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Darkness Within The Light	By : crimson96 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 8759 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 38
- 39
- 40
Chapter 39: Impure Motives
Tick…Tock…Tick…Tock…Tick…Tock…
The sound of the clock was like the beak of some incessant bird tapping on Kingsley Shacklebolt’s brain as he sat in the empty office, waiting for its occupant.
“Late,” he grumbled, taking out his pocket watch and observing the time. Petulantly, the minister glared at the hands of the ticking clock that stood behind the desk.   After shifting his weight in the stiff chair, Kingsley sighed loudly and then stood in front of the desk, stretching and lightly massaging his knees.
“Good evening, Minister.” The voice came from the portrait to his right.
“Evening, Armando,” Kingsley replied, walking toward the portrait and flexing his ankles in the process to work out the kink that had developed from sitting and waiting on his appointment. “Long day?” He asked, nodding his head toward the landing above the stairs, where the door to the office remained closed.
“Yes, indeed,” the aged wizard replied, scratching his silver beard. “The headmistress has had guests in and out all day.”
“I know the feeling.” Kingsley nodded, rubbing his eyes briefly.
“Yes, yes, I too remember that feeling all too well, though I suppose when one’s dead, one becomes a bit callous to the plight of the living.” The dead headmaster sighed, stuffed his hands into his robe pockets, and turned his gaze from the stairway landing to the tired Minister who stood before his portrait. “I suppose that we have you and your Ministry regime to thank for the swift restoration of Hogwarts?”
“You don’t need to thank me, Armando,” Kingsley answered, waving his large hand at the portrait. “Many other people volunteered their time and efforts to repair and to rebuild Hogwarts. For that, I am thankful. They made my job a little bit easier.”
“Quite so, Minister. I’m just glad I still have a home for my portrait. Merlin’s Beard! Who knows what may have become of my portrait if the Dark Lord and his rabble had destroyed the castle. I suppose I would have had to find occupancy in some sort of old wizard’s home.”
Kingsley chuckled to himself. “Not exactly the best place for a former headmaster of Hogwarts.”
“I should say not, Minister!” The former headmaster huffed, picking up a gnarled cane and pointing it at Kingsley. “See to it that Hogwarts will be secure, and make sure the riff-raff are exterminated, permanently!”
“Times may change, yet the feelings stay the same. Wouldn’t you agree, Albus?” Kingsley mused, as he walked over to the portrait of the sleeping wizard. He stood in front of the portrait before a familiar ticking sound caught his attention. Glancing down at his pocket watch, he sighed again before looking back at the sleeping figure of Albus Dumbledore. “I guess it’s not polite to rush a woman, is it?”
He glanced back up at the landing before continuing. “There are so many things that I wish I could say to you, old friend.” He sighed deeply, looking down at his feet and dragging the toe of his boot against the floor. “Things are so much different now, Albus.   I just wish that you were here to offer a few words of advice.” He looked up at the picture, hoping to see a hint of blue from the closed eyelids.
“Talking to the dead, Minister?” Minerva McGonagall’s voice came from the landing above.
Kingsley whirled. “Madame Headmistress.” He smiled, walking over toward the desk.
“It’s pointless to speak to him, Kingsley,” McGonagall stated as she began to descend the stairs. “I can’t recall how many hours I’ve sat, speaking out loud in the hopes that his portrait would reply.” She stepped down from the final step, her black robe flowing behind her as a midnight blue shirt hugged her thin frame. “The most I’ve ever seen him do is slightly rock to and fro in his chair.” She gazed at the portrait one last time, before extending her hand toward Kingsley and the chair that he stood beside.
Passing by the phoenix, McGonagall caressed the majestic bird, eliciting a soft, haunting cry from Fawkes, who took flight and disappeared in a flash of light. A single feather floated in the air until it came to a soft landing upon the desk where the minister and headmistress now sat.
Before either party could speak, the sounds of feet shuffling along with murmured gripes and grumbles came from the portraits that hung on the walls of the office. Various witches and wizards hurried through different frames, oblivious of the owners. One of the painted wizards knocked a sleeping wizard from his chair, seized the man’s staff, and used it to beat aside the others who competed for a better view of the conversation that was about to take place.
“Is it always like this?” Kingsley asked, raising his hands toward the overcrowded portraits. “I’ve heard of news traveling fast, but this…”
“I say, really! Shame on you all for acting like a herd of wild hippogriffs,” McGonagall chided. “Is this how portrait subjects in Hogwarts behave?”
A few of the witches and wizards looked down at the bottoms of the frames, avoiding McGonagall’s eyes. Some mumbled haphazard apologies, while others began to walk back out of the portrait frames.
“That’s much better!” McGonagall nodded approval. “If there is any news that I deem necessary for you to know, then I will share that with all of you and the staff of Hogwarts. For now, please leave the Minister and me to speak without…prying…ears.”   She emphasized the finals three words, and the occupants of the portraits left their frames, save for Albus Dumbledore, Armando Dippett, and Phineas Nigellus.
“Now,” she said, turning her attention from the portraits to Kingsley, “please begin, Minister.”
Kingsley cleared his throat. “Yes, thank you, Headmistress McGonagall.” He reached into his robe pocket and extracted a rolled slip of parchment. “I need to speak to you, Minerva, about some of the names on the list of Hogwarts teachers that you have submitted to the Ministry.”
“Oh?” McGonagall slipped on her glasses and adjusted them on the bridge of her nose. “I saw nothing wrong with the personnel that I submitted.”
Kingsley unfolded the parchment, placed it upon the desk, and slid it forward for the headmistress to see. “You know which names I have an issue with,” he said, tapping a large finger over four of the names that the headmistress had scribbled.
“They are all perfectly suitable for the job,” McGonagall stated, brushing aside the Minister’s statement. “Tea?” She asked.
“No.” Kingsley replied flatly.
McGonagall waved her wand and a small cup and saucer appeared on the desk beside her hand. “They have all of the necessary qualifications. Aguamenti.” The cup filled. She took a satchel from the drawer of her desk, sprinkled some leaves into the cup, and flicked her wand. The water began to darken and steam.
“Viviane Rivail for divination?” Kingsley asked, picturing the fortune teller’s flamboyant make-up and loud floral robes. “Are you aware of this woman’s reputation in the muggle world? If she attempted to abuse magic in such a way on this country, she would be in Azkaban.”
“Yes, well, Americans are not known for their ability to uphold the natural order of things, are they?” McGonagall smiled wryly. “Have you ever seen her muggle television show, Minister?”
“I have no time for such things!” Kingsley waved a hand.
“Because you would find yourself impressed if you had,” McGonagall continued. “Miss Rivail has qualities sorely lacking in the wizarding community, and she helps people to the best of her ability.”
“You believe she has the second sight?” Kingsley shook his head. “Minerva…”
“I believe she has empathy and insight. These are qualities the students need in this time of healing.”
Kingsley snorted. “So you hired her because you watched her console a few desperate souls with promises of future glory.
“No. Viviane approached me. She accosted me at The Three Broomsticks with a story about a vision of herself helping the students of Hogwarts. It was the day after Sybil announced her retirement.”
“And you believe her vision was genuine?”
“I believe that she believes it, Minister. I did not make the decision then, of course.” She sipped her tea before continuing. “I researched Viviane with a variety of discrete inquiries and found nothing untoward. Even the muggles who call her a fraud like her.”
“There is still a fundamental dishonesty in what she does.” Kingsley folded his arms across his chest.
“Which is why she won’t be doing it any longer; she will be teaching here instead.” The expression on McGonagall’s face could be called a smirk if it were to grace less dignified features. “Who on the list is your next objection?”
