His breath tickled her ear
as he leaned over her shoulder to watch her
write. With an expert air, she flicked her head so that her hair,
which had been veiling her handiwork, whipped him lightly across his
face, stinging his eyes to tears. As he stepped back she signed
the parchment and sealed it against his prying gaze.
"Really, Amanda, how immature."
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Lucius,"
she turned to give him a saccharine
smile. The false tears caused his eyes to glisten in the
candlelight. "I didn't notice you there."
He snorted his disbelief elegantly, blinking the excess moisture
away. "Preparing your treat for young Potter, are you?"
"My lord gave this task to me,"
she said, her voice sharp and sweet
as the rot of death. "You have no say in what I do here."
"I do if you intend to embroil my son in your plans."
"Will you still be playing the doting daddy to the poor little boy even
when you're old and grey, Lucius?"
"Don't be ridiculous," he replied, aplomb unruffled. "I have
plans of my own for my son. I will not tolerate interference."
"Nor will I," she answered, meeting his gaze evenly.
He exited her chamber without another word.
She waited, listening to the receding echo of his footsteps. When
at last they faded into silence, she stood and crossed to the
window. An owl waited patiently for her, its leg
outstretched. She kissed the seal on her missive lingeringly,
then fastened it to the messenger, peering intently into its eyes.
"Go," she murmured at last, and the owl fluttered to flight beneath her
smile and the waxing moonlight.
*** *** ***
The dungeon classroom was dark and drab, which suited Draco's mood
perfectly. The only light was the misty glimmer of moonlight from
the dusty skylight in the corner - and the dull orange glow from the
sphere slowly reassembling itself in his palm.
He rolled it around his fingers for several moments, then abruptly
threw it at the old blackboard. As the fragments scattered, a
figure could be distinguished from the shadows by what had once been a
teacher's desk. The youth ignored it as he summoned the shards
and splinters to him once more.
"It would be more effective if you threw a dagger into his heart."
Grey eyes glared into the darkness. The sphere shattered against
the teacher's desk.
"He doesn't have a heart," Draco answered in low tones. He tapped
his wand to his palm, and orange sparks sped towards him once again.
"He came to you."
His hand clenched slightly, and he hissed in pain as several slivers of
glass sliced through his skin on their way to reforming the smooth,
unbroken globe. The glow it emitted was darker than it had been
previously, specks of red tainting its inherent light.
"Yes," he murmured. "He did."
Blood continued to well from his cuts, pooling around the globe in the
palm of his hand, then trickling down his wrist and between his
fingers. Within the sphere, the flecks of blood thinned and
faded, melting into the core. Its light was now decidedly red.
"And will you now be the dutiful son?" the shade questioned him
sardonically.
Draco eyed the ghost sharply at the unusually direct query. After
a few moments he pushed himself up off the floor, sliding the bloody
globe into a pocket, and headed towards the door. Pausing with it
half-open, he glanced back at the shimmering shadows beside the
teacher's desk.
"We all have our priorities," he spoke in light tones, a humourless
smile gracing his lips. Slipping through the narrow gap, he shut
the door firmly behind himself.
Within the old classroom the shadows thickened once more.
*** *** ***
The greeting at the top of the parchment seemed lonely and lost by
itself, yet for once in his life Albus could not find the words to
continue.
"I want my wand," Harry had
said, with such a sour twist to his mouth
that Albus hadn't known whether to believe him or not. Then the
trans-dimensional visitor had described the wand in question.
Whether or not it was wanted was a moot point. Albus was certain
it would become necessary all too soon.
Setting aside his quill momentarily, he slipped his fingers beneath his
half-moon glasses to rub wearily at his eyes. It did little to
relieve the dull pain building inside his skull, but he did not wish to
resort to potions just yet.
Harry had left him with a great deal to think about. While the
details varied between their two worlds, the common demise and return
of Voldemort provided a parallel he could not dismiss out of
hand. On the subject of their conflict with Voldemort, Harry had
provided far more information than Albus would have imagined
possible. It simply had not occurred to him that Harry could have
been so intimately involved in the conflict, that the situation could
have deteriorated so much that the students had been dragged into the
front line itself, far beyond the minor intrigue that tainted certain
elements of the student body. It was a position that Albus and
his most trusted associates would do anything possible to prevent being
forced into here - or perhaps even the
impossible.
Most wizards found it extremely difficult to adjust to using another's
wand, due to the distinctly individual characteristics of each wand and
the fact that they became more attuned to their owners with every
use. That Harry could use both of his friends' wands without much
trouble was a display of versatility that even Albus would strain to
match. That he could duel effectively enough with one of
those wands to put a paranoid former Auror in the hospital wing denoted
ability and power to be envied - yet also a lack of control that was
not.
The war in his own world had wounded and wearied the youth, but Albus
had faith that he could be restored in body and spirit. However,
Voldemort would not be interested in giving his foe time to recover,
especially since the boy had thwarted his plans once already.
