|
||||||||
|
||||||||
Author: lantis222 Story: Something Worth Fighting For Rating: Young Teens Setting: Post-DH Status: WIP Reviews: 14 Words: 39,956
Ron and Lavender sat on a blanket over looking a vast lake. He had discovered this place several years ago quite by accident; he had been attempting a complicated branch of Apparition for Auror Training, and had missed his destination by several miles. The mistake had been well worth it and even now he was still mesmerised by its majestic beauty. The crystal clear waters reflected a moon that seemed larger than life. Giant fir trees grew right up to the waters edge and occasionally fish would jump causing the water to ripple. Crickets sang to them and a soft breeze blew Lavender’s hair playfully. Thousands of stars twinkled merrily overhead, as if they knew what Ron was about to do. Ron had debated with himself all evening about Hermione. He had eventually decided that it didn't matter that she was back: because what they had wasn't real. Lavender was real. This was his life now and he did love her. True, it wasn't the way he had loved Hermione, but he knew that he could be happy with Lavender. He had decided then and there that he was not going to let Hermione's return interfere with his plans. He was still going to do it. He felt in his pocket for the ring. It was still there, snug and warm. All right, Weasley, he thought to himself, it's now or never. “Lavender?” he said. “Er, we’ve been together for a while now.” He paused; she was so pretty with the moonlight shining on her hair. She looked almost as pretty as Hermione had been that night… Suddenly he wasn't with Lavender any more; his mind had wandered to a different scene where he, Harry and Hermione had camped at a different lake. The locket Horcrux was heavy around his neck and the chain dug painfully into his skin. He reached up to adjust it and was almost surprised that no blood came away when he touched his neck. It was biting into his skin and he could feel it sinking deeper and deeper. A scar that he would never be able to remove, for it would forever be a part of him. Sudden anger flared like wildfire in his heart. He wanted to strike Harry down for dragging him on this hopeless quest. How stupid he had been for allowing Harry to talk him into this. Somehow he had expected more excitement or—something. He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. Hermione rustled the pages of Beedle the Bard impatiently as she cast him a furtive glance. He crossed his arms before his chest and scowled. His anger flared, this time reflected toward Hermione. What was she even doing here with them? He should have left her safely at The Burrow. Instead, here she was with them and he just wanted her to be safe. But no, here she was risking her life for some stupid Horcrux hunt that seemed to be one dead end after another. Heat seared his chest under the locket and he was angry at Harry all over again. He reached up and adjusted the chain again before grinding his teeth and allowing himself to sink farther into self-doubt and anger. There was a sudden movement and he felt, rather than saw, her approach him. “I think you’ve worn that thing long enough for today,” she said gently as she held out her hand to him. “Why don’t you let me take it for a while?” “It’s not your turn yet,” he snapped. However irrational he knew it was, he was loathe to part with the horrid golden locket. “It doesn’t matter, Ron,” she said quietly. “It’s making you uncomfortable and I just thought I could help you.” His eyes flashed dangerously and he saw red. “You only want it for yourself,” he said dangerously. “Don’t be stupid, Ron,” Hermione said coldly. “Oh,” he said angrily as he stood up to face her, “so I’m stupid now?” “Of course not,” she said calmly. She reached out and touched his hand. He flinched and turned away but she held on to him firmly. He turned back. Through the red haze in his mind he saw her face. It was so beautiful in the lamp light. Her mouth was moving. “Do you trust me?” Her voice was calming to his clouded mind. Slowly he nodded, mesmerized by her. He felt her tug on his hand and he drank her in like a man dying of thirst. He felt the mattress beneath him and he was sitting. “Give me the Horcrux, Ron. Let me help you.” He closed his eyes and he felt the chain being lifted from his neck. The anger abated as an unknown weight was lifted from his chest. He was trembling and tears leaked form behind his closed eyelids. A sudden dip in the mattress and arms wrapped themselves around him. He took a great shuddering breath and they tightened, holding him close. Her scent filled him and he allowed himself to be held by her. After a very long time his trembling abated and he opened his eyes only to stare into the depthless wonder that could only belong to Hermione. “Why?” he asked her. “Because I love you,” she answered without hesitation. “Why?” he asked again. She chuckled softly. “Honestly, sometimes I don’t know. But I do and that’s enough for me.” They were silent for a time. He was content to be held by her. After what could have been hours, when he was drained of all energy, he finally broke the silence. “Thank you,” he said softly. He closed his eyes and felt her lower him onto his pillow. He was nearly asleep when he felt the feather-soft kiss against his temple. “Sleep now,” he heard her