“Arsenius Jigger to replace professor Slughorn at potions? This requires an explanation.”
Minerva’s eyebrows drew together and she tilted her head to the side in surprise. “Mr. Jigger is a respected author with teaching experience.”
“He has rather too much experience, wouldn’t you say?”
“If you are referring to his age, Kingsley, and I hope you are not, may I remind you that Albus Dumbledore accomplished more in his later years than either of us in our youth? If anything, Arsenius’ advanced age is a testament to his skill in his craft.”
“Perhaps so,” Kingsley agreed reluctantly. “Still, as a business man, Jigger served customers of a questionable nature.”
McGonagall pursed her lips. “He is a pragmatist. I will not deny that, but I could say the same of any member of Slytherin house. Hogwarts has never excluded those who view self-interest as a virtue.”
“And perhaps that is a mistake,” Kingsley said softly.
“Time will tell,” McGonagall said tartly. “Unless you would like to consult with Professor Rivail on the matter. Who else concerns you?”
“Marius Black as groundskeeper.” Kingsley tapped the paper.
A loud, dramatic sigh erupted from the wall. “You’re fighting a losing battle, Minister!” Phineas called from his frame. “I objected to that appointment in the strongest possible terms.”
“That objection being your personal embarrassment at having a squib in the family,” Minerva said. “Marius is a man of integrity who has been given far too few opportunities in life. Unlike his predecessor, he is not a known associate of the likes of Dolores Umbridge and has never been involved in the abuse of students. I will hear no more about this. Moving on?”
After exchanging a rueful glance with Phineas, Kingsley tapped a third name on the paper. “This man. He isn’t approved, nor have his qualifications been given by the Ministry of Magic. He had a reputation for being unstable, even as a student. Also, I needn’t remind you of his condition. Merlin’s Beard, Minerva, look into his past! The man is a killer,” Kingsley replied, pressing the weight of his wrists down upon the desk. “And you have someone like him teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts?”
She paused, gazing at the Minister over the top of her glasses before continuing. “And in this age, who among us is not a killer? Even the innocent must kill sometimes in order to survive. I’ve read about what happened years ago. He was acting under orders. It was a painful decision. Yet, one that had to be made. In doing so many lives were spared. Sacrifice, Minister. It’s a term that we are all unfortunately are too familiar with.”
“Sacrifice is a part of life, Minerva. Perhaps you are sentimentally attached to him because he was a favorite pupil. Or do you have a better reason for choosing this man?” Kingsley replied, folding his arms across his chest.
McGonagall sipped her tea and placed the saucer down upon the desk, before putting on her best disciplinarian face. “Now, you of all people, Kingsley, would know the difficulties of filling this post at Hogwarts. Just about every witch or wizard that I have spoken to believe that You-Know-Who’s curse still lingers over the post. Even those that don’t believe are still hesitant to take up the position.”
Kingsley shook his head. “Still, there are more appropriate choices.”
“Well…what about you Minister? If you have such an issue with the person that I have selected and agreed to, why don’t you take up the post? Especially with your Auror experience and skills, you’d be a logical fit for the job.”
“Minerva, please,” Kingsley began, holding his hands out. “My position is taxing enough as it is. I hold the weight of the wizarding world, it seems, and everyone demands immediate results.” Kingsley ran his hand over his bald head. “It’s enough to drive a man absolutely mad.”
“I suppose that it is a very thankless job. Albus often commented about that. I believe that’s why he never did accept the position, because he knew that he would be unhappy.” McGonagall eyed him over the top of her glasses. “Speaking of being mad, I’ve read about what happened after the Malfoy trial.”
Kingsley shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Rest assured that I know who is responsible, and that I have my best Aurors out combing the country for him.”
“All but one, I would rather say, Minister.” The headmistress sipped her tea again before continuing. “The Auror Westbrook, has not been seen since the incident that happened inside the Ministry of Magic.”
Kingsley shifted again in his chair. “Well, yes, Minerva, I suspect foul play has befallen Auror Westbrook. It is most unlike him to not report to duty.”
“Do you have any leads? And what of his family? What are you telling his wife and young son?”
“We are following up on several leads, and I will tell his family exactly what they need to know.” Kingsley cleared his throat. “Which brings me back to him.” He tapped his finger once again over the name. He stared at his tapping finger for a moment, and then into the aged eyes of the new Hogwarts headmistress. “He’s dangerous, Minerva. In my opinion, he’s too dangerous for a new headmistress and for Hogwarts.”
McGonagall’s lips lightly parted, and a soft clicking sound escaped her throat before she spoke. “Thank you for your opinion, but a danger foreseen is half avoided, Minister.”
“Mcgonagall, if you would please just let me put--" Kingsley began.
“Put what, Minister?” She asked. “A Ministry official as a teacher? You remember how well that went when your predecessors placed Dolores Umbridge here at Hogwarts! The school was a totalitarian state.”
“I assure you, it won’t be like that this time.”
“Minister, please!” McGonagall protested, standing up and toppling her chair over onto its side. She took several deep breaths, her nostrils flaring, before returning her chair to its normal position, and taking her place on the cushion. “My apologies, Kingsley. I do not wish there to be ill feelings between us. However, I am asking you to please trust me and to please leave Hogwarts in my care.”
“Minerva…” he stopped as the headmistress held her index finger up.
“Minister, I do not dictate to you how to run your office. I expect that you extend me the same courtesy.” McGonagall lowered her finger and folded her hands, placing them on the desk. She gazed at the portrait of Dumbledore before continuing. “I didn’t ask him to take the post, Albus did. I simply delivered the letter.”
“You’re saying that Albus Dumbledore chose him as a professor?” Kingsley asked, turning in his chair and looking up at the sleeping portrait.
“Albus told me that should Voldemort’s demise happen, thanks to Harry Potter, and that if the Defense Against the Dark Arts post were to be open, then I was to take his letter to him. I trusted Albus, and I hope that you will give him that same trust as well.”
Kingsley sighed, looking intently from the portrait back to the headmistress and back to the portrait again. “I see,” he said, rising from the desk and fastening his traveling cloak around his neck. “I will allow this for now, Minerva, because I did and I do trust Albus Dumbledore. I just hope that the trust is not misplaced.”
“Thank you, Minister,” McGonagall replied, rising from her chair and walking to the door of her office.
“Keep him in line, Minerva. Because if he crosses it, I will be there to stop him.” Kingsley reached for the doorknob and showed himself out of the office.

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McGonagall walked back to the center of the room, her hands pressed together, almost in a prayer, covering her thin lips. Deep in thought, she gazed at the portrait and for an instant thought that she had seen the faintest of smiles on Dumbledore’s face. “I know what you are thinking, Albus. I just hope that we both are right about this one.”
She sighed and walked back to her desk, only to have her attention drawn away by the soft clearing of a throat. “My dear madam. I find it absolutely horrific that you would give any Hogwarts job to someone with an incomplete education, much less the Defense of the Dark Arts job! How utterly absurd!” Phineas Nigelus tisked, tilted his chin up in the air and walked out of his portrait frame.
“I must agree with Phineas,” another voice came from a second picture frame. “It is an awfully big risk, Headmistress. Can he really be trusted?” Armando Dippett asked.
McGonagall surveyed the dead wizard for a moment, before a faint smile stretched onto her face. “Yes, Mr. Vulpin can be trusted. I saw it in his eyes.”

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Large pillows of smoke billowed into the sky as the scarlet and black engine lurched and began to roll forward. Departure bells ringing from the engine, followed by a loud shriek of the train’s whistle scattered the remaining birds that had nestled on the platform as friends and family members waved goodbye to their loved ones in the windows of each carriage.
