Author’s Notes: Thank you so much for reading and being patient with me while I write this. And I appreciate your enthusiastic reviews! Another long chapter with lots of action, emotions, and unraveling of mysteries . . so hopefully, you think it was worth the wait. :-D
Fyrechild, thanks for the beta-read. This chapter is named for the 1988 song by Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians.
CHAPTER 22 – What I Am
Faking one’s own death, no matter how carefully it was planned or how well it was carried out, was still a bleak and frightening experience. There was an almost surreal feeling about it, as well as a nagging sense of mild trepidation. These were feelings that Blaise Zabini had become quite familiar with; he found he could deal with them and had even learned to live somewhat normally, despite the fact that he was dead.
But when he stared his impending doom in the face - the pale, aristocratic face of Lucius Malfoy - mild trepidation gave way to sheer terror.
He’d tried to disarm him. But he couldn’t seem to make his arm move fast enough. Instead, his own wand was in the older man’s grasp before he could recall the bloody spell. As Blaise watched in horror, a multitude of unguarded thoughts and feelings flowed through his overwhelmed mind, all of them screaming for his attention.
Humiliation.
Failure.
Despair.
Folly.
And regrettably, the hastily thrown-away, now very precious . . . Disillusionment Charm.
What the hell had he been thinking? And to add insult to injury, he had let Draco down by not getting Ginny and just leaving. At least he could have ensured her safety. But how could he have just left his best friend in such a desperate situation? To have to face the one thing he feared most - his father - on his own?
Blaise stood there, lost in a bizarre dream of his own making. His feet felt like lead blocks glued to the floor. It seemed like an eternity . . but in reality, it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds when finally, the hex came: Stupefy! Grateful that the waiting was finally over, and the spell wasn’t that bad, blackness overtook him as he crumpled to the ground with a loud, painful ‘thud’.
Where am I? was his next conscious thought. His head was groggy and his vision bleary. Tight, constricting ropes held him firmly in place.
Slowly, he realized that he was sitting at one end of a dilapidated couch. At the other end was Ginny Weasley; she too was disarmed and secured by her own set of smooth ropes. To his surprise, the normally-feisty redhead just sat there, quietly, perfectly still, not budging an inch - in fact, she barely appeared to be breathing.
Blaise soon learned why.
When he tried to wriggle his way out of the snug ropes, it felt like they had sprouted teeth or sharp claws. They bit sharply into his skin, actually drawing tiny drops of blood and causing him to release a muffled cry. Studying Ginny more closely this time, he could see several trickles of blood that had seeped out of her own rope’s bite marks, crept down her arm, and dried there. The blood from the gash on her forehead had turned a dark maroonish-brown and was nearly dried as well. Blaise wondered vaguely how long he’d been out.
She didn’t look back at him. Her eyes, puffy and red from crying, were transfixed by something on the other side of the room, just past the frayed edges of a shoddy-looking Persian rug. Still hesitant to turn his head, he glanced sideways to see what held her spellbound.
At the edge of his vision, he caught a glimpse of a paler, slightly thinner Lucius Malfoy. He was moving in deliberately slow circles around the floor and talking softly; he was, no doubt, lecturing his errant son. Finally, Blaise dared more than a fleeting glance to see how his best friend was holding up.
He was just . . lying there, awkwardly sprawled out across the lackluster wooden floor. On seeing the shallow rise and fall of Draco’s chest, assurance that he wasn’t dead, Blaise sighed in relief. His friend seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, most likely from severe pain, which appeared to intensify then gradually ease away, only to return more vehemently than before. Blaise’s heart went out to him.
Draco’s father continued to circle him like a hovering vulture. Occasionally, he raised his hand in gentle nuance and inflicted a fresh dose of cruelty, causing his son to groan and hiss in agony. When he reflexively curled himself into a ball, he was quickly thrown back down and forced to lie completely flat - serving as a harsh reminder that the suffering was somehow good for him . . that it must be endured.
As Blaise’s head slowly cleared, he could only just hear Draco’s weak cries for mercy. “Please, Father - please make it stop . . ”
Lucius assured him coolly, “You will improve because of it.”
“But I’m your son, for pity’s sake—”
“Yes, you are. And what a bitter disappointment you have been to me,” the man growled as he raised his spell a notch. “After all I’ve given you, done for you, secured for you - I poured myself into you, for Merlin’s sake - this is how you show your gratitude? By wasting your time hanging about with a muggle-loving tramp who’s terribly plain, and a boy who, by all accounts, is supposed to be dead.”
He scoffed then drawled sarcastically, “Bloody marvelous.”
Draco was seething on the inside, his lips twisting in silent anger, but he wisely held his tongue. He knew it wasn’t his turn to speak yet; Father wasn’t finished. Following a brief silence, Lucius continued in a much louder voice as he strolled around the room.
“And I ask you - my son, sole heir to all I have achieved - what the devil has happened to you? You would throw everything away for a friend who is weak, a pureblood wizard who thinks so little of himself that a muggle deserves his affections? And for a girl whose family are the poorest excuse for wizards?!”
Exasperated, he sighed emptily, “Sometimes I can’t believe you’re my own flesh and blood. You sicken me.”
Blaise felt for his friend. He had heard such father-son talks before on his numerous visits to the Malfoys’ luxurious home. Like all of the others, he could tell that this one was winding down to its inevitable conclusion: His father furious, Draco might get a chance to justify his actions, to explain his ‘poor’ choices.
Might.
And Blaise knew that that was when things would turn really scary. He swallowed hard and braced himself for the worst.
Yet it was then that Mr. Malfoy’s tone turned almost eerily quiet. He squatted down inelegantly in front of his son and looked him in the eye. In a move so foreign to Draco that he actually flinched, Lucius stroked his son’s pale hair as he spoke to him calmly. “Surely, you see my dilemma. This behavior simply will not do. You and I must reach some sort of . . understanding here. Tonight.”
Still, Draco said nothing, and his father raised himself up to his full height. Waving his hand once more, he sent another surge of torment through the boy’s already weakened body, causing him to convulse spontaneously. When the hurting stopped again, he thought briefly how this made all those monstrous headaches he’d had over the years seem suddenly insignificant.
Aunt Bella’s voice echoed inside his tired brain. Do you still have pains, Draco? Headaches? Her voice was so quiet compared to the throbbing in his head that he had to strain to hear what she’d said at the last.
He will stop at nothing to regain his control.
“Well?” Lucius barked, his patience nearing an end. “I don’t have all night! Will you do as I command, or must this pointless, debilitating abuse continue?”
Through his tears, Draco asked quietly, “What do you want me to do, Father? I - I’ll do anything, if you just make it . . please, make it go away.”
Mr. Malfoy laughed at him harshly. “Gods, you’re thick! Renounce these two losers, these dregs of society, so you can move on and be who you were born to be!”
His son sighed audibly. He seemed to be struggling to find the words he longed to say. Then he half-blurted, half-stuttered, “I - I can’t. It’s just that—”
“How could they possibly mean anything to you? Are they more important than - your family?” he roared, his arm extended and shaking in anger.
Draco gasped as he stifled a scream, “Please, no more!!” He panted a few times then muttered, “I will - obey, Father.”
The burning in his skin ceased immediately. Within minutes, he was able to sit up. He rolled his head from side to side, working a kink out of his neck, and stretched his shoulders to relieve some of the tension that had settled in them.
Lucius smiled sardonically at him. “That’s better. Now, do you have something to say - son?” he asked, gesturing toward the couch.
Draco looked at Ginny, eyeing her intently, his lip curling slightly.
“You,” he began rather nervously. He licked his lips and stammered, “It-it’s over between us. I don’t want to see you anymore. And - and I . . . I never loved you. I only slept with you to get at your brother . . and to have something Potter wants but will never have,” He looked her in the eye then added with a bitter laugh, “Glad to be rid of you, anyway - you were a lousy shag.”
