighttime, but the land was illuminated by the light of the full moon.
"To not get hurt," she said after a moment.
"Am I going to hurt you?"
"I don't know. I hope not. But sometimes—"
"I think horrific things are funny," he finished.
"Yes."
"Has anything horrific happened tonight?"
"No," she said carefully, although holding Nagini certainly qualified as horrific in her mind, but she had volunteered for that. "But if I'm honest, it feels foolish to let my guard down completely."
"Hmm."
"Does that disappoint you?"
"I'm not sure."
That was dangerous territory. Ginny made herself relax her shoulders as she looked up at the moon. Being hyper-vigilant here wouldn't keep her safe anyway— he held all the control, including of when the dream would end. It wouldn't keep her safe, and it wouldn't keep Kathleen safe, or her mother. But relaxing might.
"We're going for a walk in the gardens," she said, reassuring herself.
"Yes."
"I miss being able to see the moon." She only went outside on Sundays, and she returned inside shortly after sunset.
"Perhaps, my physical self will let you go outside one night. After he watches this memory, of course."
Ginny glanced at him. Such a silly, dangerous game they were playing. "I would like that."
"Let's go, little saint," he said, pulling her toward the stairs. "I grow impatient."
Ginny hurried after him, splitting her focus between keeping her muscles relaxed and looking out at the gardens as they descended the stairs. Whereas Malfoy Manor's gardens strictly contained roses, neatly segregated by variety, this garden was wilder— flowers of every shape and size, some of which Ginny had never seen before, filled the ground, reaching toward them as they walked down the dirt footpath. Crickets chirped intermittently as they walked, their own kind of music guiding their way. Occasionally, when Ginny would see a particularly interesting bloom, she would stop and smell it; here too there was variety, some sweet and others almost spicy. Tom never interrupted her, but his eyes were distant— he barely seemed interested in the flowers, for all the emphasis he had put on them taking this walk. Ginny said nothing about it, mindful of the fact that their agreed-upon sequence was nearing its end.
"I've never seen some of these before," she said as she smelled a particularly spicy one that was striped like a tiger. "Are these all… real?"
"Yes," he said. "A few years after I finished school, I traveled extensively, studying rare bits of magic. That particular bloom is native to Thailand."
"Wow," she murmured, inhaling its scent again. "Is it magical?"
"It's useful in certain potions, yes."
"Can I… take this one with me?"
He plucked the flower and tucked it behind her ear. "Yes."
She let herself smile, pretending this was anyone and anywhere else. "Thank you."
He turned abruptly away from her and kept walking, and she had to jog after him to keep up— a task made very difficult with her dress.
Near the edge of the gardens, the land gave way to an empty field, with tall, overgrown grass. Laughter, light and free, echoed in the distance.
"Do you hear that?" she said, coming to an abrupt stop. "Someone's laughing."
Tom said nothing, and the laughter continued intermittently, carried to her on a breeze. It felt… strange, and yet familiar, like it was calling her.
"Let's go look," she said, and picked up her skirt so that she could run, or at least jog, through the tall grass.
She ran, and the sound grew closer, echoing back to her on the wind. She couldn't help but smile— whoever this was, their joy was infectious. She kept going, looking for any signs of a person, or maybe a child, but there was no one.
"Hello?" she called out. "Is anyone there?"
The laughter continued, louder still, but there was no other response. Frowning, Ginny kept going as the land started to slope downward, and when she reached a small glen, she gasped.
A million tiny Flitterbies clustered in the grass, glowing faintly orange and humming lightly as they fluttered around— like laughter.
"Merlin," she murmured as Tom came to stand beside her.
"Beautiful, aren't they? The way they glow and dance and seem to laugh."
Ginny nodded, lost for words. There were sometimes Flitterbies in the orchard behind the Burrow, but she had never seen this many before.
"Go on," he said, gesturing toward them. "Play."