“Stop!” A voice cried out across the station platform. “Hold the bloody train!” Draco Malfoy rushed through the departing onlookers, crashing into some and rolling over their feet with his Hogwarts trunk.   A series of cries and expletives hurled toward the back of the Slytherin as he raced toward a carriage. Heaving his trunk through the open doorway, he threw himself onto the carpeted steps just as the carriage rolled past the edge of the platform.
“Mr. Malfoy!” A woman shouted as Draco lay cradling his trunk and looking out the doorway at the passing city landscape. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Catching the train,” Draco snarled, standing up and brushing the dirt from his freshly purchased traveling robe. “What else would I bloody well be doing like this?” He stretched his arms out to their full length, showing the witch the dirt on his robes, as if presenting an important piece of evidence to the Wizengamot.
“That is not proper behavior for a student of Hogwarts, and especially from someone who was a former prefect,” Professor Vector scolded, wagging her finger.
“You try running across a platform, and jumping onto a moving train!” he shouted, pointing a finger at the teacher, and noticing a long tear along the seam of his robe. “Damn!” he muttered.
“That will be quite enough of your disrespectful language, Mr. Malfoy,” the witch said.   She withdrew her wand and pointed it at the young wizard. “Twenty points will be taken from Slytherin, and I hope for your sake that you use this experience as a lesson.” A sharp flick of her wand and the sweat and dirt on the robes vanished, leaving Draco’s face burning with embarrassment. “Now go and find a compartment to sit in!” She pointed as doors along the narrow corridor opened and heads turned to stare at the commotion.
Draco plodded down the tight passageway, staring at the grooves on the floor and pulling his trunk in his wake. He could sense dozens of eyes watching his every movement, and could hear hushed whispers coming from each compartment as he walked past. Door after door closed. He neared each one, only to have the window shade pulled down in front of his face. Finally, he came to the end of the carriage, turned in the narrow corridor, and stared at the Arithmancy professor who stood at the opposite end, her arms folded across her chest.
“Well, Mr. Malfoy?” she called.
The old bitch is enjoying every single second of this, he thought. Enjoy it, while it lasts.
Draco forced these thoughts from his mind, not wanting to cost his house any more points. “They’re all taken, professor,” he replied.
“You can share our compartment, Malfoy.”
Draco whirled and stared into the face of the Gryffindor, before turning his gaze back to Professor Vector. The witch nodded her head, and flicked her wand, causing Draco’s trunk to fly onto the overhead bin of the compartment.
“Fine,” Draco groaned. “I knew this was a mistake.”
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“Hey, Carl.”
“Janus.” The Silver Wolf’s doorman nodded a greeting and glanced up from the dog-eared paperback in his paws. His long ears swiveled so that they pointed in Janus’ direction even as his eyes continued to scan the pages.
Janus pulled a photograph from the pocket of his duster and put it in front of the paperback. “You seen him?”
Carl traced the photograph with the tip of one claw and drew his eyebrows together. “Not lately. He came a few times, but I wouldn’t call him a regular. Why? Is he the one we’re after?”
“There is no ‘we’!” Janus snapped. “He’s the one I’m after. Phillipe Moreaux isn’t some drunk with a bad attitude, and he isn’t one of your paperback bad guys. He’s the real deal.”
Carl’s lips pulled back, revealing a double row of gleaming white fangs. “Tawny and I have a wager—ten galleons to whoever gets him first. Do you want in?”
“Did you hear a damn thing I just…” Janus waved a hand and sighed. “Never mind. Is she here?”
“You’re in luck. She’s rehearsing.” Carl pocketed his book and moved his stool aside, allowing Janus access to the door. As Janus started through the door, Carl stopped him with a claw on his shoulder. “You think he’s coming back for Tawny?”
Janus shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. When Moreaux leaves a mess, he always leaves someone behind. He likes loose ends. But then sometimes he likes to give those ends a tug. He’ll be in a bad mood real soon, and he’ll be looking for someone to take it out on.”
Inside, the Silver Wolf looked and smelled strangely clean, with upturned chairs on the tables and bright, unforgiving lights that showed every stain and scar on the floors. A rotund goblin perched on a chair at the base of the stage, watching a brown-plumed hawk preen itself. Music boomed from a speaker on the ceiling, a low flute melody with a soft drum beat.
At the sound of Janus’ footsteps, the goblin hopped to his feet. “And just who do you think you…” He tilted his head to one side, narrowed his beady eyes, and smiled. “Never mind. This is good. You’re human.”
“Mostly.”
“Good, good!” The goblin rubbed his hands together, grinning, and then gestured to the stage. “Most of my customers are human, mostly, too. You can tell me what a human thinks of the new show.”
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Outside the train compartment, hills rolled by like waves on a sea of green where sheep drifted like bits of sea foam. The majestic arches of an old stone bridge flashed into view for a moment, quickly replaced by a waterfall trickling down the side of a stony crag. Inside the train, a brunette student reached for a blond student’s hand, found it, and squeezed. “I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”
“Of course I came back. Hogwarts is the best place for me.” Their fingers rearranged, tangling and untangling until they were interlaced.
“I thought maybe after everything, you wouldn’t want to be reminded. Sometimes I don’t want to be reminded.” The brunette sighed, closing his eyes for a moment and leaning back against the padded headrest.
“Oh, but not being reminded makes it easier to forget, and I don’t want to forget some things… like you.” The two leaned toward one another and would have kissed if not for the obstacle between them, a potted plant that looked like a cactus covered in boils.
Draco groaned and made a gagging sound. Why did I have to be late to the bloody train? Why did I have to end up forced into a compartment with Loony-bloody-Lovegood and Neville Longbottom?
The sound seemed to remind the would-be lovebirds that Draco was there, and both turned to look at him. Neville flashed an ingratiating smile. “So Draco, what have you been doing?”
Draco searched Neville’s face, from the vacant expression in those dopey-looking eyes to the slightly parted lips that displayed the gap in his teeth. He turned the question over in his mind, marveling at its exquisite stupidity. “Why should you care? It’s not like it’s important to you. Draco snorted while he continued to gaze into the passing greenery, watching trees, vast dales, winding streams, and rivers pass them by as the sun began to part through the clouds above.
What have I been doing?
A repressed memory floated to the surface. Flashes of pale skin, intimate warmth, and reflections from the shards of a broken mirror passed through Draco as the Slytherin leaned his head forward, allowing his forehead to rest on the cool glass pane.
“No, no!” Draco muttered, as he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and pounded his right fist onto his knee.
“Malfoy?” A warm hand on his shoulder followed the voice. Eyes flying open, Draco recoiled from the touch and drew further into the corner of the compartment, instinctively reaching for his wand.
“Oi! It’s alright, Malfoy!” Neville said, drawing away from the Slytherin. “Luna and I thought you were having some sort of a fit is all.”
Draco shook his head to clear the memory of Harry on his hands and knees, the heat of his body, and the way his muscles had tensed in anticipation. “I don’t have bloody fits,” he spat as his cheeks heated for the second time that day.
“About what you’ve been doing…it is important. At least it is to me,” Neville commented, ignoring Draco’s embarrassed state. “I mean he’s dead now, isn’t he?”
The image of Lucius’ body in Moreaux’s arms replaced that of his own face and Potter’s reflected in the glass. The heat drained from his cheeks, replaced with cold rage.   “Of course, he’s dead! It’s why I was late. Father would always arrange everything so that mother and I needn’t worry about it.”
“I read about your loss, Draco.” Luna looked over the top of her upside down edition of The Quibbler. “I am very sorry, even if he was a Death Eater.”