Her bloodshot eyes gushed with tears. She valiantly fought the urge to scream out loud - she wouldn’t give his father the satisfaction - but her fiery emotions soon got the better of her.
“You contemptible bastard!” she shrieked at Mr. Malfoy. “I hate you!! I hope you die a horribly painful death—”
“Silencio!” Lucius commanded. He sneered at her, his contempt palpable.
Furious, she continued her tirade without the benefit of her voice. The elder Malfoy found her futile attempts amusing, and he snickered at her impotence. “What’s the matter, Miss Weasley? Cat got your tongue?” he taunted as he laughed loudly.
She was soon frustrated and out of breath. He smirked at her again then called to his son, “Draco.” The boy looked up at him, his mind and emotions a blank. “Go on,” his father prompted, indicating Blaise by arching one eyebrow and cocking his head.
The blond scrutinized his best friend. He glowered at him and jeered as cruelly if he were speaking to Potter or the Mudblood. “Zabini. What a fool you’ve been! Running to Dumbledore, letting that imbecile tell you what to do, just so you could protect some muggle slut who dropped her knickers for you - like that was some big accomplishment!”
Cutting Blaise to the core, he scoffed coldly, “Can’t believe I ever called you my friend.”
On finishing his diatribe, he closed his eyes briefly then exhaled, as if it had taken a great deal of energy. Lucius, however, took no notice; he was too busy enjoying Blaise’s reaction. He stared at the dark-haired boy, the hurt on his young face giving him a depraved sense of satisfaction. A vindictive smile spread across the man’s lips then he turned slowly back to his son.
“Excellent,” he praised. “Now, what do you think we should do with them?”
Draco rather knew the answer to that - at least, the one his father would expect. His head was swimming. He looked mildly disoriented, as if he were awakening from a dream. A horrible nightmare, but one that felt very real; feeling like he wasn’t fully cognizant of what had just transpired, his mind wandered at random.
“Draco?” his father prompted, seeing the boy’s expression change. “What is it?”
An unforeseen opportunity - unsolicited, yet not unwelcome - had arisen in Draco’s mind. Quickly considering his options, he decided, Yes, now would be the ideal time.
Seizing the moment, he began pensively, “Can I . . ask you something, Father? Something important?”
“Of course.”
Slightly nervous, Draco hedged at first. But he just had to know. If he didn’t speak now, the words might stick in his throat forever - along with the silent, angry regret that might never leave his heart. Steeling his courage, the question practically flew out of his mouth.
“Why did you put that curse on Mother?”
It was not at all what his father had expected.
Lucius switched from placid to furious in .08 seconds. He growled, “She went against my wishes and did so in a calculatingly cold manner. Narcissa knew when we married that I wanted to have children with her, and yet she betrayed me—”
“How? Was she . . unfaithful?” Draco whispered. “I am a Malfoy, aren’t I?”
“Of course, you are; one look at you proves that. But have you never wondered why there were no others? No siblings, younger or older than yourself?”
Draco shrugged casually. “I - I just always assumed you and Mother only wanted one child, for some reason.”
“No, we didn’t. That was all her doing. That heartless, selfish bitch you have the misfortune to call ‘Mother’,” he seethed. “And that pitiful excuse for a Healer, Madam Pomfrey!” He spat her name as if it were a foul poison.
Now Draco was thoroughly confused. His head felt like it would explode. No answers, only riddles and even more questions - he was worse off than before he’d opened his mouth to ask!
“You mean, she could have had more children? I might have had a brother, or a sister?” He was stunned. The thought had never really occurred to him before. Although he normally liked being the center of attention, at times, being an only child was boring and terribly lonely. He speculated whether that was why he envied the Weasleys so much . . .
I do not envy them! he reminded himself firmly. They’re all poor, revolting, vile—
His father continued, “I wasn’t willing to risk everything on just one child, which is why I wanted at least two or three more.” He ground his teeth and scowled, “Did she ever tell you that we had twins? A boy and a girl - a few years before you came along?”
“She did?!” The boy’s mouth hung open in shock. “Wh-what happened to them?”
“Neither was strong enough to make it. Born too early.”
Draco’s face fell. Having siblings might have been . . fun. Although he had teased the Weasleys mercilessly about their enormous family, Ginny had once said that although she wouldn’t mind having lots of money, she simply couldn’t live without her family. He had scoffed at what she’d said that day . . .
“I don’t know how to explain it, but they somehow help fill in the gaps between paydays.”
He couldn’t imagine how that could be true - yet he had never forgotten her saying it. Still, he had noticed the way Potter sometimes seemed to be envious of Ron and the exceedingly large Weasley brood.
He marveled at the idea. Siblings - twins, no less! The Malfoy twins; he thought of the fun they could have had, the trouble they could have caused! They could have given old Fred and George a run for their money . . And they may have been Beaters on the Slytherin team . . . !
Allowing his mind to wander a bit more, he imagined what it might have been like to have friends, playmates, at his disposal, to have fun with, anytime he wanted. To not be utterly alone during the holidays, or when his parents traveled for business. As it was, his only companions had been nannies and house-elves. And mostly unpleasant ones, at that.
Returning to the present, he realized his father had gone on. “Sorry, what - what happened after the twins? After all, I’m here, so—”
“You, my child, barely made it. After you, the Healers said . . another birth would be the death of her.”
“But how was that Madam Pomfrey’s fault?” Draco wondered aloud.
Lucius struggled to hide his impatience. “Well, think about it. Why else would a young married witch, who was reasonably healthy, make regular visits to a Healer?” At his son’s blank expression, he expelled a frustrated sigh then went on. “To avoid becoming pregnant - there are potions to prevent that, you know. Surely, you’re familiar with one called ‘Reicere Conceptio’. It’s a highly suspect formula. It’s centuries old, but it’s still in use today; I wouldn’t doubt that some of your female classmates take it.”
“I - I don’t know. What does . . how does it work?”
With a soft, bitter laugh, he replied, “It’s simple, really. Deviously so. Instead of allowing a baby to grow, the woman’s body merely rejects it. Muggle doctors equate it to the body’s ‘rejecting a donated organ’ - basically, it sees it as foreign and tries to expel or damage it. Merlin only knows how many times she conceived and got rid of it before—”
He stopped in mid-sentence as his lips drew tight.
Draco, still curious, asked him, “And since when you do make it a practice to know what muggles do?”
“Healers sometimes collaborate with them.” Lucius glared at him and said, “I’ve met a few people over the years that were familiar with Healers and their underhanded, sneaky practices. They make it their business to know.
“Of course, after I found out about that, I would not allow that deceitful, potions-peddling witch in my home - or anything she had a hand in creating - not if I were drawing my last breath and she alone could save me! I’ve wanted to Crucio her, but she’s too well-protected by ‘Saint Albus’!” he hissed.
Lucius was nearly boiling by now. “Once, when you were five or six, she tried to enter my home to cast a healing spell on you, against my orders. You may remember - you had broken some bones in your arm and cracked a rib in a broomstick accident. I did not approve of her being there, so I made her leave. I was, understandably, very irate, but I couldn’t exactly kill my wife, or her childhood nurse—”
Her nurse? Draco thought, fighting to keep his expression bland.
His father continued, “Instead, the stupid, bungling house-elf who let her in was Incendio’d - burnt to cinders, on the spot.” Draco shuddered; he didn’t like house-elves either, but the very thought, the smell of one, smoldering in your front room . . urgghhh . . . It caused his stomach to turn.
Lucius smiled haughtily and said, “Since that time, Malfoy Manor has had guardian spells and wards in place to prevent her or her vile poisons from entering.”
All the while, Ginny sat spellbound, watching and listening from the couch. Her eyes drew wider than they had been all night. Of course - no wonder Dionysus couldn’t deliver the UCD-I! A half-moment later, Draco seemed to have a similar revelation, as Ginny saw, rather than heard, him release a soft laugh of irony.