Harry had to be prepared. This second chance could not be wasted.
Exhaling, he picked up his quill once more, and touched it to the
parchment:
Old friend, I write in regards to a
particular wand...
*** *** ***
It was well past midnight when Theo returned to the Gryffindor common
room where Simon was restlessly awaiting him.
"Well?" he pounced excitedly upon his older brother as soon as he
entered the portrait-hole. "What did he say? What did he
tell them?"
"Ease up," Theo grumbled as he shoved the younger boy back down onto a
couch, dropping down heavily beside him.
"But what did he - "
"Do you want to hear this or not?" Theo snapped. Simon closed his
mouth before the retort could escape. His brother eyed him
carefully a minute before turning to stare at the flames flickering in
the fireplace.
"Something really bad happened in his world, Simon." He raised
his eyes to Simon's once again, and this time was met with an utterly
unimpressed glare.
"'Really bad'. Really.
I'm not some stupid kid, Theo!"
came the angry declaration. "Just tell me what happened
already! I already know that his world's Ron is dead - "
" That's right!" Theo interrupted furiously in turn. "His Ron is
dead. His best friend
is dead. These are real people
we're talking about here, not just blocks of wood. Think about
that for a minute, will you? How would you feel if Dennis or Owen
or Kevin were murdered?"
"I - "
"Then multiply that by a thousand or so! Imagine what it feels
like to watch as your friends die, knowing that anything you do could
only make things worse! Remember how you felt when the Stewarts
were - "
"Theo, calm down!"
Theo blinked, taken aback by the unusual directive from his feisty
little brother, and took several deep breaths, resettling himself on
the couch. Simon watched him closely with a grave regard he
rarely displayed.
"I didn't mean it to sound like that. Honestly."
"I know," Theo nodded jerkily. "It's just that... Listening to
Harry tonight, I almost wish Mum and Dad hadn't let me stay."
For once Simon waited silently for him to continue, his eyes wide in
anticipation.
"Everyone and everything he knew is either dead or destroyed. His
family, his friends, even Hogwarts."
"No one could destroy Hogwarts!" Simon protested.
"Apparently Harry can."
There was a brief silence as Simon stared incredulously at his older
brother.
"You're joking," he said flatly. Theo quirked one eyebrow at him,
and realisation scuttled like a cockroach across Simon's face.
"Oh, hell."
"Don't tell anyone about this," Theo cautioned. "He's edgy enough
as it is without everyone staring at him."
"People stare at him anyway, because of the way he acts," Simon
informed him.
"I know, and it doesn't help. Mum thinks he's still in
shock. Hogwarts was defeated only a few days ago for him."
He rubbed at his chin absently as he gazed into the fire. "It
must be horrible for him here."
"But everyone's still alive here!" Simon argued.
"Not everyone, and those who are just aren't the same."
"How would you - " Simon started before seeing the look in his
brother's eyes. "Right. Theo?"
"What?"
"Do you believe Harry is dangerous?"
Theo looked at him. "Yes," he said simply, and returned to
staring into the fire.
They remained on the couch for some time, Theo deep in thought, Simon
studying Theo.
Neither of them noticed the footsteps that retreated up the staircase.
*** *** ***
He lay quietly on the bed, feigning sleep. He could feel his
parents' eyes upon him, his father sitting beside him on the bed, his
mother hovering to one side.
It felt like home.
He must have fallen asleep at some point in Dumbledore's office while
they were discussing what to do with him, for the next thing he
remembered was waking up in James' arms as he carried him down to their
quarters for the second time that day. They'd tucked him into bed
in what he had discerned from their whispered conversation to be
Simon's old room. He felt almost guilty for enjoying the way
they'd treated him as though he were a small child. He wanted
them to hold him and comfort him and tell him everything would be all
right - and at the same time knew that he could never accept such
unfounded reassurance.
It would never be 'all right'.
All my fault.
The words echoed in his head alongside the screams. No matter
what James or Lily or anyone else said, he was responsible for the
deaths of hundreds of people. Words couldn't change the truth.
I'm a murderer.
Blood on his hands, stains he could never wash out completely.
Meaningful and meaningless deaths added up to a massacre, one he should
have been able to prevent. Instead, he'd made all the wrong
choices, and others had paid for his mistakes.
Not again. Never again.
Don't think. Don't feel.
Don't remember.
"Even in sleep he can't rest."
"I told you, I don't think he's recovered from his losses yet."
Don't think about losses.
"He sounded so guilty when he spoke of his friends dying."
Don't feel guilty for what you could
and couldn't do.
"Survivor's guilt. We'll have to help him move past that before
we can start on his control."
Don't remember what you did.
"How the hell do you expect him to recover so soon from what he's been
through?"
Don't think about friends being
tortured.
"James, calm down! I never said we were going to rush him into
anything!"
Don't feel like you should be rushing
to help.
"You said before that you didn't think we had time to spare!"
Don't remember Cedric dying.
"I know what I said, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to take
Harry's needs into account!"