Ginny walked deeper into the glen, and just like the otherworldly sprites had done, some of the Flitterbies clustered around her, flitting from her hair to her shoulder to her wrist and then away again, laughing all the while.
There was no other word for it. This was magical. Ginny smiled and spun in a circle, her skirt whirling around her as she threw her arms out wide, embracing the Flitterbies' dance under the moonlight.
Tom was watching her, dark eyes locked on her as she laughed and spun around. She knew, somehow, that this was intended to be the finale of their night. And what kind of Muggle magician would she be if she didn't introduce a surprise twist to lure her audience in right at the end?
She wasn't sure this was going to work, but it was worth a try. She watched the Flitterbies as she continued to spin, noticing their faint orange glow, and she thought about the gem's light. She focused on it, not on panicking or danger, but just on the light… just on what it had felt like with the sprites, that freedom and joy and wonder at the world.
Tom gasped, and she knew she had done it. She was glowing, not with panic but with laughter. She smiled in triumph, letting joy flood her as she looked back at him.
"I wanted to glow like they do," she said, just in case he went looking for a reason for this phenomenon.
"You outshine them all," he said fervently.
"Do you want to join me?" she asked, extending a hand to him.
He started to reach for her, but stopped abruptly.
"I… no," he snapped, his voice growing cold. "No. It's time to go back now."
"Oh," she said, real and feigned disappointment mixing in her tone as she put her arm down and the glow gradually faded away. Had she misjudged? "Alright."
They did not need to walk back to the palace. The air around them shimmered and shook, and then slowly faded from view, leaving them in darkness.
"Did I… do something wrong?" she asked, uncertain.
"No," he said, though his voice remained cold. "You were exactly what I wanted."
Ginny said nothing, uncertainty fluttering uncomfortably in her stomach, like she had swallowed a Flitterby. What had changed?
"Cordelia Mulciber will be very happy, if we're able to find her in time," he said. "Not at first, of course, but once she's healed and set loose again. Would you want to see her daughter again, one last time?"
Ginny's heart squeezed. "I… I don't know. I would have to think about it."
He nodded. "Fine. Then take some time to think about it. When my physical self sees these memories, he will honor our agreement."
Ginny nodded. "Thank you, my lord."
"Good night, little saint."
"Good night," she whispered, and his face faded from view as she woke up.
She was breathing hard. For a few moments, she simply laid still in bed, letting the memories of the dream wash over her. This settled it— those items, whatever they were, were special somehow, just like the diary had been. The diary was real, and Nagini was real, and the ring was real— the others were likely real too. What that meant, she didn't know, but it felt important, somehow. He acted like they were the most valuable things in the world; surely that meant they mattered somehow to his power.
And, though she would have to be very, very careful… she thought she had settled on a strategy, a theme for her magic trick.
Tom Riddle wanted to see his saint glow with golden light.
SEPTEMBER 3RD, 1997
"Dad, you should sleep."
"I'm fine, Kath."
"You're not fine. You've been awake for over twenty-four hours at this point, staring at the tree-line, waiting for Death Eaters. The spells will hold— even if they appeared here, they can't see us. Come inside and sleep."
At first, Dad didn't move, but then he slowly got to his feet, gun still in hand, and walked in off the front porch. It was still early in the morning; the sun had yet to fully rise above the tree-line.
"When I wake up, I'm going to teach you how to load, unload, and shoot this," he said as he stumbled toward the sofa. "In case you're ever separated from your wand. They've probably never even seen a gun before; they won't know what it is."
Kathleen nodded, her jaw tight. She had no real desire to hold a gun, let alone shoot one, but after yesterday…
She looked over her shoulder, where Mum lay on the only bed, half-asleep and breathing heavily. She had an herbal poultice on her side, which had indeed stopped the bleeding, but one look at the wound had turned Kathleen's stomach. Mum's skin had bubbled and blistered from the curse, and the flesh around it had turned a putrid shade of green, like it was rotting. The poultice had stopped the bleeding, but it hadn't seemed to do much else.