His father said to him tersely, “No more time for questions, Draco. I must get back soon, or I’ll be missed.” Mr. Malfoy reminded him, “So, you know what must be done?”
Emotionally drained, the boy shrugged and suggested lazily, “Kill them?”
“One of them, yes. And Zabini would be the obvious choice - given that the world already believes him to be dead.” He glared at his intended victim. He gave him a smile that was pure evil, eliciting the slightest shudder from the poor boy before he went on.
“Fortunately, I know an incantation that accelerates the decay of a body; we simply put you back in your ‘grave’, and no one’s the wiser.” He laughed coldly and said, “Couldn’t have planned it better myself. Thank you, Blaise, for your assistance.”
The boy on the couch was incensed, but when he tried to defy him, a quick Silencio put a halt to that. Lucius slowly pocketed his wand as he watched Blaise momentarily for any signs of mutiny. Although any fresh cuts on his arms would definitely sting, they might not be enough to dissuade him from trying to escape. And now that he had shown his hand - that would never do.
Draco was dazed and tired beyond belief. He exchanged an impassive look with Ginny then with Blaise. Neither of them could read his thoughts; his face was empty of all emotion and washed with exhaustion.
An eerie unpleasantness settled over the room as they watched their friend apparently hand them over to his malicious father; one of them, to die, and the other to . . who knew what purpose? Had either of them been able to speak, they would have lashed out at him, screamed at him, pleaded for mercy. Their teary eyes spoke volumes - but not to Draco.
Despite his world crumbling around him, he remained amazingly calm . . . almost unnaturally so. Pointing at Ginny, he asked in a hollow voice, “What about her? Won’t she be killed too?”
His father stared into Ginny’s fearful eyes. He snarled, “Oh, no - I have no intention of killing Miss Weasley.” Then he turned to his son. “Do you remember what I told you the price for these late-night wanderings away from Azkaban is?” Draco’s eyes widened. “That’s right; one muggle. But it need not be a muggle - my guard is not choosy whose soul it devours.”
He then turned to Ginny and leered. “It only knows hunger. And it needs to feed that hunger.”
He approached her slowly. Placing a cold hand on her soft hair, she gasped and almost fainted in terror. He fingered the ginger strands gently and murmured, “You’re not really plain, are you? You’re actually quite pretty.” Blaise looked on, horrified, hoping that he couldn’t actually do anything to her, as he wasn’t really altogether . . . there.
But to Ginny, the slender fingers that now ran through her hair felt more than real. They reminded her of another ghost of a boy who had touched her in that very same way, years ago. She shuddered at the memory. Trying desperately to quell her fear, she fixed her eyes on Draco’s; staring into them, reaching out to him, she tried to read what was in his soul.
When she neither saw nor felt anything in them, a sinking feeling came over her. She began to doubt whether the two of them had ever had anything that could actually be called ‘love’. Did he really despise her now, just because his father commanded him to?
Tears she didn’t think she had left began to fall incessantly.
Bugger! she thought, frustrated that she couldn’t contain her emotions this time.
Meanwhile, the Death Eater continued to stroke her hair, wrapping his fingers in it gently with a strange sort of tenderness. He closed his eyes and moved a step closer to her. A cold surge of panic flowed through her. Rumors of Voldemort’s followers’ “take-what-you-want’” attitude had long run rampant throughout England, striking fear in the hearts of even the bravest witches. Ginny had heard about them before she even knew what those hushed whispers between her mother and her friends actually meant.
Soon, he was moving his palm toward the edge of her face, touching it lightly as his breathing became heavier and more irregular. “Prison is such a lonely place, Miss Weasley,” Lucius whispered in a hoarse, husky voice that his son barely recognized. “You have no idea how lonely . . a man becomes . . . ”
Draco, who had been looking away absently, turned to face where his father was standing. He cleared his throat to call the man’s attention away from her, unsure why he did so, then said flatly, “Father. It’s getting late.”
Startled, Lucius looked up. Moving his face a bit closer to hers, he ogled her then hissed, “This isn’t over yet, girl.” He spun around quickly and glided toward his son.
Draco asked hesitantly, “Hadn’t you better . . finish him off . . . ?” His mind was a blur.
His father drew up to his side with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips and gave him a sharp nod. “Get out your wand,” he commanded.
“What . . ? I thought that you—”
“No,” his father corrected. “Not me. You must do it.”
As both of the boys’ eyes went wide, Ginny’s squinted shut. She felt queasy, certain that she couldn’t bear to watch Draco become just like his father . . a cold-hearted killer, murdering someone he had once loved dearly.
Would he actually do it? she wondered, finding herself curious enough to take a slight peek.
Draco obediently raised his wand. Concentrating, he furrowed his pale brow then sniffed as he stood there, his arm quivering, “Ava—” he began weakly but stopped.
“Avada K—” he started again. But his concentration was broken once more. Gasping for breath, he closed his eyes as tears started to flow. He sighed heavily and confessed, “I-I can’t. I just can’t . . kill him . . . ”
Lucius turned to Draco, his arm stretched so his own wand nearly touched him. “You weakling! You’ll never amount to anything!” he roared.
The pain was fierce and immediate, so much so that he unintentionally dropped his wand. It burned intensely as it pummeled his chest, then spread like a poison into his arm, finally reaching down into his hand and fingers. Falling to the floor in a heap, he was held down once more. He no longer resisted the urge to scream and did so loudly.
A soft gasp came from the hallway, followed by a faint voice calling out, “Master?”
Ginny gaped at Kreacher, and her mouth fell open. She hadn’t seen him since Lucius had grabbed her earlier in the hallway. The last thing she remembered before she had blacked out was the sadistic wizard slamming the elf into the wall with a sharp, cruel kick to the head.
As the elf wandered in, she could see that he was still disoriented and wobbling slightly. His eye was bruised, tinged with a mixture of pale green and purple. He massaged his head, which Ginny assumed was still throbbing, with his crooked, spindly fingers.
“Master?” he repeated. “Is Master Draco . . all right?”
Lucius paid the elf no mind. Instead, he lashed out at his son the moment he tried to stand up. When a vicious hex struck the boy’s body, he fell back down and moaned, gripped by its excruciating sting.
The house-elf suddenly looked very alert. He appeared more alive than Ginny had ever seen him since meeting him two summers before. He boldly defied the powerful wizard, announcing quite loudly:
“No one shall harm a family member in the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black!!”
Lucius jeered at the lowly servant, “Get out of my way, you worthless pile of dung!”
“NO!!!” Kreacher repeated, “No member of the family may be harmed in the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black!!”
Mr. Malfoy scoffed, “But I am family as well. I’m only correcting my impudent child.”
“No, you are not family; his mother is,” Kreacher corrected. Lucius ignored the subtle difference and raised his wand to discipline the boy once more.
The repulsive little house-elf, obeying his time-honored mandate to protect any and all heirs of the Black family - the family he had sworn to serve - struck Lucius with a hex so intense that the wizard was thrust to the far side of the room and directly against the wall. Unable to stop his fall, he hit his head on the troll-leg umbrella stand with a loud, sickening ‘crack’ then his body collapsed to the floor.
Draco gasped sharply; he jumped up and ran to him. He knelt before the man who had given him life, given him everything he had ever known, and gently cradled his head. His father’s cold grey eyes stared unseeing at the moldy ceiling above. The crimson flow that now seeped through Mr. Malfoy’s platinum locks found its way to the boy’s fingers. He winced as he gingerly felt the back of his father’s head, trying to ascertain the severity of the injury. As he did, he wondered vaguely - could he be saved?
Should he be saved?