say. Soft movement and she was gone. He lay safe and warm while his thoughts drifted around him. He thought of his love for her which defied reason or being. Born of friendship, it was deep, lasting, and peaceful. He held her image in his mind and in his heart as he drifted off for a perfect night's sleep, wrapped in Hermione’s love. The scene faded from Ron's mind. He was back in the present with Lavender, not Hermione. He was stunned. The memory had seemed so real. “Ron?” It was Lavender. “Are you all right? You seemed very far away for a minute.” Ron shook his head to clear it of the cobwebs that had suddenly filled every available space. “I'm fine, Lavender,” he said, his voice hitching slightly. “Sorry about that.” “It’s alright,” she said, taking his hand. “You were about to say something. What was it?” “Oh.” His head was still foggy. He was, however, sure of one thing: he could not propose to Lavender tonight. “It was nothing, really. Just glad we're together.” “Oh, right,” was all Lavender said. He could hear the disappointment in her voice, and he felt terrible. They both knew that he did not speak the truth. They sat together in an uncomfortable silence. “You know,” he said finally, “we should probably get going. I have to be to work early in the morning.” “All right, if that's what you want.” Her tone was lifeless. It nearly broke his heart to leave her waiting like that. He just could not ask her tonight. “I'll see you home, shall I?” “No, it's all right, Ron,” she said with a touch of bitterness in her voice, “You go on home and get your rest.” She was angry and Ron knew it. He found himself unable to move, he hated himself for doing this to her. He just couldn't ask her. He needed to think. “Right then, I'll see you soon.” He leaned towards her. She tilted her head for the kiss she was expecting, but did not receive. He lightly kissed her cheek then stood, turned on the spot, and disappeared from sight. Ron appeared in his flat seconds later, upset and confused. Why, of all things, did he have to remember that? He had tried so hard to suppress that memory in particular. He knew that he could be happy in his new life as long as that memory had stayed safely hidden. That night had been magical. Yet he felt shame. The very next night, Ron had left them. The Horcrux had forced him to say things he did not mean. He had tried so hard to get back to them. All he had wanted was to apologize to them, to her. When at last it happened and they were reunited Ron had been beside himself with happiness even though it looked like Hermione would never forgive him. He knew, in the end, that she would. Their first kiss was heaven, as each had been since then. But when they were at Malfoy Manor and he saw the green light of speeding death heading toward her, he had reacted instinctively by jumping in front of her. He remembered feeling more love than he had in his entire life. He had felt so peaceful. He remembered loving arms encircling his waist, and then he remembered a deep golden light. There were voices in the light, but try as he might, he had no idea what the voices had said. The golden light faded into blackness and that was the last he remembered until the day he woke up in the hospital, without Hermione. At first he had been angry with her. Why did she leave? He had done everything for her — he had died for her! How could she just get up and leave as if nothing they had had together mattered? He had ranted and raved for a few days until his mother had let him know just how stupid he was being. She had helped him see reason. She told him that if he looked deep into his heart, he would know that Hermione had left for a very good reason, and that she would come back as soon as she possibly could. Yet nearly a month afterward, his anger with her peaked and he said some horrible things from his bed in St. Mungos. Even now, he knew something about that day was all wrong and when Harry had laid into him for saying such things while Hermione, his Hermione, stood in the corridor and listened to every word. He shuddered even now when he thought about it. He had written to her then, begging her to come back. He had told her that if she had to stay away, he would come to her. All he wanted was to be with her and he had told her so repeatedly in his letters. And always, he told her that he loved her. After a year of letters with no response, he had finally given up. It was obvious to him that his mother was wrong and that Hermione had never really loved him. He had thrown himself into his career as an Auror. He had asked for the most dangerous assignments. The danger was the only thing that made him feel alive, and he also had nothing left to live for. In Ron's opinion, the fact that he might die at any moment was an added bonus. It was a complete accident that Lavender Brown had come back into his life. He was having a particularly bad Hermione day, as he called them. He had not wanted to get out of bed. His mother had insisted that she needed some things from Diagon Alley and as she was babysitter for her newest grandchild, she was unable to go. Ron had brooded the entire time. To him, the only good part of the trip was a stop off at The Leaky Cauldron for a bottle of the only constant in his life. Ogden's Old Firewhisky had become his best friend since the disappearance of Hermione and Ron wanted