Why hadn't Hogwarts taught them healing spells? Shouldn't that have been a crucial part of Defense Against the Dark Arts? Kathleen scowled. Their education in that area had been sorely lacking, and when she considered her teachers, she couldn't exactly be surprised. A fraud, two Death Eaters, a horrible Ministry person… only Remus Lupin had been worth anything, but they had spent most of that year learning about Dark creatures, not spells, and certainly not healing magic.
Did NEWT level students learn healing magic? Kathleen didn't know, and she supposed it didn't do her much good, anyway. She wouldn't ever be a NEWT student.
Had Dumbledore's Army learned healing magic? Ginny had never mentioned anything… but then, Kathleen had been too scared to join the D.A. Too scared of what her mother would think, which was frankly hilarious now. Her parents had formed their own sort of D.A. for the past two years, preparing for an eventual Death Eater takeover.
It was still impossibly surreal. Seeing her gentle, easygoing dad sitting eagle-eyed with a shotgun in his hands. Watching her mum duel Death Eaters like she was a trained Auror… or an Order of the Phoenix member. It was all impossible, and yet it was happening.
Had Draco Malfoy known she was descended from Death Eaters? Was that why he had targeted her? Surely not, if her own grandfather and uncle hadn't known… No, it was a coincidence. A bizarre coincidence, but a coincidence.
Eamon Mulciber's words echoed in her mind again and again. You're on the no-kill list… You and little Kathleen and even the piece of filth you call a husband are all on it… I'm giving my darling niece to the Dark Lord. His little saint might like a friend back.
In the chaos of yesterday, in the hours of dull panic where she had been terrified her mother would die at any moment, she hadn't been able to think about anything but Mum, about the sacrifices she had made and how brave she had been. But this morning… she couldn't get Eamon out of her mind.
She didn't know exactly what those words meant, but she could think of only one "friend" of hers that Voldemort might have access to, only one person who would fight to make sure Kathleen and her family weren't harmed.
Ginny was alive.
Mum coughed, and Kathleen hurried over to her, sitting down in the wooden dining chair next to the head of the bed.
"Are you alright?" she whispered. "I can get you some water, or—"
"No," Mum said, reaching out and clasping Kathleen's hand in her own. "I'm alright. Just… stay with me."
"Of course," Kathleen said, tears pricking her eyes as Mum shifted and appeared to fall back asleep.
They sat like that for a while, holding hands while Mum slept fitfully and Kathleen barely dared to breathe for fear of disturbing her. Should she change the poultice at a certain point? How long was it good for? Would it continue to help the more it was applied, or—
"Kathleen," Mum croaked. "Water."
Kathleen jumped up, hurried to the kitchen, filled a cup with water, and hurried back, hand shaking slightly.
"Let me help you sit up a little," she said, and though Mum grimaced in pain, together they were able to prop her up against the pillows. Kathleen handed her the cup of water, her heart pounding, and Mum drank deeply.
"I'm sure you must have a lot of questions," she said, sounding a little stronger. "This must be quite a shock to you."
"You could say that," Kathleen said faintly. "But you should rest—"
"I've done nothing but rest since I got here," she said with a wan smile. "This is the first time in my life that I get to have an honest conversation with my daughter— I have strength enough for that."
"I… I just had no idea," Kathleen whispered. "About any of this."
"That was always my intention. I hoped you never would. But I knew I had to be prepared." She coughed again, lighter this time.
"I… I don't even know where to begin, with questions. I think I just want to get to know you. The real you."
Mum smiled. "I would like that. Why don't I just tell you some things, and you can ask questions along the way?"
Kathleen nodded. Mum handed her back the cup, and Kathleen held her hand, fingers interlaced with hers.
"You've put this together by now, but I was born into a pureblood family," she said. "Though notably not what purebloods call a member of the Sacred 28— I can only assume there was some Muggle ancestry in our family tree at some point or another, and the Mulcibers weren't included in this exclusive list, something my father always deeply resented.