As the warm blood flowed freely over his open palms and quickly soaked into a nearby rug, Draco whispered, “Kreacher - you-you’ve . . killed him . . . ”
*^*^*^*
A pair of blue eyes, translucent and piercing, flew open; the lady behind them inhaled sharply. Sitting upright in her narrow bed, she gasped for breath, then in an ear-splitting scream, she cried out desperately, “LUCIUS!!”, then sank back onto the bed.
Madam Pomfrey, Professors Lupin and Flitwick, and Bill Weasley, had been working to break the curse’s hold on Mrs. Malfoy. To that point, she had barely moved or made a sound, so they were quite startled by her sudden movement. Almost in unison, they jumped back, all except for Professor Flitwick.
The Charms teacher had been floating overhead so that he could reach her without standing in a chair or on top of the bed. Her outburst broke the mild bit of concentration he had relegated to the simple Wingardium Liviosa spell that held him suspended, and the poor little fellow toppled to the floor.
“Damn!” he squeaked.
His tumble, along with his mild expletive, caused Bill to grin slightly. He began to snicker to himself. Soon, he was fighting to keep a straight face and attempting to maintain his decorum. When he could no longer resist the urge to laugh out loud, he gave up all hope of pretense. He started chuckling in a manner that would have made his mother scold him for his rudeness.
Before long, everyone else was smiling - everyone except Professor Flitwick, who was still a bit miffed at having lapsed on a spell that could be done by first-years. Still, his little mishap did help to release some of the tension between them, tension which had been building since they first started their task. Having worked for an hour or so, they still had little to show for their efforts.
Seeing the annoyance on the man’s face, Bill apologized in between snorts, “I’m sorry, Professor F. But it was just so funny - if you could have seen the look on your face as you just plopped down to the floor . . ” And he burst out laughing once again.
Madam Pomfrey was tittering as well, and Professor Lupin was alternating between trying to remain serious and breaking into the giggles, something which he ended up failing at miserably. “Sorry, Filius, but you’ve got to admit—”
“All right - it was a little funny,” the Charms professor sniffed. “Now can we please get back to work? I have a stack of pre-O.W.L. essays to review tonight!”
“Okay, okay,” Bill agreed, clearing his throat and trying not to smile again. It seemed that everyone else was settling back down and focusing on the task at hand. But when Professor Flitwick spry body floated up to his previous position, one of them started giggling again, and the others had to purse their lips together to stifle a laugh.
“Poppy!” Flitwick chided.
“It wasn’t me,” she insisted with an amused smirk. Pointing over her shoulder, she suggested, “Probably Miss Granger; she’s just over there.” But when she looked around, Hermione, Harry, and Ron were in a close huddle, completely oblivious to the adults and the professor’s mishap.
The soft, feminine laughter began once more, surprising them and drawing their attention to—
“Narcissa?” Poppy breathed.
Mrs. Malfoy said softly to Professor Flitwick, “I’m sorry, sir - I meant no disrespect. But it was pretty funny.”
Madam Pomfrey looked at her in awe. Then smiling at her old nurse, she greeted her warmly, “Hello, Poppy.”
*^*^*^*
Time stood still as the three students gaped at one another, then at the despondent house-elf, who was nervously picking at the ragged edge of his towel. Kreacher stood frozen in place, his head shaking back and forth in fearful disbelief. His eyes were as wide as the mouth of Hagrid’s favorite tea cup as he murmured softly to himself, “No, no, no— ”
Slowly realizing the magnitude of what had just happened, Draco suddenly felt very strange inside; he felt somehow lost, and alone - yet at the same time, he felt remarkably free. Free from a weight he hadn’t known he was carrying, until it was gone. The feel of it was all but indescribable.
He closed his eyes and exhaled an otherworldly sigh. Gradually, his lungs filled with air, expanding fully; he could breathe, relax, be himself, for the first time since - well - ever. Looking down at his father’s lifeless body once more, he was relieved to have his friends nearby for comfort. But neither Ginny nor Blaise knew quite what to say to him; “I’m sorry” or “I forgive you” just didn’t seem to capture it.
Still reeling from the shock, they barely noticed the arrival of Nymphadora Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt. Kingsley surveyed the dead body that lie on the floor next to Draco. The long, platinum hair that draped across the floor was now soaked in a thick river of dark maroon. Meanwhile, Tonks eyed her young cousin with a look that bordered somewhere between disappointment and regret; its meaning was not lost on Ginny.
Eager to absolve the two boys from guilt, she spat out quickly, “Tonks, wait! It was Kreacher. But - it was an accident, I swear! It was his mandate to serve the Blacks that made him do it; Mr. Malfoy was hurting Draco, and he had to stop him!”
Kingsley looked at her skeptically then back at Kreacher, judging whether she were telling the truth. After all, she wasn’t above lying, when she thought the situation warranted it.
The seasoned Auror exchanged a glance with his partner. “Well?” was all he said.
Knowing what he meant, Tonks quickly banished the possibility from her mind. This situation was far too serious for Ginny to not be truthful. The spiky-haired Auror reached out and grabbed the reluctant house-elf roughly by the ears and pulled him forward. Then without fuss, fanfare, or apology, she clasped on the Apparation-Proof Shackles, Special House-Elf Model, around his wrists and ankles.
“No, no,” the elf swore pitifully, “Kreacher didn’t mean to!”
But Tonks was having none of it. She had no tolerance for the moanings and groanings of the likes of Kreacher. “Tell it to the Wizengamot,” she snarled at him as she pushed him toward the front door. As Kingsley prepared to transport the house-elf and Mr. Malfoy’s body back to Ministry of Magic headquarters, she turned around to speak to the students once more.
“Draco, we’ll need a statement,” she began then clarified, “well, from all of you, naturally. No doubt, you’ve had a trying day, so I’ll just drop by the school in the morning to wrap that part up.”
She reached into her robes and withdrew three small boxes, about 5” cubed, and passed them out. “These are miniature penseives, one for each of you. If you want to file your memories away in them, do so tonight, while they’re still fresh in your minds.”
She paused, turned to Draco, and said awkwardly, “Look, I’m - I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” he muttered.
Suddenly remembering something else, she gasped and said, “Oh! Blaise?”
His blue eyes met hers, which were aquamarine at the moment. “Yes, Miss . . Tonks?” he asked doubtfully. He had heard of Draco’s cousin before, but he had never actually met her.
“I received an owl from Dumbledore, just before I left the Ministry. He said for you to come back to the school by the Portkey I’ll be leaving with Ginny and Draco.” Reaching inside her cloak once more, she withdrew an empty, dusty plastic bottle that bragged in royal blue cursive letters: ‘Mrs. Sapp’s Best Maple Syrup - Guaranteed to stay thick even when warm!’
Touching her wand to the everyday object, it gave off a slight glow. “All right, then. This will be ready in one minute and will be good for the next ten. It will take you straight to the front door of Honeydukes. Filch will meet you outside the school gates fifteen minutes later.”
Ginny sighed, “Thanks, Tonks. See you later.”
“Now don’t go hanging about,” the Auror advised. “Leave straight away. Well . . bye, everyone.” And with that, she left them.
The three of them couldn’t wait to get out of there. On the count of three, they touched the Portkey simultaneously, feeling the familiar tug behind their navels, and soon landed on solid ground just outside Honeydukes Sweet Shop.
“Hello, Lady Guinevere. Keeping rather dodgy company these days, aren’t we?”
~End of Chapter~
Notes: Whew! This rollercoaster ride is almost over (a little ‘nudge, nudge’ to PhoenixRae). :-D Just a few more chapters to go. Thanks again for reading, and remember, reviews inspire and feed the author’s soul!
In the Credit Where it’s Due Department: “You’re not really plain, are you? You’re actually quite pretty.” Stole this line from Paul Scott, author of The Raj Quartet (basis for the mini-series “The Jewel in the Crown”). It’s marvelous stuff!
And once again, definitions of my squirrely, homebrewed Latin: Reicere meaning ‘Reject’. Conceptio meaning ‘Conception’.