to drown himself in it. As he turned away from the bar, he ran right into a young woman and sent her packages flying in every direction. He stooped to pick them up and had started to apologise when he realised exactly who he had knocked over. Lavender had changed since their days at Hogwarts. She seemed less flighty than she had back then and her eyes spoke of a maturity that certainly was not there last time he had seen her. Ron spent the rest of the day catching up with Lavender. They talked of old times and memories of Hogwarts. She had been surprisingly understanding and sympathetic when he told her of Hermione. By the time they said goodbye with promises of getting together again soon, Ron had felt some relief for the first time in quite a while. He was shocked to learn that the Hermione-sized hole in his heart was slightly smaller. Instead of an intense and raging inferno, it was a dull burning ache. As the years passed, Lavender had come to be the most important person in his life. Her happiness became the only thing that mattered. He had buried Hermione deep inside and only let her out at night where she continuously plagued his dreams. His head hurt, and he felt nauseous. Why was life always so confusing? He wished he had that large bottle of Firewhiskey to drown himself in now. He sat on the sofa and put his head between his hands. His emotions were in turmoil. One thought turned Ron's world upside down: he still cared for Hermione, more than anything. He was so frustrated! He grabbed a sofa cushion and lobbed it across the room. It hit the picture of Lavender and him. He went over to retrieve the picture. As he stood, he looked down at it more closely. Lavender was happy and in love. Her cheeks tinted pink with a soft blush. Ron was smiling as well, but the smile did not reach his eyes. He looked sad and worn. Is that what I really look like? He had always liked this picture before. He looked down at his photographic self again. He saw himself truly for the first time. He had thought he was happy. Great, he thought, this is just great. He sat back down on the sofa. What he really needed was some advice. Harry knew him better than he knew himself. Harry would know what to do. He hoped so anyway. Ron walked over to his desk and pulled out parchment and a quill. He sat down and began to write. Twenty minutes later he looked down at his finished letter. He thought it sounded good and he knew that it was likely to not only get a response but that Harry was likely to appear in Ron's flat as soon as he read it. While Ron wished that he could talk to his best friend right then, he knew it would have to do. Now, thought Ron. How do I get this to him? His own owl Pigwidgeon, or Pig as Ron liked to call him, was out hunting and he really wanted to send the letter out tonight. A shadow flashed past his window. Ron's Auror instincts made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He walked carefully over to the window. He looked down and saw nothing. Slowly he opened the window. A cool summer breeze ruffled his hair. Ron was about to close the window again when a snowy white owl soared through it. The owl circled the room once and landed gracefully upon Ron's desk chair. “Cordelia!” he exclaimed. “You scared me!” She blinked her amber eyes and looked at him expectantly. He looked down at her leg, there was no letter attached to it. “What are you doing here?” he asked her. She looked over at Ron's finished letter and back at Ron. A look of dawning comprehension filled his face. “How did you know?” he asked her. He was constantly astounded by the intuitiveness of Hedwig’s daughter. She simply looked back at him with what Ron thought was a sympathetic look. “Can you take this to Harry?” he asked her. Cordelia hooted happily. He tied the letter to her leg before stroking her soft feathers. “Thanks, girl,” he said softly. She stretched her wings and soared through the open window. Ron watched her fly away until he could no longer see her. Ron closed the window and turned back to his flat. He looked over at his clock, which read half past three. He needed to get some sleep. He really did have to get to work early in the morning. He went into his bedroom and fell fully clothed upon his bed. He was asleep within minutes, his night blessedly undisturbed by dreams. *** Hermione sat at the small table in her room, the remains of her breakfast spread out in front of her. She was bursting with excitement. Today was the day she could finally get to work on the scrolls. She pulled out her wand, “Scourgify,” she said, pointing it at the small pile of dirty dishes. There was a flash of light and the dishes sat sparkling in the early morning light. As an added thought, she flicked her wand again. The dishes sprang to life and marched themselves back down to the kitchens. “Well,” she said to herself, “that's one pile of dishes that the house-elves won't have to clean up.” She smiled at the thought of the little creatures’ faces when they saw the sparkling dishes. Maybe they would appreciate not having to do this little bit of work. Hermione's thoughts once again returned to her scrolls. Her fingers itched to begin studying them. She quickly moved over to her rucksack, which still held the scrolls, and reverently opened it. There they were, ten scrolls still beautifully preserved and just waiting for her