"My father went to school with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and became one of the first Death Eaters, back before they were even called such. He married late in life, and had children late in life— my brother Eamon, who you had the misfortune of meeting, is two years older than me, and I was the baby of the family.
"My father was cruel, a tyrant, and my mother did nothing to stop him. She never defended me— not once, not from my father and not from Eamon once he began to emulate him.
"They were the worst kind of purebloods— exclusionary and bigoted to anyone who wasn't like them, or who they considered lesser, and unafraid to use violence or Dark Magic to achieve their goals. I saw… many horrible things, growing up. I won't repeat them here, but suffice it to say that I felt terrified and isolated from a very young age."
Kathleen squeezed her mother's hand, and Cordelia squeezed back.
"I didn't know anything different, when I was very young, but I guess you could say I had a strong sense of justice. I had faith that somehow, somewhere out there, there was a better world."
"What house were you at Hogwarts?" Kathleen asked. "Gryffindor?"
Mum laughed, which quickly turned into a cough, and it was a moment before she could speak again.
"Heavens no," she said. "I would have been disowned on the spot. I was a Slytherin."
"A Slytherin?" Kathleen said, thunderstruck.
"I know the house has a poor reputation, Kathleen, but it isn't all bad," Mum said, a bit of her characteristic sternness coming back into her tone. "Slytherin is above all about ambition. Eamon had the ambition of becoming a Death Eater, and I had the ambition of getting the hell away from Eamon and my father, by whatever means necessary."
Kathleen had never thought of it like that. Slytherin had just always seemed like the catch-all for awful people.
"Hogwarts was a whole new world for me," she continued, and Kathleen was surprised to hear a hint of fondness in her voice. "I met people I never would have otherwise, and my deepest hopes were confirmed— another, better world was possible. Not everyone was abusive, or a Death Eater."
"What was your favorite subject at Hogwarts?" Kathleen asked, feeling slightly embarrassed for asking such a trivial question.
Mum squeezed her hand again. "Transfiguration, even though McGonagall was insanely strict."
"That's mine too!"
Mum smiled. "I know."
"What about least favorite?"
"History of Magic," Mum said, wrinkling her nose. "Binns turns boredom into an art form."
Kathleen laughed, amazed to even be having this conversation. "He is pretty awful, yeah." She paused, then said, "Did you have… friends?"
Mum nodded. "Some, although it was… hard, with Eamon there, reporting my every move to our father. I was acquaintances more than anything with the other Slytherin girls, who were exactly the kind of people I was supposed to be friends with and exactly the kind of people I wanted to avoid, but—" She coughed. "I was also friends with Remus Lupin."
"My old professor, Remus Lupin?" Kathleen asked, thunderstruck again.
Mum nodded. "He tutored me in Defense Against the Dark Arts. With what I had seen at home, I had a… hard time, learning about curses and how to counter them. I would just clam up in class. He was assigned to help me— he was a good student, and a prefect— and we became friends through that, in my third year."
Kathleen stayed silent, digesting this information.
"Did he… know, about your home life?" she asked after a long moment.
"Yes, though I spared him some of the details," Mum said. "He was very sympathetic— a good listener."
"He helped me when I was under the Imperius Curse."
"I know," Mum said. "I remember."
"Did he remember who you were? He must have thought you were dead—"
"He remembered who I was, but no, he didn't think I was dead," Mum said, letting out a humorless laugh. "I told no one of my plans to leave, not even him; I was afraid even mentioning the idea would be enough to ruin it, and I knew I would never get another chance. My father intended for me to marry as soon as I graduated. You probably heard Eamon mention Avery— one of Eamon's classmates, and a Sacred 28 member. I should have been honored with the attention, according to my father." Mum rolled her eyes. "Anywho— I had to leave, with no trace left behind. Luckily, I met your father almost immediately, and he took care of me in a way that few people would take care of a stranger, especially one who was as strange and traumatized as I was. I ran into Remus quite by accident a couple of years after I had left— maybe a year after You-Know-Who had vanished. Remus is a…" She trailed off.