“A Pair of Blue Eyes” is a book by Thomas Hardy, the author who inadvertently gave me my pen name.
Fyrechild, thanks for the beta-read. This chapter is named for the 1988 song by Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians.
CHAPTER 22 – What I Am
Faking one’s own death, no matter how carefully it was planned or how well it was carried out, was still a bleak and frightening experience. There was an almost surreal feeling about it, as well as a nagging sense of mild trepidation. These were feelings that Blaise Zabini had become quite familiar with; he found he could deal with them and had even learned to live somewhat normally, despite the fact that he was dead.
But when he stared his impending doom in the face - the pale, aristocratic face of Lucius Malfoy - mild trepidation gave way to sheer terror.
He’d tried to disarm him. But he couldn’t seem to make his arm move fast enough. Instead, his own wand was in the older man’s grasp before he could recall the bloody spell. As Blaise watched in horror, a multitude of unguarded thoughts and feelings flowed through his overwhelmed mind, all of them screaming for his attention.
Humiliation.
Failure.
Despair.
Folly.
And regrettably, the hastily thrown-away, now very precious . . . Disillusionment Charm.
What the hell had he been thinking? And to add insult to injury, he had let Draco down by not getting Ginny and just leaving. At least he could have ensured her safety. But how could he have just left his best friend in such a desperate situation? To have to face the one thing he feared most - his father - on his own?
Blaise stood there, lost in a bizarre dream of his own making. His feet felt like lead blocks glued to the floor. It seemed like an eternity . . but in reality, it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds when finally, the hex came: Stupefy! Grateful that the waiting was finally over, and the spell wasn’t that bad, blackness overtook him as he crumpled to the ground with a loud, painful ‘thud’.
Where am I? was his next conscious thought. His head was groggy and his vision bleary. Tight, constricting ropes held him firmly in place.
Slowly, he realized that he was sitting at one end of a dilapidated couch. At the other end was Ginny Weasley; she too was disarmed and secured by her own set of smooth ropes. To his surprise, the normally-feisty redhead just sat there, quietly, perfectly still, not budging an inch - in fact, she barely appeared to be breathing.
Blaise soon learned why.
When he tried to wriggle his way out of the snug ropes, it felt like they had sprouted teeth or sharp claws. They bit sharply into his skin, actually drawing tiny drops of blood and causing him to release a muffled cry. Studying Ginny more closely this time, he could see several trickles of blood that had seeped out of her own rope’s bite marks, crept down her arm, and dried there. The blood from the gash on her forehead had turned a dark maroonish-brown and was nearly dried as well. Blaise wondered vaguely how long he’d been out.
She didn’t look back at him. Her eyes, puffy and red from crying, were transfixed by something on the other side of the room, just past the frayed edges of a shoddy-looking Persian rug. Still hesitant to turn his head, he glanced sideways to see what held her spellbound.
At the edge of his vision, he caught a glimpse of a paler, slightly thinner Lucius Malfoy. He was moving in deliberately slow circles around the floor and talking softly; he was, no doubt, lecturing his errant son. Finally, Blaise dared more than a fleeting glance to see how his best friend was holding up.
He was just . . lying there, awkwardly sprawled out across the lackluster wooden floor. On seeing the shallow rise and fall of Draco’s chest, assurance that he wasn’t dead, Blaise sighed in relief. His friend seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, most likely from severe pain, which appeared to intensify then gradually ease away, only to return more vehemently than before. Blaise’s heart went out to him.
Draco’s father continued to circle him like a hovering vulture. Occasionally, he raised his hand in gentle nuance and inflicted a fresh dose of cruelty, causing his son to groan and hiss in agony. When he reflexively curled himself into a ball, he was quickly thrown back down and forced to lie completely flat - serving as a harsh reminder that the suffering was somehow good for him . . that it must be endured.
As Blaise’s head slowly cleared, he could only just hear Draco’s weak cries for mercy. “Please, Father - please make it stop . . ”
Lucius assured him coolly, “You will improve because of it.”
“But I’m your son, for pity’s sake—”
“Yes, you are. And what a bitter disappointment you have been to me,” the man growled as he raised his spell a notch. “After all I’ve given you, done for you, secured for you - I poured myself into you, for Merlin’s sake - this is how you show your gratitude? By wasting your time hanging about with a muggle-loving tramp who’s terribly plain, and a boy who, by all accounts, is supposed to be dead.”
He scoffed then drawled sarcastically, “Bloody marvelous.”
Draco was seething on the inside, his lips twisting in silent anger, but he wisely held his tongue. He knew it wasn’t his turn to speak yet; Father wasn’t finished. Following a brief silence, Lucius continued in a much louder voice as he strolled around the room.
“And I ask you - my son, sole heir to all I have achieved - what the devil has happened to you? You would throw everything away for a friend who is weak, a pureblood wizard who thinks so little of himself that a muggle deserves his affections? And for a girl whose family are the poorest excuse for wizards?!”
Exasperated, he sighed emptily, “Sometimes I can’t believe you’re my own flesh and blood. You sicken me.”
Blaise felt for his friend. He had heard such father-son talks before on his numerous visits to the Malfoys’ luxurious home. Like all of the others, he could tell that this one was winding down to its inevitable conclusion: His father furious, Draco might get a chance to justify his actions, to explain his ‘poor’ choices.
Might.
And Blaise knew that that was when things would turn really scary. He swallowed hard and braced himself for the worst.
Yet it was then that Mr. Malfoy’s tone turned almost eerily quiet. He squatted down inelegantly in front of his son and looked him in the eye. In a move so foreign to Draco that he actually flinched, Lucius stroked his son’s pale hair as he spoke to him calmly. “Surely, you see my dilemma. This behavior simply will not do. You and I must reach some sort of . . understanding here. Tonight.”
Still, Draco said nothing, and his father raised himself up to his full height. Waving his hand once more, he sent another surge of torment through the boy’s already weakened body, causing him to convulse spontaneously. When the hurting stopped again, he thought briefly how this made all those monstrous headaches he’d had over the years seem suddenly insignificant.
Aunt Bella’s voice echoed inside his tired brain. Do you still have pains, Draco? Headaches? Her voice was so quiet compared to the throbbing in his head that he had to strain to hear what she’d said at the last.
He will stop at nothing to regain his control.
“Well?” Lucius barked, his patience nearing an end. “I don’t have all night! Will you do as I command, or must this pointless, debilitating abuse continue?”
Through his tears, Draco asked quietly, “What do you want me to do, Father? I - I’ll do anything, if you just make it . . please, make it go away.”
Mr. Malfoy laughed at him harshly. “Gods, you’re thick! Renounce these two losers, these dregs of society, so you can move on and be who you were born to be!”
His son sighed audibly. He seemed to be struggling to find the words he longed to say. Then he half-blurted, half-stuttered, “I - I can’t. It’s just that—”
“How could they possibly mean anything to you? Are they more important than - your family?” he roared, his arm extended and shaking in anger.
Draco gasped as he stifled a scream, “Please, no more!!” He panted a few times then muttered, “I will - obey, Father.”
The burning in his skin ceased immediately. Within minutes, he was able to sit up. He rolled his head from side to side, working a kink out of his neck, and stretched his shoulders to relieve some of the tension that had settled in them.
Lucius smiled sardonically at him. “That’s better. Now, do you have something to say - son?” he asked, gesturing toward the couch.
Draco looked at Ginny, eyeing her intently, his lip curling slightly.
“You,” he began rather nervously. He licked his lips and stammered, “It-it’s over between us. I don’t want to see you anymore. And - and I . . . I never loved you. I only slept with you to get at your brother . . and to have something Potter wants but will never have,” He looked her in the eye then added with a bitter laugh, “Glad to be rid of you, anyway - you were a lousy shag.”