to translate them. She gently freed one of the scrolls and made her way back to the little table. Excitement flooded every ounce of her being as she unrolled the scroll. The writing was beautiful. It was not full of pictographs as so many ancient languages were, but the letters were fluid. They were written in such an elegant hand, each one flowing seamlessly into the next. She had never seen anything like it and was sure that writing so perfect had not been seen in several thousand years. The civilisation that had produced these scrolls was obviously more advanced than much of the Wizarding world today. She sat staring at the wondrous language before her. “I wonder what it says.” She tried to pull her eyes away from the writing and found herself unable to do so. The writing was so beautiful. She tried to blink and found that she could not. Her eyes began to itch and burn. “Oh no!” she thought. “These are probably enchanted or cursed. I need to look away, NOW!” No sooner had this thought crossed her mind than it became that much harder to do. Her mind was becoming foggy. “Fight it, Hermione!” she shouted at herself. “FIGHT IT!” Fight what? She no longer cared. Why should she? The words were so beautiful. In the back of her mind she heard a knock at her door. I should really answer that, but again she found that moving was too difficult. “Hermione?” someone was calling her name. The voice registered in the back of her mind, but they would have to wait. The writing was calling to her. Hermione felt that if she listened hard enough, she could hear it speaking to her. The writing began to blur in front of her eyes. It swirled and danced filling her mind with pictures of civilizations past. She felt sick and her head was cloudy; still, she could not pull herself away. Hands grabbed her and pulled her roughly away. “Hermione!” the voice said loudly. “Neville?” Hermione asked blankly. Suddenly her world was black, the images gone, and Hermione found that she was so very disappointed that tears sprang to her eyes. She felt strong arms around her and for a moment she cried. As she cried, her mind began to clear. She could hear a soothing voice; it was whispering that everything would be all right. Hands stroked her hair and patted her back. When she had at last cried herself out, she looked up and into the eyes of Neville Longbottom. “Neville!” she exclaimed in surprise, as she pulled away from him. “What are you doing here?” “It's good to see you too,” he said a slight smile played on his lips. “It looks like I came just in time,” he added dryly. “I can't believe I did that,” Hermione said, horror–struck. “I knew better than that.” “Better than what?” he asked. “When I received the letter from Minerva, I was in the middle of excavating a temple in the Sahara. I found these scrolls inside. Well, ancient civilisations often put curses and enchantments on things like this. I should have remembered that. It's basic curse-breaking!” She put her head down on the table. “What was I thinking?” “Hey, it's all right,” he said soothingly. “We all make mistakes. You were just excited. It happens to all of us. In fact I remember a couple of years ago...” Hermione tuned him out for a moment. She stared at her friend and realised fully for the first time just how much she had missed by leaving. She had missed this, just sitting with a friend, listening to him tell her a story, trying to make her feel better. She assessed Neville for a moment. This Neville was strong and sure of himself, not at all the Neville that she had known in her Hogwarts days. This Neville had only started to assert himself in their final year, just before the battle. Hermione deeply regretted not being here to see his transformation from scared and unsure boy to the man sitting before her. “...So anyway, the tentacles came up out of the water.” He was using his hands to demonstrate the tentacles coming slowly, and wriggly by the way he was waving his arms about. Hermione let out a small giggle. “They snaked their way toward me and grabbed me by the ankles. It started pulling me into the water; I thought I was done for. Luckily I had my wand and I sent a Reducto Curse at it. The creature let go of me pretty quickly and I was able to get away. It scared the pants off me, though.” Hermione was nearly doubled over with laughter by the end of his story. It wasn't what he said so much as how he said it. His actions and facial expressions as he told his tale had nearly undone her. She knew she was going to like this Neville very much. “Well,” said Hermione as she wiped her eyes of the tears that had formed there, “I am glad you made it out of that. It sounds like you have had some adventures.” “Yeah, I have. Life has been interesting, to say the least.” “Seriously, Neville,” Hermione said, and there was no trace of laughter in her voice. “Thank you, I would have been lost just now without you.” “Now, come on, Hermione,” he said, a pink tinge coming to his cheeks. “You're going to make me blush. I didn't do anything.” “Yes, you did, Neville. Never sell yourself short.” Hermione looked at him appraisingly. “You know,” Hermione said with a mischievous smile, “Susan is a lucky girl.” Neville's face went bright red. Hermione laughed again. “Now that's a blush,” she said simply. “So, Neville, what brings you here? I assume you wanted something other than