"A werewolf?" Kathleen asked. "I know."
Mum nodded, looking relieved. "He was down on his luck at the time— unable to find a job, and half-blinded by grief that he had lost all of his friends in the war. I ran into him in a Muggle cafe, of all places."
Somehow, Kathleen could almost imagine it— a much younger Mum coming across a disheveled, exhausted Lupin.
"He was understandably shocked to see me, at the time, and I was shocked to be seen," she said with a smile. "He actually met you, as a baby— you were about a year and a half when we reconnected. We talked for a little while, I explained my situation, and… we agreed to go our separate ways."
"Didn't you miss the magical world? Lupin is a good person; you could have stayed friends."
"I missed the magical world desperately," Mum said, longing in her voice, "but not enough to risk discovery. If Remus could run into me randomly, what would stop that from happening with any of the Death Eaters who had avoided Azkaban, if I were to enter the magical world again? What if I ran into Snape, or Macnair, or Malfoy? I couldn't risk contact with the magical world… not even through letters. And Remus… has always had a complicated life, due to his condition. We were very much on the same page about that. There's a Muggle poem that always reminded me of that moment— we were like two ships passing in the night. I never expected to see him again, and I didn't, until I came to get you from school."
Kathleen leaned forward a little bit, biting her lip. "Why was your only option running away? Lupin is part of the Order of the Phoenix. You could have joined too— gotten help from Dumbledore."
"I would never have been brave enough to join the Order."
"Mum, you're the bravest person I've ever met."
Mum smiled, her eyes filling with tears. "There are different kinds of bravery, darling. There's bravery like the Order, fighting to protect and change the world, and there's bravery like what I did… surviving, at any cost. That's what all of this is for." She gestured around at the cabin. "Even if I wasn't injured, I never intended to go out into the world, hunting down Death Eaters. I learned defensive magic to protect you, and to protect your dad. I would never, ever let anything happen to you, and I would kill anyone who tried to take you away from me." She coughed, a deep, rattling sound that startled Kathleen. "And you have to be prepared to do the same. Don't hold back, Kathleen, because I can guarantee you, they will not. Kill them before you let them take you, and if you cannot…" She closed her eyes, grimacing. "If you cannot, and your dad and I are gone… it will be better to die, than to let them take you. I should have killed them, during that fight, but they caught me off-guard, and I—"
"It's not your fault," Kathleen said urgently, tightening her grip on her mother's hand. "You saved us all. Don't blame yourself. And besides— you're going to get better, and then the three of us will go… somewhere. Out of the country. The States, maybe. We'll be safe… together."
Mum smiled tightly, her eyes still closed. "That sounds lovely, darling."
"We'll go somewhere warm, with a nice beach. California, or Florida, or… I don't know. Somewhere with a beach, and lots of sunshine. We'll—"
Mum had fallen back asleep. Her chest rose and fell in deep, uneven breaths, and Kathleen bowed her head, praying to anyone and anything that would listen that her mother would live.
SEPTEMBER 3RD, 1997
Blaise walked up the castle stairs, his footfalls echoing more loudly than he would like. He had a free period at the moment— in truth, he had a lot of those, since he had signed up for the bare minimum amount of classes this year— and it was the middle of the day. He wasn't breaking any rules, but he couldn't shake the uncomfortable tension that had fallen over Hogwarts.
The Carrows were almost certainly teaching class. Alecto, the woman, taught the now-required joke of a Muggle Studies class for all seven years; she probably didn't have a single free period during the whole week. Blaise had never met a Muggle before, and certainly wouldn't know what to do with one if one appeared in front of him someday, but even he knew that that class was nothing more than thinly-veiled propaganda. He also knew to keep his mouth shut about it, something the Gryffindors had yet to figure out. Longbottom had already been subjected to the Cruciatus Curse twice that Blaise had seen, and those were only the times he had seen. He had tried to tell the poor fool to be quiet, but of course Longbottom hadn't listened. Why did Gryffindors invariably associate bravery with brashness? They weren't the same thing, but try telling Longbottom that.