Her bloodshot eyes gushed with tears. She valiantly fought the urge to scream out loud - she wouldn’t give his father the satisfaction - but her fiery emotions soon got the better of her.
“You contemptible bastard!” she shrieked at Mr. Malfoy. “I hate you!! I hope you die a horribly painful death—”
“Silencio!” Lucius commanded. He sneered at her, his contempt palpable.
Furious, she continued her tirade without the benefit of her voice. The elder Malfoy found her futile attempts amusing, and he snickered at her impotence. “What’s the matter, Miss Weasley? Cat got your tongue?” he taunted as he laughed loudly.
She was soon frustrated and out of breath. He smirked at her again then called to his son, “Draco.” The boy looked up at him, his mind and emotions a blank. “Go on,” his father prompted, indicating Blaise by arching one eyebrow and cocking his head.
The blond scrutinized his best friend. He glowered at him and jeered as cruelly if he were speaking to Potter or the Mudblood. “Zabini. What a fool you’ve been! Running to Dumbledore, letting that imbecile tell you what to do, just so you could protect some muggle slut who dropped her knickers for you - like that was some big accomplishment!”
Cutting Blaise to the core, he scoffed coldly, “Can’t believe I ever called you my friend.”
On finishing his diatribe, he closed his eyes briefly then exhaled, as if it had taken a great deal of energy. Lucius, however, took no notice; he was too busy enjoying Blaise’s reaction. He stared at the dark-haired boy, the hurt on his young face giving him a depraved sense of satisfaction. A vindictive smile spread across the man’s lips then he turned slowly back to his son.
“Excellent,” he praised. “Now, what do you think we should do with them?”
Draco rather knew the answer to that - at least, the one his father would expect. His head was swimming. He looked mildly disoriented, as if he were awakening from a dream. A horrible nightmare, but one that felt very real; feeling like he wasn’t fully cognizant of what had just transpired, his mind wandered at random.
“Draco?” his father prompted, seeing the boy’s expression change. “What is it?”
An unforeseen opportunity - unsolicited, yet not unwelcome - had arisen in Draco’s mind. Quickly considering his options, he decided, Yes, now would be the ideal time.
Seizing the moment, he began pensively, “Can I . . ask you something, Father? Something important?”
“Of course.”
Slightly nervous, Draco hedged at first. But he just had to know. If he didn’t speak now, the words might stick in his throat forever - along with the silent, angry regret that might never leave his heart. Steeling his courage, the question practically flew out of his mouth.
“Why did you put that curse on Mother?”
It was not at all what his father had expected.
Lucius switched from placid to furious in .08 seconds. He growled, “She went against my wishes and did so in a calculatingly cold manner. Narcissa knew when we married that I wanted to have children with her, and yet she betrayed me—”
“How? Was she . . unfaithful?” Draco whispered. “I am a Malfoy, aren’t I?”
“Of course, you are; one look at you proves that. But have you never wondered why there were no others? No siblings, younger or older than yourself?”
Draco shrugged casually. “I - I just always assumed you and Mother only wanted one child, for some reason.”
“No, we didn’t. That was all her doing. That heartless, selfish bitch you have the misfortune to call ‘Mother’,” he seethed. “And that pitiful excuse for a Healer, Madam Pomfrey!” He spat her name as if it were a foul poison.
Now Draco was thoroughly confused. His head felt like it would explode. No answers, only riddles and even more questions - he was worse off than before he’d opened his mouth to ask!
“You mean, she could have had more children? I might have had a brother, or a sister?” He was stunned. The thought had never really occurred to him before. Although he normally liked being the center of attention, at times, being an only child was boring and terribly lonely. He speculated whether that was why he envied the Weasleys so much . . .
I do not envy them! he reminded himself firmly. They’re all poor, revolting, vile—
His father continued, “I wasn’t willing to risk everything on just one child, which is why I wanted at least two or three more.” He ground his teeth and scowled, “Did she ever tell you that we had twins? A boy and a girl - a few years before you came along?”
“She did?!” The boy’s mouth hung open in shock. “Wh-what happened to them?”
“Neither was strong enough to make it. Born too early.”
Draco’s face fell. Having siblings might have been . . fun. Although he had teased the Weasleys mercilessly about their enormous family, Ginny had once said that although she wouldn’t mind having lots of money, she simply couldn’t live without her family. He had scoffed at what she’d said that day . . .
“I don’t know how to explain it, but they somehow help fill in the gaps between paydays.”
He couldn’t imagine how that could be true - yet he had never forgotten her saying it. Still, he had noticed the way Potter sometimes seemed to be envious of Ron and the exceedingly large Weasley brood.
He marveled at the idea. Siblings - twins, no less! The Malfoy twins; he thought of the fun they could have had, the trouble they could have caused! They could have given old Fred and George a run for their money . . And they may have been Beaters on the Slytherin team . . . !
Allowing his mind to wander a bit more, he imagined what it might have been like to have friends, playmates, at his disposal, to have fun with, anytime he wanted. To not be utterly alone during the holidays, or when his parents traveled for business. As it was, his only companions had been nannies and house-elves. And mostly unpleasant ones, at that.
Returning to the present, he realized his father had gone on. “Sorry, what - what happened after the twins? After all, I’m here, so—”
“You, my child, barely made it. After you, the Healers said . . another birth would be the death of her.”
“But how was that Madam Pomfrey’s fault?” Draco wondered aloud.
Lucius struggled to hide his impatience. “Well, think about it. Why else would a young married witch, who was reasonably healthy, make regular visits to a Healer?” At his son’s blank expression, he expelled a frustrated sigh then went on. “To avoid becoming pregnant - there are potions to prevent that, you know. Surely, you’re familiar with one called ‘Reicere Conceptio’. It’s a highly suspect formula. It’s centuries old, but it’s still in use today; I wouldn’t doubt that some of your female classmates take it.”
“I - I don’t know. What does . . how does it work?”
With a soft, bitter laugh, he replied, “It’s simple, really. Deviously so. Instead of allowing a baby to grow, the woman’s body merely rejects it. Muggle doctors equate it to the body’s ‘rejecting a donated organ’ - basically, it sees it as foreign and tries to expel or damage it. Merlin only knows how many times she conceived and got rid of it before—”
He stopped in mid-sentence as his lips drew tight.
Draco, still curious, asked him, “And since when you do make it a practice to know what muggles do?”
“Healers sometimes collaborate with them.” Lucius glared at him and said, “I’ve met a few people over the years that were familiar with Healers and their underhanded, sneaky practices. They make it their business to know.
“Of course, after I found out about that, I would not allow that deceitful, potions-peddling witch in my home - or anything she had a hand in creating - not if I were drawing my last breath and she alone could save me! I’ve wanted to Crucio her, but she’s too well-protected by ‘Saint Albus’!” he hissed.
Lucius was nearly boiling by now. “Once, when you were five or six, she tried to enter my home to cast a healing spell on you, against my orders. You may remember - you had broken some bones in your arm and cracked a rib in a broomstick accident. I did not approve of her being there, so I made her leave. I was, understandably, very irate, but I couldn’t exactly kill my wife, or her childhood nurse—”
Her nurse? Draco thought, fighting to keep his expression bland.
His father continued, “Instead, the stupid, bungling house-elf who let her in was Incendio’d - burnt to cinders, on the spot.” Draco shuddered; he didn’t like house-elves either, but the very thought, the smell of one, smoldering in your front room . . urgghhh . . . It caused his stomach to turn.
Lucius smiled haughtily and said, “Since that time, Malfoy Manor has had guardian spells and wards in place to prevent her or her vile poisons from entering.”
All the while, Ginny sat spellbound, watching and listening from the couch. Her eyes drew wider than they had been all night. Of course - no wonder Dionysus couldn’t deliver the UCD-I! A half-moment later, Draco seemed to have a similar revelation, as Ginny saw, rather than heard, him release a soft laugh of irony.