to save me today.” “Sorry?” Neville said, clearly still flustered. “Oh yeah, I almost forgot about that. See, I was working on the potion for my dad and I kind of got stuck. It's just not working right. So I was wondering if you would mind helping me out today?” “Sure, it sounds like fun. How about after lunch?” “Sounds great! Thanks, Hermione.” He started walking to the door. He turned back and nodded toward the scroll now sitting harmlessly on her table. “You'll want to be a little more careful with that.” “I will; thanks again.” Neville continued out the door, waving over his shoulder as if to say it was nothing. Hermione smiled at the empty space that was once Neville. Susan is indeed a lucky girl, Hermione thought to herself. With that thought Hermione turned her attention back to her scroll. She pulled out her wand and waved it in the direction of the scroll. It gave a blue glow before smoking slightly. That was a nasty curse. If Neville had not come by when he did... Hermione cringed slightly. She would have stared at the scroll until she went insane. Luckily for her, the curse was relatively easy to undo, once a person knew what it was. She smiled again as she started breaking the curse. It was good to be among friends again. *** Draco Malfoy sat alone in his cold and forlorn drawing room. Once, it had been grand. A crystal chandelier used to flood the room with light and the gilded mirror used to reflect grand parties and elegant guests. Now it reflected nothing but the lonely occupant seated sullenly in front of a dying fire. The table next to him contained an untouched glass of firewhisky and an unopened book. He sighed deeply and turned to look out the quickly darkening window. How long he sat there he did not know, for time had no meaning to him anymore. Since the death of his father and mother, life held no meaning. For the past few years, he had sunk lower and lower into the depths of despair and misery. At first he had tried to live life as he normally would. He worked and attended the various parties and social functions befitting his station in life. As the years passed, he began to lose interest and soon stopped attending everything all together. Now his inheritance was all but spent and he found that he honestly did not care. If he was destitute, maybe he would starve to death. At least then he could stop feeling the pain that plagued him constantly. The fire sputtered and the flames disappeared. Now only red coals remained, which did nothing for the ever-increasing darkness. He had a fleeting thought that he should turn on a lamp but found he lacked the energy to perform such a simple task. And so he watched as the last rays of sun set behind the hill and the shadows lengthened around him. A small and shrivelled house-elf entered the room. He held a small candle in front of him and clutched a large patchwork quilt to his chest. “Master Draco,” he said in a wheezy voice, “you is looking cold. Please allow Horri to restart the fire.” “No, Horri, leave me alone,” Draco said. His voice was also hoarse from disuse. “Master Draco, you is going to make yourself sick,” Horri said concernedly. “It does not matter,” Draco said softly. “Just because Master Draco has stopped caring about his health does not mean his Horri has also.” Horri handed Draco the quilt. “At least wrap yourself against the cold, Master. Please do this for old Horri.” Draco found that he could not deny the old elf this one small request and so he accepted the quilt and wrapped it around his shoulders. Horri beamed at him. “Thank you, Master Draco,” he said as he bowed low and backed silently out of the room while Draco turned and stared at the red coals. Several hours later the grandfather clock in the entrance hall struck midnight. Draco had not moved from his spot in front of the now dead fire. The quilt was wrapped loosely around his shoulders and he had been dozing. It struck him odd that he was so young and yet he felt so very old. As the last echoes of the chimes faded away Draco sat upright. He thought for a moment that the shadows had moved. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the spot but nothing moved. He let out the breath he did not know he was holding and thought that perhaps he should go to bed. He had very nearly decided to go upstairs when he heard it. Draco, it was no more than a whisper and yet it sent chills down his spine. He stood and looked wildly around the room. “Who’s there?” he shouted to the darkness. Silence followed and then, Draco Malfoy. “Show yourself!” he demanded. Still only silence filled his waiting ears. “I know you are there,” he said, quieter this time but still forcefully. “I told you to show yourself.” The shadows rippled. “Such insolence,” said a voice, raspy and frightening. “Look,” said Draco, “I don’t know who you are but you are to leave now or I shall remove you.” The raspy voice chuckled. “Bravery, I admire it.” Draco felt in the pockets of his robes for his wand. He found the slender piece of wood and silently moved his hand into position to strike. His heart seized with a nameless fear. He was more terrified now than he had been the entire time he had been employed by the Dark Lord. At least then he had known what he was dealing with. The shadows shifted again and Draco held his wand ready, the Killing Curse on his lips. He felt a force faster