Amycus, the man, was scarier than his sister, in Blaise's humble opinion. He taught Dark Arts— the "Defense" part of the title had been unceremoniously dropped, without fanfare or any real formal announcement. This too was required, though Blaise had tried to drop it— he had no intention of pursuing a career of any sort, including the Death Eater variety, he had told a flustered Horace Slughorn, and he wanted to take the absolute minimum amount of classes required to graduate with his NEWTs like his mother expected. He was in Muggle Studies, Dark Arts, Charms, and Herbology— that was it. Charms because he liked Flitwick's squeaky little voice and excited mannerisms, and Herbology because it gave him an excuse to go outside.
It wasn't that he wasn't smart, or that he wasn't interested in learning. He could have gone on to NEWT level in Transfiguration, and Potions, and Arithmancy, but why bother? The world was going to shit anyway, and regardless of who was in charge, Blaise had no intention of working a day in his life. Thanks to his mother's prodigious political lobbying and strategic series of marriages, Blaise could spend his entire life swimming in Galleons if he so chose. And though Chiara Zabini was a force to be reckoned with as far as the Ministry of Magic was concerned, she had no particular standards she expected Blaise to meet, as long as he didn't embarrass her, and that suited him just fine. He hadn't envied watching Draco bust his arse year after year only to be bested by Granger again and again. Life was better when you could take it at a more relaxed pace.
Having Hogwarts be run by Death Eaters put a damper on that, though Blaise did his best to appear unfazed. In truth, no one was paying him very much attention. He was the only male Slytherin to return for seventh year, given that his entire cohort had become Death Eaters— go figure— which meant he had a lot of privacy, but in truth left him a little lonely too. He had grown up mostly entertaining himself, so being alone was a familiar feeling, but being the only one in his dorm room was downright eerie at night, a clear indicator that something was very, very wrong. How was he expected to sleep without Goyle's dulcet snores, after all?
He smirked as he arrived at the seventh floor. Okay, maybe he didn't miss Goyle's snores. But being around other people who didn't sneer at the sight of him? Yeah, he missed that.
At least Daphne was here. But Daphne was so goddamn popular, even with the Ravenclaws and some Hufflepuffs. Blaise could be popular, if he learned to be nicer, but being nice didn't come naturally to him. Saying the funny-but-true thing was so much… funnier. Daphne was pretty, and sweet, and easy-going, and all of the rest of it… palatable, like vanilla. Blaise was more like an Acid Pop— most people didn't like him, but a select few loved him.
Draco Malfoy was part of the second category, though he would rarely admit it. They hadn't been particularly close until this past year, when Draco had finally come to the conclusion that Crabbe and Goyle were not the best accomplices in the world, but Blaise had always known that Draco had found him funny. One thing had led to another, and before he knew it, Blaise had become an accessory to a Death Eater's crimes.
And now maybe an accessory to a rebel's crimes against the Death Eaters?
Blaise grimaced as he arrived at the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Draco wouldn't tell him much of anything, which, whatever Blaise said, he thought was probably wise, but it did leave him in an awkward spot. He paced in front of the empty wall across from the tapestry, focusing his thoughts.
I need the Room of Hidden Things. I need the Room of Hidden Things.
On his third pass, the door appeared, and Blaise yanked it open, eager not to be found.
It was so strange to be back here, after everything. The place looked exactly the same, like no time had passed at all. If he let himself, he could imagine Draco coming around the corner, a book in his hand and his brows furrowed as he ranted about something or other. Or Kathleen, eyes slightly glazed as she sat primly on the settee, waiting for instructions.