“I don’t need your sympathy, Lovegood,” Draco growled. “Or yours either, Longbottom.”
Neville sighed loudly as Draco turned and gazed back out the compartment window. “I thought that everything was supposed to change after Voldemort was killed. I wasn’t referring to your father, Malfoy. I know what it’s like to lose a parent. It hurts. It feels like a pain that will never go away. But you can’t hide behind being selfish. That only makes the pain worse.”
Draco slowly turned his neck to gaze at the Gryffindor. “It’s supposed to be a new beginning!” Neville continued, looking to Luna, who had dropped her reading into her lap and was now staring at Draco, her buggy eyes fixed on his. “A new beginning for all of us. Why else would we all be going back to Hogwarts?”
“I have my reasons,” Draco said, curling his upper lip at Neville.
“You know, Draco, you have a lovely Blibbering Humdinger,” Luna said dreamily as she eyed the Syltherin from head to toe before giving him a cheeky smile and then resuming her reading.
Several minutes of silence passed between the three of them as Draco gaped at the moving pictures of The Quibbler, unable to think of a proper retort. Neville glanced longingly at Luna and thoughtfully at Draco before looking down at the potted plant sitting beside him. His soft eyes aglow with excitement, Neville reached for the plant and held it forward for Draco to take. His hands trembled slightly, perhaps with excitement, or maybe because the pot was too heavy for his arms.
“Say, Draco, would you mind holding Bob?” balancing the pot on his knee with one hand, he patted one of the bulbous protuberances, eliciting a low crooning sound.
“Bob?” Draco repeated. “You named a stupid plant?”
“Oh, they aren’t stupid!” Luna caressed the cactus absently. “It’s just that they communicate at a different frequency. It’s hard to hear, but if you’re very still, you can make out the vibrations with your nose. He says that you look lonely, Draco. Either that or he’s saying he’s hungry. It’s hard to tell, but he’s very clever, really.”
“You’re both mental.” Draco looked from Luna to Neville and then out the window.
Neville refused to take a hint. “It’s just that Bob would fit better on your side, since Luna and I are sitting here together, and you’re—“
“And I’m not sharing my seat with a bloody stupid plant!” His wand was in his hand, and the spell “incendio” left his mouth before he could stop himself.
One of the branches of the plant burst into flames, along with the seat cushion behind it. A dark green goo erupted from the boils of the undamaged portion of the plant, covering Draco, Neville, and Luna with a film that smelled like raw sewage. Neville gaped for a moment, his sagging mouth making him look even duller than usual. His face flushed, his lips drew together, and he drew his wand and stepped between Draco and the plant.
A stream of water began to pour from Luna’s wand, dousing the flamesand washing the foul-smelling stuff onto the floor so that it soaked through Draco’s shoes. “I told you Bob was clever.”
“Tergeo!” Draco shouted. “Tergeo, tergeo, tergeo!” He waved his wand frantically, desperate to remove the smell.
The compartment door swung open admitting a witch with thin black hair and a scowl that could scare a horntail. “What, may I ask, is going on in here?”
“We have it under control now, Professor Vector.” Luna gestured to the wet cushions and the charred cactus that was now making faint growling sounds.
Neville pointed his left index finger at Draco, still pointing his wand with his right hand. “He’s insane!”
“The plant was commenting on things that were none of its business!” Draco snapped, reluctantly pocketing his wand. “And those two…” He jerked his chin toward Luna and Neville. “… they were holding hands like a couple of krups in heat!”
Professor Vector’s scowl deepened. “No public displays of affection on school property. Detention for all of you.”
“What did I do?” Draco demanded.
Neville laughed humorlessly. “What did you do? You nearly killed Bob with a burning spell, started the compartment on fire, and made the whole place smell like the Slytherin washroom!”
“It was the plant that made the smell, not me!” Draco sneered the potted green monster as it cooed under Luna’s ministrations.
“I think you need to come with me, Mr. Malfoy.” Professor Vector stepped back to allow him a clear passage through the doorway.
“Fine,” Draco muttered, seizing the handle of his suitcase. When the old bat glared at him, he added, “Fine, Professor. I didn’t want to ride with these two anyway.”
As he stepped out of the compartment, he heard Luna say, “Bob wonders if detention will be fun.”
Professor Vector marched Draco down the narrow corridor of the train, her hand pinching his shoulder as if he were a puppy she planned to pick up by the scruff of its neck. When they reached the far end of the train, she flung open a crowded compartment and shoved him and his case unceremoniously inside. The door closed with a thud, and Draco felt a surge of panic as he looked at the four familiar faces.
Blaise Zabini shared a bench with Millicent Bulstrode, although her hips were so wide they left almost no room for Blaise, who had to hold his luggage case on his lap. Opposite them were Pansy Parkinson and Imogen Stretton. Draco could have squeezed in beside the two girls, but instead of making way for him, they spread themselves out. Imogen had been holding a terrarium with a bearded lizard inside, but upon seeing Draco, she settled it on the bench next to her, while Pansy pulled her feet up onto the seat. Draco was forced to remain standing, his feet spread apart for balance as the train rocked or accelerated through a turn.
“You’re in the wrong compartment. Harry Potter’s friends are that way,” Imogene commented, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “Or did the two of you have a lovers’ spat?”
“Very funny!” he spat. “You’re not saying Potter’s here, are you?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Pansy made a face. “Not surprising, though. He probably loves all the attention. And it will give you two so much more time to spend together…”
“Bloody, conniving old battle-axe!” Draco hit the door of the compartment in frustration, sending a jolt of pain through his hand. “She told me he wouldn’t be here.”
The three Slytherins looked at Draco and then at each other. Pansy shook her head, Millicent giggled, while Blaise and Imogen waggled their eyebrows at one another. Draco narrowed his eyes at his three housemates. “If I had known he would be here, do you think for one minute I would be wallowing here in this useless, pretentious, cesspool of utter rubbish?”
“Wow, must have been a bad fight,” Millicent commented. “I suppose Potter won. That’s why you’re in here with us?”
“Now,” Blaise admonished. “We should show some sensitivity. Draco probably misses all of the tender embraces.”
“Shut it!” Draco snapped. “It was my father’s idea! He wanted me to… to pretend to befriend Potter.”
Blaise scowled, Millicent gasped, and Pansy’s eyebrows arched upward. “What for?” Blaise touched the back of his hand to his lips, as if to hold back vomit. “Was Lucius crazy?”
“No, you stupid prat!” Draco hissed. “He did it for the Malfoy family. What better ally to have than the one that destroyed the Dark Lord? When the world changes, you must be the first to adapt, or else you will be crushed.” He glanced through the window of the compartment and saw Vector pacing back and forth, probably ready to grab him if he tried to bolt for another compartment. “So, I pretended to be his friend—“
“His special friend,” Imogen interrupted.
“—his friend,” Draco continued, “so he would speak for me at the trial. I had to be convincing at all costs.   Any one of you would have done the same, unless you’re even stupider than you look.”
The four exchanged skeptical glances. Blaise shrugged and Imogen rolled her eyes, but Pansy looked thoughtful.
“Especially if you were heir to the Malfoy fortune,” Draco added. “Maybe if you had as much to lose as I do, you’d understand something about self-preservation.”
Blaise sat back, a smug smile forming across his lips. “And that’s why your father is nowhere to be seen,” he began. “Oh sure, The Prophet told us all about it, but there was no photo of a body, just you and Potter hugging in front of the Wizengamot.” He puffed up his chest and smiled more broadly. “I think Lucius is too embarrassed because he’s wants to snog Potter for himself. Why else would he have ‘disappeared’?”