than lightening and stronger than steel whip his wand out of his hand. It fell with a clatter on the other side of the room. Draco wheeled around; his breathing was ragged and his heart beat erratically in his chest. Suddenly from the shadows a figure materialized. Darker than the darkest night and wraithlike, it glided across the floor toward Draco who was now cowering on the floor in fear. “Draco Malfoy,” it said calmly. “You have no reason to fear me, I am your friend.” “My friend?” Draco asked. And then almost silently, “I have no friends.” The figure either did not hear or chose to ignore this last comment. It approached Draco slowly. It was tall and dressed in a long, black, and hooded cloak. It was impossible for Draco to tell whether the figure was male or female and the voice hinted at neither. It glided rather than walk and, as it approached, Draco found himself repulsed yet drawn to this figure who struck fear into his heart. It stopped mere feet from him and seemed to study him for a moment. It seemed to Draco that hours passed while the figure stood before him. At last it nodded. “I have watched you for many years, did you know that?” the figure asked. Draco shook his head dumbly for his vision was becoming cloudy. “Oh yes,” the figure said again almost hungrily, “for many years. I knew the day I saw you, although you were barely a year old, that you would be the one to help me.” Draco licked his lips. His throat was dry and he was shaking. He tried to speak but found that no words escaped his lips. After several attempts he found his voice. “You…you want me to help you?” “Oh yes,” the figure said kindly, “only you can help me. And in return, I will help you.” Draco was suddenly angry. How dare this…this thing come to him and tell him he needed help. He was fine on his own. He did not need help. He glared at the figure. “I do not need your help, nor do I need any one else’s.” “Of course not,” the figure said consolingly. “I merely thought that you would like to avenge your parents’ deaths.” “Their deaths were a tragic accident. Father was not well.” Draco looked at the figure sadly. “Oh, I do not believe that,” the figure said silkily. “Nor I think, do you. There was something wrong there that night was there not?” Draco remembered that night. He remembered the blank look in his father’s eyes as he performed unspeakable acts of cruelty. “Yes,” he said in barely more than a whisper. “And who do you think was responsible for your father's behaviour?” the figure asked. “I do not know.” Draco answered. “Don’t you?” the figure asked again. “Do you not know any one who would stand to benefit from the death of Voldemort’s last remaining supporters?” Draco became angry again. “My family and I stopped supporting him long ago. It was fear that kept my family in his service.” “That is true,” the figure said. “But many people did not know that, did they?” “No,” Draco conceded, “they did not.” “I ask you again, is there anyone who would have benefited from the death of your family?” “No,” Draco answered, “there was no one.” “Not even,” the figure paused for a moment, “Harry Potter?” At this Draco laughed out loud. “You blame the one person who is incapable of such an act.” “Do I?” the figure asked. “Harry Potter defeated the most powerful wizard of this century. Do you not think that he would finish what he started? He would want to bring an end to evil, all evil.” “My family was not evil,” Draco said. “But did he know that?” the figure asked. “He had a connection with the Dark Lord. He said he saw just about everything.” Draco’s eyes took on a far away look. “He knows what we went through,” he said quietly. “How do you know he was telling you the truth?” “Because he was my friend.” Draco answered with certainty. It was the figure's turn to laugh. “You are so naïve,” it said. “You really believe that? After years of animosity between the two of you, you really think that he could put that aside? You are a fool, Draco Malfoy. Perhaps you are not the person I seek.” The figure turned to leave. It turned and faced him one last time. “I watched you that night. The night your parents died. There was no reason for Harry Potter and his friends to be anywhere near your home that night. Let me ask you how they knew you were there. How did they know that your father was hurting you, unless they were somehow responsible for your father’s, shall we say, condition? I think you may find the answers to such questions… disturbing.” The figure turned its back on Draco. It began to disappear into the shadows from whence it came. When it had very nearly disappeared Draco heard its voice echo around the room. “Think about what I have said. I will be in contact with you soon.” Draco felt his energy leave his body quickly. He gripped the chair for support. He noticed his hands were whiter than normal and he knew his face must match. He sank into his chair and found that he was shivering. He pulled the quilt tightly around his shoulders and stared back into the now cold fire, his thoughts troubled and confused.
Updates will be a little slower over the holiday season as we both have families with young children. But they are coming. Also thank you to all of you who read and especially review. Without your comments I can’t improve and I also appreciate your encouragement. You all keep me going. You’re all the best!
|