Blaise grimaced as he walked further into the room. Kathleen hadn't returned to school. In some ways, that was probably for the best— Hogwarts was not what it once was, and Kathleen was exactly the brazen, brash kind of Gryffindor that would land her on the wrong side of a Cruciatus Curse these days. Hopefully, she and her family had gone into hiding. Attendance at Hogwarts was compulsory now— unless you were a Death Eater, apparently— and Blaise chose not to wonder about what happened to the students who didn't return, but it was harder to ignore where Kathleen was concerned.
"Alright," he said to the room. "Er. Hello. Blaise Zabini— we've met before."
The room stayed silent. He didn't know what he had expected.
"Pleasure's all mine, I'm sure," he said. "I'm here on behalf of Draco Malfoy— he sends his best regards, but he can't make it to the castle at the moment."
The room seemed to perk up a bit, or was that just in Blaise's imagination?
"We're trying to save the world— very important stuff, top secret, only a select few know about it— and we could use a bit of research help. I'm looking for information about Morgana— yes, that Morgana— but, get this— not about Merlin. Do you… have anything like that?"
The armchairs Draco had favored were still here, like he had never left. The room rustled a bit after Blaise finished speaking, and he went to sit in one to wait. The room was chock full of centuries' worth of secrets, treasure, and likely trash… if the legends were to be believed, Morgana had lived close to fifteen hundred years ago, before Hogwarts was even built. Anything about her would have to be buried in the very back of the room.
Blaise crossed his right ankle over the opposite knee and leaned back in the armchair to wait, the room rustling all the while, like it was looking for something. Hopefully that meant there was something to find. Blaise had no idea what significance any of this held, but if he had to bet on it, he would guess it had something to do with whatever secret Ginny had been hiding from Draco. He had never actually told him what it was, though he had seemed shaken up about it— whatever it was, it was something big, which explained Ginny's panic at being discovered. Why it would have to do with Morgana, Blaise had no idea, but questions like those were above his pay grade. Draco would hopefully tell him when the time was right, and Blaise would just have to rely on faith until then.
A moldy, crumbling bit of old parchment floated toward Blaise. It looked decrepit enough that Blaise was half-sure that even touching it would turn the whole thing to dust.
What was worse, it wasn't in English. It was written in some kind of runic script, something Granger would probably jump and up down to translate but might as well have been scribbles as far as Blaise was concerned.
"Fascinating," he said, wrinkling his nose a bit as the smell of very, very old parchment wafted toward him. "Really good stuff. Any chance you could… er, translate this to modern English? And on better parchment, something I could actually touch?"
The Room had translated English to Ancient Runes for Draco… hopefully it would do the reverse for him.
There was a flurry of activity as a much-newer-but-still-old roll of parchment came flying through the air toward him, along with a quill.
"You can use my ink, I don't mind," Blaise said, opening up his bag and pulling out an inkwell. It levitated away from him immediately, the quill dipping into it before scribbling away.
"Thanks Room, you're the best," he said, remembering from Draco how the Room liked to be praised.
Now he supposed he just had to wait. He leaned back in his seat and tried not to be nervous. What exactly was Draco involved with? Something dangerous, obviously, but just breathing was dangerous these days.
Soon enough, the newer parchment floated over to him.
"Brilliant, thanks," he said, grabbing it out of the air and starting to read. He frowned. This was a fragment of some larger work— this wasn't the first page, nor the last from what he could tell.
He read it, then read it again, then sat back in his chair. The work seemed to be some kind of fairy tale, but it described exactly what Draco had asked for— not only Morgana, but the Morrigan and the Tuatha de Danaan.
"And for leading my people out of suffering," Blaise read, "from this day forth, I name you Morgana, in honor of me and my blessing upon you. From this day forth, I name you and your successors Elentiya— spirit that cannot be broken. You will defend the realm against darkness, against rot and decay and corruption. Gold is the light of your heart, Elentiya, and may you use it to protect your people against the ancient enemy."
The air in the room seemed very heavy.
"Well, Room," Blaise said, "I have absolutely no idea what any of that means, but it sounds like exactly the obscure sort of thing I was looking for. Thanks. Let's see what Draco thinks."