His father said to him tersely, “No more time for questions, Draco. I must get back soon, or I’ll be missed.” Mr. Malfoy reminded him, “So, you know what must be done?”
Emotionally drained, the boy shrugged and suggested lazily, “Kill them?”
“One of them, yes. And Zabini would be the obvious choice - given that the world already believes him to be dead.” He glared at his intended victim. He gave him a smile that was pure evil, eliciting the slightest shudder from the poor boy before he went on.
“Fortunately, I know an incantation that accelerates the decay of a body; we simply put you back in your ‘grave’, and no one’s the wiser.” He laughed coldly and said, “Couldn’t have planned it better myself. Thank you, Blaise, for your assistance.”
The boy on the couch was incensed, but when he tried to defy him, a quick Silencio put a halt to that. Lucius slowly pocketed his wand as he watched Blaise momentarily for any signs of mutiny. Although any fresh cuts on his arms would definitely sting, they might not be enough to dissuade him from trying to escape. And now that he had shown his hand - that would never do.
Draco was dazed and tired beyond belief. He exchanged an impassive look with Ginny then with Blaise. Neither of them could read his thoughts; his face was empty of all emotion and washed with exhaustion.
An eerie unpleasantness settled over the room as they watched their friend apparently hand them over to his malicious father; one of them, to die, and the other to . . who knew what purpose? Had either of them been able to speak, they would have lashed out at him, screamed at him, pleaded for mercy. Their teary eyes spoke volumes - but not to Draco.
Despite his world crumbling around him, he remained amazingly calm . . . almost unnaturally so. Pointing at Ginny, he asked in a hollow voice, “What about her? Won’t she be killed too?”
His father stared into Ginny’s fearful eyes. He snarled, “Oh, no - I have no intention of killing Miss Weasley.” Then he turned to his son. “Do you remember what I told you the price for these late-night wanderings away from Azkaban is?” Draco’s eyes widened. “That’s right; one muggle. But it need not be a muggle - my guard is not choosy whose soul it devours.”
He then turned to Ginny and leered. “It only knows hunger. And it needs to feed that hunger.”
He approached her slowly. Placing a cold hand on her soft hair, she gasped and almost fainted in terror. He fingered the ginger strands gently and murmured, “You’re not really plain, are you? You’re actually quite pretty.” Blaise looked on, horrified, hoping that he couldn’t actually do anything to her, as he wasn’t really altogether . . . there.
But to Ginny, the slender fingers that now ran through her hair felt more than real. They reminded her of another ghost of a boy who had touched her in that very same way, years ago. She shuddered at the memory. Trying desperately to quell her fear, she fixed her eyes on Draco’s; staring into them, reaching out to him, she tried to read what was in his soul.
When she neither saw nor felt anything in them, a sinking feeling came over her. She began to doubt whether the two of them had ever had anything that could actually be called ‘love’. Did he really despise her now, just because his father commanded him to?
Tears she didn’t think she had left began to fall incessantly.
Bugger! she thought, frustrated that she couldn’t contain her emotions this time.
Meanwhile, the Death Eater continued to stroke her hair, wrapping his fingers in it gently with a strange sort of tenderness. He closed his eyes and moved a step closer to her. A cold surge of panic flowed through her. Rumors of Voldemort’s followers’ “take-what-you-want’” attitude had long run rampant throughout England, striking fear in the hearts of even the bravest witches. Ginny had heard about them before she even knew what those hushed whispers between her mother and her friends actually meant.
Soon, he was moving his palm toward the edge of her face, touching it lightly as his breathing became heavier and more irregular. “Prison is such a lonely place, Miss Weasley,” Lucius whispered in a hoarse, husky voice that his son barely recognized. “You have no idea how lonely . . a man becomes . . . ”
Draco, who had been looking away absently, turned to face where his father was standing. He cleared his throat to call the man’s attention away from her, unsure why he did so, then said flatly, “Father. It’s getting late.”
Startled, Lucius looked up. Moving his face a bit closer to hers, he ogled her then hissed, “This isn’t over yet, girl.” He spun around quickly and glided toward his son.
Draco asked hesitantly, “Hadn’t you better . . finish him off . . . ?” His mind was a blur.
His father drew up to his side with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips and gave him a sharp nod. “Get out your wand,” he commanded.
“What . . ? I thought that you—”
“No,” his father corrected. “Not me. You must do it.”
As both of the boys’ eyes went wide, Ginny’s squinted shut. She felt queasy, certain that she couldn’t bear to watch Draco become just like his father . . a cold-hearted killer, murdering someone he had once loved dearly.
Would he actually do it? she wondered, finding herself curious enough to take a slight peek.
Draco obediently raised his wand. Concentrating, he furrowed his pale brow then sniffed as he stood there, his arm quivering, “Ava—” he began weakly but stopped.
“Avada K—” he started again. But his concentration was broken once more. Gasping for breath, he closed his eyes as tears started to flow. He sighed heavily and confessed, “I-I can’t. I just can’t . . kill him . . . ”
Lucius turned to Draco, his arm stretched so his own wand nearly touched him. “You weakling! You’ll never amount to anything!” he roared.
The pain was fierce and immediate, so much so that he unintentionally dropped his wand. It burned intensely as it pummeled his chest, then spread like a poison into his arm, finally reaching down into his hand and fingers. Falling to the floor in a heap, he was held down once more. He no longer resisted the urge to scream and did so loudly.
A soft gasp came from the hallway, followed by a faint voice calling out, “Master?”
Ginny gaped at Kreacher, and her mouth fell open. She hadn’t seen him since Lucius had grabbed her earlier in the hallway. The last thing she remembered before she had blacked out was the sadistic wizard slamming the elf into the wall with a sharp, cruel kick to the head.
As the elf wandered in, she could see that he was still disoriented and wobbling slightly. His eye was bruised, tinged with a mixture of pale green and purple. He massaged his head, which Ginny assumed was still throbbing, with his crooked, spindly fingers.
“Master?” he repeated. “Is Master Draco . . all right?”
Lucius paid the elf no mind. Instead, he lashed out at his son the moment he tried to stand up. When a vicious hex struck the boy’s body, he fell back down and moaned, gripped by its excruciating sting.
The house-elf suddenly looked very alert. He appeared more alive than Ginny had ever seen him since meeting him two summers before. He boldly defied the powerful wizard, announcing quite loudly:
“No one shall harm a family member in the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black!!”
Lucius jeered at the lowly servant, “Get out of my way, you worthless pile of dung!”
“NO!!!” Kreacher repeated, “No member of the family may be harmed in the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black!!”
Mr. Malfoy scoffed, “But I am family as well. I’m only correcting my impudent child.”
“No, you are not family; his mother is,” Kreacher corrected. Lucius ignored the subtle difference and raised his wand to discipline the boy once more.
The repulsive little house-elf, obeying his time-honored mandate to protect any and all heirs of the Black family - the family he had sworn to serve - struck Lucius with a hex so intense that the wizard was thrust to the far side of the room and directly against the wall. Unable to stop his fall, he hit his head on the troll-leg umbrella stand with a loud, sickening ‘crack’ then his body collapsed to the floor.
Draco gasped sharply; he jumped up and ran to him. He knelt before the man who had given him life, given him everything he had ever known, and gently cradled his head. His father’s cold grey eyes stared unseeing at the moldy ceiling above. The crimson flow that now seeped through Mr. Malfoy’s platinum locks found its way to the boy’s fingers. He winced as he gingerly felt the back of his father’s head, trying to ascertain the severity of the injury. As he did, he wondered vaguely - could he be saved?
Should he be saved?
As the warm blood flowed freely over his open palms and quickly soaked into a nearby rug, Draco whispered, “Kreacher - you-you’ve . . killed him . . . ”
A pair of blue eyes, translucent and piercing, flew open; the lady behind them inhaled sharply. Sitting upright in her narrow bed, she gasped for breath, then in an ear-splitting scream, she cried out desperately, “LUCIUS!!”, then sank back onto the bed.