“How dare you say that, Zabini!” Draco hissed.   His hands balled into fists as he shook with anger. “My father was--“
“I bet you like it when Potter takes off his ‘proverbial pants’—“ Imogen began. “He must have something really big and good down there to be able to have turned you into a Gryffindor love machine.”
“Enough!” Pansy stomped her feet on the floor and gestured to Draco to sit down. Something had lit up in her eyes at the mention of the Malfoy fortune. She offered him a warm smile.
“Don’t waste your time, Pansy,” Blaise advised. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
Draco quickly sat down in the narrow space between Pansy and Imogen, noting that the latter put the terrarium back on her lap and squeezed herself against the far wall of the compartment to a avoid touching him. “You know he’s wrong,” he whispered in Pansy’s ear. “Give me a chance to prove it.”
Before she could reply, the train lurched to a halt. A green hatbox fell from an overhead compartment, landed on Draco’s head, and spilled open, covering him in an array of lacy undergarments that must belong to Pansy or Imogen or—his stomach heaved at the thought—Millicent. As he batted the silken, perfumed things away, the other four Slytherins burst into fits of laughter.
“If you wanted to borrow a camisole, all you had to do was ask,” Millicent said.
“I’m just glad it’s not my underwear he’s touching.” Imogen shuddered theatrically. “Who knows where those hands have been?”
“I think Harry would like him best in the purple one,” Blaise commented, and grinned. “Or maybe Lucius would like Potter in one of those!”
Owing to quickness from his Quidditch skills, Draco lurched toward Blaise, who was still laughing at Imogen’s comment. Anger, frustration, and embarrassment flooded Draco’s senses as he pinned Blaise against the window of the compartment with his forearm rammed against his opponent’s throat, jamming his wand into his housemate’s neck before any of the others could speak. Tiny sparks emitted from the tip of the wand and left small burns on Blaise’s skin. Blaise’s chest heaved as he struggled for air, making hoarse whimpering sounds. “As I was saying, you worthless excuse for a Slytherin,” Draco hissed into the side of Blaise’s face, “my father was murdered, right in front of me. If you ever say anything else about me or my family, you will be joining him and the Dark Lord in the afterlife!”
Draco felt the butt of his wand dig into the palm of his clenched hand, and he probably would have given his Slytherin housemate the same treatment as the unfortunate Bob if Pansy hadn’t circled his wrist with her fingers. Her touch was light and cool. He loosened his grip on the wand, pocketed it, and circled her waist with his arm as he kicked one of Millicent’s bras across the floor.
“Let’s go, Pansy. I’d rather it were just the two of us.”
-------------------------------------------------------
The hawk raised a wing and continued to groom its feathers with its beak. Janus stifled a yawn. Motion at the far end of the stage caught his eye. A female lion swished her tail, rocking her hind quarters back and forth, her eyes fixed on the hawk. The cat leaped, her muscular thighs rippling and propelling her toward the bird. The hawk shrieked when caught, just as the drum-beat increased in tempo. The lion shook her head violently, and the bird’s shriek ended. Instead of the hawk’s corpse, the lion held the ruffled white shirt collar of a man who draped limply across her paws. He had olive skin, and the soft brown hair that spilled over his eyes matched the hawk’s feathers. Dark leather pants covered his wiry, powerful legs. The lion opened her mouth and swatted at her prey as if bored with it. The man sprung to his feet and leaped back with a dancer’s grace and a look of feigned surprise.
The two circled each other like boxers, the lion lashing its tail. The man struck first, grabbing the cat by the throat, but his hands closed around the neck of a blond woman in a flowing red dress. Her hands covered his, moving them from her neck to her hips, and the two began to dance. Tawny spun in and out of the man’s arms, losing the red dress somewhere along with way. Wearing nothing but a jeweled harness that avoided nudity in the most technical sense only, she tugged at the man’s white silk shirt and spun away with it. Her new partner was slim, but fully mature, maybe twenty five years old, Janus guessed. Although not much taller than Tawny, he lifted her easily over his head and spun in circles displaying his own broad shoulders and strong chest as well as the graceful lines of her body. Janus’ hands went to the front of the duster, undoing the buttons so that the coat fell open and let in the relatively cool air of the room.
A sharp jab in Janus’ side pulled his attention away from the pair. “Do you find this exciting?” the goblin asked.
“It’s… nice,” Janus murmured, watching Tawny’s partner bend her backwards in a pose that would have looked more natural had she still been a lion. “Where’d you get him?”
The goblin grinned. “A little Spanish prison. Our friends on the continent don’t care much for unregistered animagi either, but with the right incentive…” He jingled the coins in his pocket.
The music rose to a crescendo. Tawny embraced the man, but the hawk slipped through her hands, which became claws. The lion snatched at the hawk’s tail, snapping with her teeth. A few feathers spiraled to the floor as the hawk flew from the stage to land in front of the goblin.
“I cannot work with her!” the man snapped, rubbing ostentatiously at the back of the leather pants.
The music having ended, the lion stretched out on the stage, lifted one back paw high in the air, and began grooming under her tail with her tongue, oblivious to her partner’s protest.
“She tries to kill me!” the man continued.
“Then I can put you back where I found you.” The goblin shrugged.
“That would be a damn shame,” Janus observed. The male animagus looked even more appealing up close. Damp locks of wavy brown hair clung to a high forehead with a strong brow. The narrow nose above his perfectly-formed lips had the faintest suggestion of a hook, enough to remind Janus that the man was a real person and not a marble sculpture come to life. “Janus,” Janus extended his hand, which the man took in a brief, firm grip.
“Talon,” the animagus replied.
“Nice. Nice stage name, that is.” Without looking away from Talon, Janus drew the picture of Phillipe Moreaux out of his pocket and showed it to the goblin and the performer. “Either of you seen him?”
Both shook their heads, and the goblin scowled. “Is that the man who cost me my last asset?”
“If by ‘asset’ you mean the girl he gutted in the alley, then yeah, that’s him.” Janus tapped the picture while looking Talon in the eyes. “He’s the scum who killed your predecessor. I’d be a lot more afraid of him than I would of Tawny, if I were you.”
“You’re ministry?” the goblin asked. His clawed hands came together in front of his paunch, and his eyes darted as if seeking an exit.
“Not exactly. I’m a friend of Tawny’s. She and I both have unfinished business with Moreaux.”
Talon tossed his head so that the locks of hair fell away from his face. He flicked the picture dismissively and snorted. “I’d like to see him try to come after me!” His fists flexed, doing interesting things to his biceps and forearms.
“You’ll lose a lot more than a few tail feathers,” Janus warned him. He lifted his shirt, exposing the scars that marred his own chest. Talon’s eyes widened in horror. No one would want to watch you dance with Tawny if you looked like me, would they? Janus glanced first at the goblin, then the animagus. “You watch your assets, and you watch your ass. And Tawny’s.”
Leaving the goblin and his employee to argue about gold, prisons, and Tawny’s teeth, Janus approached the stage, where Tawny had finished cleaning her lower body and now chewed delicately on one front paw.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
The lion raised her head and twitched her ears attentively.
“Alone?”
Tawny bounded from the stage. Without bothering to look back at him, she sauntered down the corridor, her black-tipped tail waving like a flag. With more dexterity than a lion should have, she pawed open the door to her dressing room, and he followed her inside.
“I have something for you.” He felt in his pocket, wincing when he fingers closed around the sharp part of the object in it.
Tawny sat back on her haunches and twitched her round ears.
“Something to put in your hand! Damn it, Tawny! I won’t have this conversation with a damn cat.” His hand clenched, and the item bit into the lower part of his thumb.