He pulled the mirror out of his robe pocket and said, "Draco Malfoy," causing its surface to become opaque with mist.
It stayed misty longer than Blaise would have expected, and when Draco finally appeared, he was shirtless and laying on his stomach.
"Well, hello there," Blaise said in a mock-scandalized voice. "I didn't realize I was catching you in your boudoir time— the stomach pose is a sexy one, I'll give you that, but I don't think I'm your target audience—"
"Blaise," Draco groaned, and Blaise could immediately tell that Draco was in pain.
"What's wrong?" Blaise asked, all jokes forgotten.
"Nothing."
Blaise was silent for a moment, then said, "Are we just telling lies now?"
Draco groaned again. "I was… punished yesterday, by the Dark Lord. I'm still recovering, and as you can apparently tell, I'm in pain, so if you just called to make stupid jokes—"
"I found something in the Room of Requirement," Blaise said, cutting straight to the point. "About Morgana."
Draco's eyes, initially cloudy with pain, sharpened instantly. "Tell me."
Blaise recited the passage, which described the Morrigan and her other godly counterparts leading a group of people out of some kind of war-torn land, with apparently a woman renamed Morgana at the head.
"Gold is the light of your heart, Elentiya, and may you use it to protect your people against the ancient enemy," Blaise finished, looking back at the mirror again. Draco had gone very pale.
"This is exactly what I'm looking for, but I need more information," he said urgently, trying and failing to sit up in bed.
"Don't try to sit up," Blaise said sharply. "I'm still in the Room. Tell me what you want me to ask, and I'll ask."
"Ugh, I don't know what to ask," Draco moaned, covering his face with his hands. "How does Elentiya protect her people? How does it work? And does the Room know anything about a thin place, or the second sight, or the—"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down, one question at a time. This isn't Quidditch, you're not racing for the Snitch."
"Blaise."
"Alright, alright— bossy. Room, I need more information about this Elentiya person. How does she protect her people?"
Nothing happened.
"Damn it," Draco swore. "Always bits and pieces."
"Yes, literally, apparently. The parchment the Room gave me was moldy and practically falling apart. It might be the only piece that's survived."
"Don't say that," Draco moaned, pulling on his face.
"And you don't be so pessimistic," Blaise said. "I know you're in pain, but use your head. Half the magic of this room is knowing what to ask. Room, if I wanted information on something historical that wasn't written down anywhere, what could I use to find that information?"
The Room began to rustle, and a spell book floated toward Blaise, pages flipping rapidly until it landed about middle of the way through the text.
"Aha," Blaise said, skimming the page. "If you possess an object belonging to the deceased person in question, perform the spell described below to gain visions of their past related to your query. Note that repeated use of this spell can cause hallucinations, repeated bleeding from the nose, and premature whitening of the hair. Well, your hair's already almost white anyway—"
"So we need something of Morgana's?" Draco asked, panting a bit, his eyes squinted. He was clearly in a lot of pain. They needed to wrap up their call soon.
"Yep," Blaise said. "Room, if I was looking for an item belonging to Morgana, where should I look?"
Granger's favorite book— Hogwarts, a History— came floating toward him.
"Well that's convenient," Blaise muttered as the book flipped open. "Morgana's brooch, the only known surviving relic of the great Dark sorceress, is on display at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Ravenclaw Tower, in honor of her connection to crows and other beasts of the air."
"It's at Hogwarts?" Draco asked, his focus clearly fogged by pain.
"Yep. Always leads back to Lovegood, doesn't it? Don't worry— leave it to me, I'll get it. Although… I'll let you go in a minute, but is there any possibility of you coming to Hogwarts soon? This feels like a spell you should be casting, not me."
"I don't… I don't know. Let's talk about it later."
"Okay. Rest up, and call me tomorrow so I know you didn't die in your sleep."
"Bye Blaise."
Draco's face faded from view, and Blaise looked back down at Hogwarts, A History. Now how, exactly, was he going to entice Luna Lovegood to help him?