Madam Pomfrey, Professors Lupin and Flitwick, and Bill Weasley, had been working to break the curse’s hold on Mrs. Malfoy. To that point, she had barely moved or made a sound, so they were quite startled by her sudden movement. Almost in unison, they jumped back, all except for Professor Flitwick.
The Charms teacher had been floating overhead so that he could reach her without standing in a chair or on top of the bed. Her outburst broke the mild bit of concentration he had relegated to the simple Wingardium Liviosa spell that held him suspended, and the poor little fellow toppled to the floor.
“Damn!” he squeaked.
His tumble, along with his mild expletive, caused Bill to grin slightly. He began to snicker to himself. Soon, he was fighting to keep a straight face and attempting to maintain his decorum. When he could no longer resist the urge to laugh out loud, he gave up all hope of pretense. He started chuckling in a manner that would have made his mother scold him for his rudeness.
Before long, everyone else was smiling - everyone except Professor Flitwick, who was still a bit miffed at having lapsed on a spell that could be done by first-years. Still, his little mishap did help to release some of the tension between them, tension which had been building since they first started their task. Having worked for an hour or so, they still had little to show for their efforts.
Seeing the annoyance on the man’s face, Bill apologized in between snorts, “I’m sorry, Professor F. But it was just so funny - if you could have seen the look on your face as you just plopped down to the floor . . ” And he burst out laughing once again.
Madam Pomfrey was tittering as well, and Professor Lupin was alternating between trying to remain serious and breaking into the giggles, something which he ended up failing at miserably. “Sorry, Filius, but you’ve got to admit—”
“All right - it was a little funny,” the Charms professor sniffed. “Now can we please get back to work? I have a stack of pre-O.W.L. essays to review tonight!”
“Okay, okay,” Bill agreed, clearing his throat and trying not to smile again. It seemed that everyone else was settling back down and focusing on the task at hand. But when Professor Flitwick spry body floated up to his previous position, one of them started giggling again, and the others had to purse their lips together to stifle a laugh.
“Poppy!” Flitwick chided.
“It wasn’t me,” she insisted with an amused smirk. Pointing over her shoulder, she suggested, “Probably Miss Granger; she’s just over there.” But when she looked around, Hermione, Harry, and Ron were in a close huddle, completely oblivious to the adults and the professor’s mishap.
The soft, feminine laughter began once more, surprising them and drawing their attention to—
“Narcissa?” Poppy breathed.
Mrs. Malfoy said softly to Professor Flitwick, “I’m sorry, sir - I meant no disrespect. But it was pretty funny.”
Madam Pomfrey looked at her in awe. Then smiling at her old nurse, she greeted her warmly, “Hello, Poppy.”
Time stood still as the three students gaped at one another, then at the despondent house-elf, who was nervously picking at the ragged edge of his towel. Kreacher stood frozen in place, his head shaking back and forth in fearful disbelief. His eyes were as wide as the mouth of Hagrid’s favorite tea cup as he murmured softly to himself, “No, no, no— ”
Slowly realizing the magnitude of what had just happened, Draco suddenly felt very strange inside; he felt somehow lost, and alone - yet at the same time, he felt remarkably free. Free from a weight he hadn’t known he was carrying, until it was gone. The feel of it was all but indescribable.
He closed his eyes and exhaled an otherworldly sigh. Gradually, his lungs filled with air, expanding fully; he could breathe, relax, be himself, for the first time since - well - ever. Looking down at his father’s lifeless body once more, he was relieved to have his friends nearby for comfort. But neither Ginny nor Blaise knew quite what to say to him; “I’m sorry” or “I forgive you” just didn’t seem to capture it.
Still reeling from the shock, they barely noticed the arrival of Nymphadora Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt. Kingsley surveyed the dead body that lie on the floor next to Draco. The long, platinum hair that draped across the floor was now soaked in a thick river of dark maroon. Meanwhile, Tonks eyed her young cousin with a look that bordered somewhere between disappointment and regret; its meaning was not lost on Ginny.
Eager to absolve the two boys from guilt, she spat out quickly, “Tonks, wait! It was Kreacher. But - it was an accident, I swear! It was his mandate to serve the Blacks that made him do it; Mr. Malfoy was hurting Draco, and he had to stop him!”
Kingsley looked at her skeptically then back at Kreacher, judging whether she were telling the truth. After all, she wasn’t above lying, when she thought the situation warranted it.
The seasoned Auror exchanged a glance with his partner. “Well?” was all he said.
Knowing what he meant, Tonks quickly banished the possibility from her mind. This situation was far too serious for Ginny to not be truthful. The spiky-haired Auror reached out and grabbed the reluctant house-elf roughly by the ears and pulled him forward. Then without fuss, fanfare, or apology, she clasped on the Apparation-Proof Shackles, Special House-Elf Model, around his wrists and ankles.
“No, no,” the elf swore pitifully, “Kreacher didn’t mean to!”
But Tonks was having none of it. She had no tolerance for the moanings and groanings of the likes of Kreacher. “Tell it to the Wizengamot,” she snarled at him as she pushed him toward the front door. As Kingsley prepared to transport the house-elf and Mr. Malfoy’s body back to Ministry of Magic headquarters, she turned around to speak to the students once more.
“Draco, we’ll need a statement,” she began then clarified, “well, from all of you, naturally. No doubt, you’ve had a trying day, so I’ll just drop by the school in the morning to wrap that part up.”
She reached into her robes and withdrew three small boxes, about 5” cubed, and passed them out. “These are miniature penseives, one for each of you. If you want to file your memories away in them, do so tonight, while they’re still fresh in your minds.”
She paused, turned to Draco, and said awkwardly, “Look, I’m - I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” he muttered.
Suddenly remembering something else, she gasped and said, “Oh! Blaise?”
His blue eyes met hers, which were aquamarine at the moment. “Yes, Miss . . Tonks?” he asked doubtfully. He had heard of Draco’s cousin before, but he had never actually met her.
“I received an owl from Dumbledore, just before I left the Ministry. He said for you to come back to the school by the Portkey I’ll be leaving with Ginny and Draco.” Reaching inside her cloak once more, she withdrew an empty, dusty plastic bottle that bragged in royal blue cursive letters: ‘Mrs. Sapp’s Best Maple Syrup - Guaranteed to stay thick even when warm!’
Touching her wand to the everyday object, it gave off a slight glow. “All right, then. This will be ready in one minute and will be good for the next ten. It will take you straight to the front door of Honeydukes. Filch will meet you outside the school gates fifteen minutes later.”
Ginny sighed, “Thanks, Tonks. See you later.”
“Now don’t go hanging about,” the Auror advised. “Leave straight away. Well . . bye, everyone.” And with that, she left them.
The three of them couldn’t wait to get out of there. On the count of three, they touched the Portkey simultaneously, feeling the familiar tug behind their navels, and soon landed on solid ground just outside Honeydukes Sweet Shop.
“Hello, Lady Guinevere. Keeping rather dodgy company these days, aren’t we?”
~End of Chapter~
Notes: Whew! This rollercoaster ride is almost over (a little ‘nudge, nudge’ to PhoenixRae). :-D Just a few more chapters to go. Thanks again for reading, and remember, reviews inspire and feed the author’s soul!
In the Credit Where it’s Due Department: “You’re not really plain, are you? You’re actually quite pretty.” Stole this line from Paul Scott, author of The Raj Quartet (basis for the mini-series “The Jewel in the Crown”). It’s marvelous stuff!
And once again, definitions of my squirrely, homebrewed Latin: Reicere meaning ‘Reject’. Conceptio meaning ‘Conception’.
“A Pair of Blue Eyes” is a book by Thomas Hardy, the author who inadvertently gave me my pen name.
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