“Fine.” Tawny stood up from her crouch, the fur replaced with pale skin still covered only by the jeweled harness. It consisted of two narrow, studded straps that went over her shoulders and down the middle of each breast. The two straps met between her legs, providing token cover. A fine gold chain that Janus could easily snap with his hands circled her waist, linking the straps together.
Janus swallowed hard, forcing images of Talon’s hands on Tawny’s body out of his mind. He snatched a fluffy white bath robe from a peg on the wall and threw it at her.
After shrugging into the robe, she doubled over, coughing until a wet, brown lump of feathers came up in her hand. She grimaced and wiped her hand on the front of the robe.
“You should take it easy on Talon,” Janus commented.
“Why?”
“For starters, there’s a shortage of perfect asses in the world. It’d be a shame to ruin his.”
Tawny twirled one of the feathers in between her thumb and forefinger. “I didn’t ask for a new partner!”
“He’s—“
“’Nice’. I know. I heard you. Pervert.”
Janus sighed. “I was going to say he’s not replacing Jett.”
“I know.” Tawny closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip. “I wasn’t really trying to eat him. It’s part of the act. I just… lose myself sometimes.”
“Preachin’ to the choir,” Janus said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the object that had dug into his hand. Careful to orient the sharp part up, he placed it in Tawny’s palm and closed her fingers around it.
When she opened her fingers, she made a surprised sound somewhere between a sob and a squeal. She held up the silver, sequined earring and looked from it to Janus and back. “It was Jett’s. I have the other one! Where did you get it?”
“From Moreaux. He doesn’t deserve to have a piece of her. And before you ask, yes, he’s alive and kicking, and no, I don’t know where he is.”
“It’s not all you took from him.” After placing the earring on her dressing table, she ran a finger down Janus’ chest, pausing over his heart. “I saw you show your scars to Talon.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m just sorry I couldn’t finish the job.”
“Maybe you need help.” She squared her shoulders and let her hands fall to her side, as if standing at attention.
“Maybe.” He agreed. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep his face impassive as a battle raged in his head. The animal part of him was willing to let Tawny, Talon, their goblin boss, and anyone else get caught in the crossfire if it meant taking down Moreaux. Or was that the calculating part of him, the human part? Was it the beast that kept replaying Talon and Tawny’s dance, the beast that kept thinking Tawny’s harness would be handy for lifting her a few inches in the air with her back against the wall?
“Your eyes…” Tawny began.
He ignored that and settled the debate in his head, deciding on what Remus would have done. Remus would have protected innocents before going for revenge. “You know if Moreaux comes after you, it’ll probably be in the next few days. Most of his kills happen when he’s close to the change. Being trapped on the cusp—it’s worse than the change itself. It’s like having a voice in your head and something trying to crawl out of your skin at the same time. But the things the voice is telling you to do, some of them are things you want to do. There are folks you want to kill and some you want to…” He closed his eyes, squeezing out memories of Draco and Harry, respectively.
“You sound like you feel sorry for him!” Tawny spat.
“I understand him. There’s a difference. You did know about him, didn’t you?”
“That he’s a moon-mutt? Of course. I do have a nose.” She wrinkled her nose and made a face as if she’d tasted something bad. “And I know about you, not that I care. You don’t smell as bad.”
“That’s because I’m not. Like I said, if he comes after you, it’ll be in the next few days. I have a safe place, a house where Moreaux wouldn’t find us. I want you and Talon to come with me.”
She smirked slightly when he mentioned Talon and then turned thoughtful, looking down at the earring on her dressing table.
“Tawny?” he prompted.
She frowned. “I’m trying to think what Jett would say. I think, she’d…” She fingered the earning. “If this were mine, and she were here, she’d wonder if Moreaux gave it to you.”
“I showed you my scars!” he protested.
She tilted her head from side to side, pondering. “You might have had those before.”
Janus sighed. “You’re a cat, for God’s sake! Do I smell like I’m lying?”
She put her hands on his shoulders, and they became heavy paws. Her golden eyes widened, along with her mouth, which sprouted dagger-like fangs. Her triangular pink nose twitched, making her whiskers quiver. When she backed away, she was a woman again. “You smell like a man with impure motives.”
He laughed. “Aww. That’s cute. You of all people, you still think there’s such a thing as a man with pure motives. Look, you’ll be safe from Moreaux. You and Talon both.”
“And safe from you?” she smirked.
He shrugged. “Safe enough. I won’t make promises I can’t keep.”
“I don’t care about being safe. Take Talon if you want. If you think Moreaux might be here soon, then I will be, too.”
“Then you’re bait.”
“Good. Traps need bait.” Her hand closed around the earring.
“Then I’m the trap. I’ll be here this time of the month, every month, unless I hear Moreaux is somewhere else. And one more thing. Jett’s earring is a port key, and it’s tuned to fear. If Moreaux shows up when I’m not here, you grab Talon, you grab that, and you’ll be in my office.”
She nodded, turning the object over in her hand. “I’m not afraid of Moreaux. Just… if he… if I… Just don’t let him take anything of mine, ok?”
“Don’t worry. I wasn’t planning on letting him live.”
------------------------------------------
The sun slipped past the horizon, casting its final rays upon the ocean waters. Flashes of pink and yellow mixed with the darkening blue of the sea, as if trying to stave off the impending darkness.
Dark clouds raced across the sky, swirling and colliding in humid pile ups while the distant sound of thunder echoed like an oncoming pack of hounds. A gale blew inland, cutting across the chopping waves and making its way into the abandoned tower. The breeze ruffled the wizard’s black robes while he stoodin the window admiring the scene like a painter would watch his masterpiece dry.
A soft moan caught the wizard’s attention. A pale specter emerged from the wall and wafted through the room. Stepping out of the ghost’s way, the wizard watched as the image floated past, noting the gruesome means by which the man had met his demise.
“So, the legends are true,” he stated, watching the figure slip into the stone wall and disappear. “How interesting.” Slipping his hands together and pressing them against his lower back, the wizard turned back to the window and stared out into the evening sky. He was as solemn as a statue with the exception of his left index finger which tapped against his right wrist as if keeping time.
Soon thereafter he sensed a presence at the base of the winding rock stairs the led up into the tower.He flicked his finger toward the unlit torch hanging upon the far wall, and a flame erupted into the base, bathing the small room with a soft, fiery glow. A wry smile formed upon the wizard’s face. The guest that he had been expecting had finally arrived.
---------------------------------------------
Phillipe Moreaux gazed upward at the tall, stone tower while his senses adjusted to his new surroundings. His sensitive nose filled with the smell of salt from the seawater and the essence ofrotting fish nearby. His recently healed wrist throbbed in the humid air.
“I hate the bloody ocean,” he grumbled, staring out at the water before looking at the stone step that would lead him to his destination. “Give me the mountains and the fresh game there, anytime.”
He placed his black boot on the first stone step and swore in anticipation of climbing the stairs. Before his fight with Janus, he would have bounded up the steps two at a time, dismissing any man who couldn’t as unfit to live. Now, he took a deep breath, steeling himself for the climb. Inside the square tower he went, slowly making his way up to the room at the top of the stairs. Each step brought a dull pain where his own medieval device had impaled his chest. The wound had healed badly, oozing a variety of sickly fluids before settling into a state of puffy, red agony.
“If he’s still alive, I’ll find him,” Phillipe spat, taking another painful step. “And when I do, there won’t be any teasing or toying with him, I’ll make it…”
The words trailed off as a ghostly image drifted toward Phillipe. “What the?” He paused, studying the specter in the dimly torch-lit tower.
The glow from the torches gave the Nordic ghost an eerie glow that accentuated the area where the warrior had received his death blow. “Damn, mate!” Phillipe exclaimed, “You got it good, didn’t ya?” The spirit hovered closer almost as if flaunting its own demise.
A low whistle escaped Phillipe’s lips as he reached forward and into the ghost’s wound, slowly drawing his finger along the blade that had lodged itself in the man’s eye. A chill of morbid excitement coursed through Phillipe as his finger tapped the tip of the blade, eliciting a low moan from the dead Nordic, and causing the spirit to float away from Phillipe and into another part of the tower. Phillipe began to ascend once more, ignoring the ache from his body. His face contorted into a malicious grin as his thoughts traveled to Janus, and how that man would die.
---------------------------------------------
Phillipe heaved as he conquered the last stone step. His chest rose and fell while beads of sweat trickled down his face and neck, saturating his dingy shirt collar. With a deep breath to clear his tired muscles and to focus his mind, Phillipe turned from the steps toward the door that was left slightly ajar. A soft glow emanated from around the edges of the door frame as Phillipe edged closer, laying a large hand softly upon the wood.
“Enter.” A voice came from inside the room.
Phillipe pushed the door open further, entered the room, and took in his surroundings. A single torch hung on the gray stone wall, illuminating the room’s only furnishing, a stone chair that faced away from Phillipe and towards a small, cross-shaped window. The flickering torchlight threw the shadow of the chair and its occupant onto the far wall, superimposing a dark silhouette upon the faded banner that hung there.
“You’re late,” the man said as another breeze from the ocean blew into the room, bringing with it the varietalessence of salt and fish. Phillipe gagged at the smell. “I could smell your foul stench once you apparated onto the grounds,” the wizard stated. His voice echoed from the stone walls and floor so that Phillipe could hear him clearly even though he faced away.
Lowering his chin, Phillipe inhaled deeply, relishing his own smell of smoke, dirt, and dried blood as it overpowered the miasma of the ocean. “What’s wrong with the way I smell?”
The man tapped a gloved finger on the arm of the chair as Phillipe stepped further into the room and came to rest behind the stone chair. “Why the bloody hell did you have to pick this place?” Phillipe asked, placing his hand over his nose and mouth.
“This place has a rather special meaning,” the man said, stopping the tapping of his finger. “Report.”
“All has gone according to your plan,” Phillipe began. “Sir,” he included after a moment’s pause.
“The business at the Ministry?”
“Accomplished.” Phillipe stated as a single bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and tickled his nose.
“Completely?”
“Exactly as you ordered.” Phillipe scowled, chaffing at the missed opportunity to kill Potter and his insipid little plaything.
The gloved hand clenched into a fist and pounded on the arm of the stone chair. “No. Not exactly as I had ordered.”
Phillipe swiped at the bead of sweat that toyed with his nostril. “I had some personal business to attend to. My…” Phillipe’s mind searched for the correct word to describe Janus.
“Personal business?” The wizard stood and whirled to face Phillipe. A heavy hood obscured the man’s features so that all Phillipe could see were his eyes glittering in the torchlight. “Your time is mine! You have no ‘personal businesses’.”
Instantly, Phillipe was lifted into the air by invisible hands and dropped into the stone chair, banging the back of his head on the rock and causing the pain to flare up again within his chest. Loops of solid rock came to life from the chair, and Phillipe found his chest, arms, and legs bound to the hard surface.
Momentarily dazed, Phillipe grunted and tried to break through the rock, while the wizard stared down at him. “Do not tax yourself. You cannot break those bonds.”
Phillipe snapped his jaws toward the man, his muscles bunching in a futile attempt to lunge from the chair.
“Always so impetuous,” the wizard stated, turning his back to Phillipe.
Seeing that there was no escape from his current situation, Phillipe angrily sighed, resigned to wait until his host released him from the stone bindings.
“I summoned you days ago. Why are you late?”
“I came across a threat to your plans,” Phillipe said, straining against the rock. “He’s an outsider. No one you would know.”
“Continue.” The wizard relaxed his stance and continued to gaze out the window.
“He’s an old …associate of mine,” Phillipe stated, gasping at the pain that had now bloomed in his chest from the pressure of his stone manacles. “He got onto my scent, and I had to take care of him before he got in the way. I set a trap.
“This is the ‘personal business’ you spoke of?”
“Yeah.”
“And it is the reason why you did not feel the burning of your summons upon your skin?”
“Well…” Phillipe began. His mind raced for an appropriate half-truth.
“You let him get the better of you?” The wizard asked turning toward Phillipe.
“Oh, no! I got him. He’s as good as dead now.” Phillipe smirked.
“The proof?”
“No man could live through what I did to him.”
“And you saw him die?”
Phillipe shook his head, not daring to risk an outright lie.
The wizard turned back around, clasped his gloved hands behind his back, and began to tap his finger upon his wrist. “Then the man is not yet dead.”
“Bloody impossible!” Phillipe rasped. “Just because I didn’t kill--“
“You failed to kill.” The words hung in the air over Phillipe, as if they were daggers about to plunge from above. “You…failed.”
“Release me from these bloody things, and I will explain it all!” Phillipe snarled.
“There is no explanation,” the voice hissed from under the cowl of the robe.
“I had him, dead to rights!” Phillipe snarled. “He got in a lucky last shot, that‘s all.”
The wizard turned slowly on the spot and prodded Phillipe with the tip of his wand, opening the collar of his shirt and tracing the top of the still-inflamed wound. “Does this…associate have a name?”
“He calls himself Janus. Brown hair, hazel eyes, a bloody American.” Phillipe could feel his eyes wanting to falter under the intense stare from the wizard, but he refused to give in.
“And how do you know this person?”
Phillipe felt a surge of rage. Little Jamie Ward had been a mistake, a rare indulgence in sentimentality, and having that confession dragged from his mouth would be like having his body dragged over hot coals. “You’re a bloody legilimens, aren’t you?”
“Indeed,” the wizard said, locking his eyes with Phillipe’s before looking toward the tattered banner. “He is a part of you. Never fear. Disappointing progeny have a way of cropping up when they are least wanted.” He lightly stroked the banner, letting the material flow upon the ridges of his fingertips. “Your paths will cross again.” He let go of the fabric, and walked back to the window. “However, you still have failed to answer my question in full. I know that you have been playing all sides.”
“Only under your orders, Sir.” Phillipe felt another trickle of sweat roll down the back of his neck.
“I did not order you to bargain a deal with the Minister; just as I did not order you to kill the animagus. You’ve been busy collecting gold at every opportunity while manipulating, lying and killing just to satisfy your own needs….” Phillipe felt his bindings cut deeper into his flesh. “…while at every turn playing dangerously.”
“You’re too much concerned with your plan,” Phillipe replied, trying to wave his hand as if swatting away a fly. “It will be fulfilled. Can’t a man have a taste of the old days and make a profit at the same time?”
“Be wary, and remember.”
“Remember what?” Phillipe growled.
“Earlier, you asked me about this place,” the wizard stated, raising his gloved hands outward toward both walls.
“And?”
“This place is of historical significance and carries a bit of sentimental honor with me. Centuries ago, this area was home to a thriving village, which was attacked by Nordic warriors.” The wizard walked forward, placing his gloved hands on the window ledge.
“Many of the village settlers perished in the battle, including women and children. A few of the village men were able to capture or slay a number of the invading warriors as the Northern Army came to aid the villagers, but only after the fight was over. The villagers took their anger out on the wounded fighters.
“They hauled them up the stone steps by their hair, allowing their heads and bodies to collide with each stone step. Then, they brought the warrior to this room, bound him to the chair, as you are now, and allowed the wounded man to sit here for days.
“The Nordic warrior could only look out this small window at the ocean, hoping to see once again the sails of his fellow warriors’ ships. It was torture, you see. The warrior would have no honor in death because he had failed in battle.
“Finally the villagers would come into the room with a freshly honed blade. They would exact a token of revenge. The tip of the blade would be pushed slowly into the warrior’s eye.”
Phillipe looked down at the floor, envisioning fresh pools of blood and debris from the dead warriors. If he weren’t in the chair himself, he would have appreciated the artistry.
“Then the blade would be extended further into the eye socket until it broke through the back of the skull. The result was not always instant death. Sometimes, the warrior could continue to see out of his remaining eye. The legend states that the villagers wanted the warrior to see death coming for him.”
“A charming bedtime story,” Phillipe said, affecting a yawn. “The point to all of this?”
“Fail me again, and you will suffer the warrior’s same fate.” The wizard stated, turning around, and walking toward Phillipe.
The wizard waved his hand, releasing the bonds that held Phillipe. The large man jumped out of the chair. “You think your magic tricks and children’s stories will scare me?”
“Remember...” the wizard started but was cut off by Phillipe.
“Yeah, I remember. We had an agreement, but what’s keeping me from breaking that agreement right now? Who’s to say that I won’t just rip your throat out, here and now, and go on about my way?” His right hand closed around his wand as the blood rushed back into his limbs. He wouldn’t be caught off guard again.
“Impulsive fool! Remember the unbreakable vow. You were eager enough to make it when we began this endeavor. Or were you dazzled by the shiny galleons?””
Phillipe snorted. “Bollocks to your bloody vow!”
A wry smile toyed with the wizard’s lips. “You want to rip me apart, don’t you? Tear into my flesh and drink of my blood. Yes, I sense that you are on the cusp. It is almost time for your changing to occur, when your blood thirst will be at its zenith.”
Phillipe licked his dry lips as he imagined tearing into the wizard, ripping his flesh from his bones and feeling the man’s hot blood on his tongue.
“Do not fight what you are. Give in to your urges,” the wizard taunted.
Phillipe snarled with rage and bloodlust as all semblance of a rational man left his brain, only to be replaced by that primitive nature that called for blood. He leaped forward, the silver dagger from his hidden sheath gleaming in the torchlight.   He shouted while bringing the dagger forward to slice the wizard’s neck open.
Just as the blade was about to touch the wizard’s flesh, a loud sizzle filled the room. Tiny sparks erupted from Phillipe’s arms, and he dropped his knife and howled with pain. The shocking sensation spread through his body as small burn marks began to appear across his arms. Phillipe frantically rubbed at his arms and body, cursing and whirling in circles, desperate to stop the painful sensations upon his skin. Finally, exhausted from the agony, Phillipe fell into the stone chair and slumped there, wincing as the aftershocks ravaged his body.
The wizard stood in front of Phillipe, smirking. “Now, you remember. However, just in case you forget once more…”
A dazzling red light engulfed Phillipe, causing all of his muscles to stiffen as every fiber of his body seemed to burn. He felt his feet lift from the floor as the power of the curse carried him into the air. Struggling to overpower the curse, Phillipe screamed while his body failed him. Finally, the curse ended, and he fell back into the hard, stone chair. The hooded wizard loomed over Phillipe.
Phillipe cursed and struggled to his feet, his body reeling.
“Now, do we have a full understanding?”
Straining to regain his full height, Phillipe began to answer the wizard. “I…”
His answer was cut short by a bright object shooting through the cross-shaped window. The circular blue and white mist raced in circles, extinguishing the torch and plunging the room into darkness.
Both men watched as the item slowed, and then hovered over the arm of the stone chair. The object emitted a brilliant flash of light as it transformed into a new shape. Phillipe rubbed his eyes, wiping away the stars that had flashed before his vision, and now focused on the shape that glowed in front of him.
The raven patronus pecked at the arm of the chair, as if searching for food. Phillipe continued to eye the bird as it squawked, and leapt to the top of the chair. The raven quickly tilted its head around in all directions, scanning the room before turning a black eye to the hooded wizard. Once more the patronus squawked and hopped on the back of the chair, before taking flight around the room again, and landing on the edge of the window.
“You are correct, master,” a high pitched voice came from the raven. “Hogwarts.”
A contented sigh emanated from the hooded wizard while he strode toward the patronus. “You’ve done well, my scavenger,” he said, lightly touching the raven. The bird gave a cry that pierced through the night, before turning into a blue and white flame and disappearing.
The torch on the wall erupted once more. Phillipe continued to stare at the spot where the patronus had disappeared.   “You must have deep pockets,” he said, as the wizard gazed beyond the window.
“I have others that are willing to do what I say.”
Phillipe scoffed. “So why do you need me?” He watched as the hood slightly turned in his direction.
“Because every so often, a--how would someone like you put it?--a…trigger needs to be pulled. You are my trigger-man.”
“You mean I’m the man for all of your dirty jobs.”
“However you prefer to describe yourself.” The wizard shrugged and turned his back to Phillipe. “Just remember how critical you are to my plans. Do not forget the promise that I made to you. When our agreement is complete...”
Phillipe’s pulse increased, his eyes widened, and he stepped toward the hooded figure, holding his hand out as if begging for a prize. “The power?”
A soft chuckle escaped the black cloak as the man nodded his head. “Yes, the knowledge and power to make you master of your domain.”
A large grin slide onto Phillipe’s face at these words. “I will double my efforts, Sir.”
“I know that you will,” the voice hissed, as the hood nodded again.
“With your orders, sir, I would like to set another trap for Janus.”
A gloved hand lifted into the air. “No.”
“Why not?” Phillipe growled.
“Patience is power.” The wizard lowered his hand and placed it behind his back. “In time, your…apprentice will come to you.”
“When?” Phillipe barked.
“When things reach their logical conclusion.”
“I don’t like waiting!” Phillipe spat. “I’d rather attack.”
“If you attack now, you will be of no use to my plans.” The hooded wizard balled his gloved hand into a fist. “The patronus was a signal from my inside man at Hogwarts. When the time is right, you will have your opportunity to dispose of your scion, along with Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.”
Phillipe scratched the heavy stubble on his face with a long, stained fingernail.   “If Janus were to attack me, surely you wouldn’t object to me defending myself?”
“If you were stupid enough to allow such a thing to happen, I would expect you to correct your mistake.” The wizard waved a hand dismissively. “I have another assignment for you. One that I believe you will personally enjoy.” Reaching into his robes, the hooded wizard pulled out a small slip of parchment and then handed it to Phillipe. “For now, rest and recover. Then when the dragon on your wrist breathes fire, you will complete that which I have ordered.
Phillipe scanned the parchment, his tongue wetting his dry lips with eager anticipation. “As you wish,” he replied, walking over to the torch, and letting the corner of the parchment catch fire. He held the slip of fire in his hand until the flames touched his skin, then balled his fist, extinguishing the fire, and dropping the ash onto the stone floor.
“And so it begins,” the hooded man stated as a jagged bolt of lightning ripped the sky in half. “The storm is here.”
END OF CHAPTER 39

Author’s Note: I would like to take a moment to thank all of the readers who have read this chapter. It has been almost two years since this story has been worked on. I am very sorry about the long delay, but sometimes life has a way of placing obstacles in your path that you must take care of first. Rest assured that Eris and I are back at work on the story and we hope to be able to provide all of you, a wonderful and fulfilling reading enjoyment. So until Chapter 40, on behalf of Eris, I bid you all a wonderful read, and an ever greater day.
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Darkness Within The Light