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The Last Gift	By : AndreaLorraine Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Lucius/Hermione Views: 9747 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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�� The quiet was the first sign that
things were going wrong.
�� They had expected immediate
retaliation from Voldemort.� He had been reckless in the buildup to the
war, and his anger at what they had done was the kind that obliterated
rationality.� But hours, days, and a
whole week passed.� There was not a peep
from Voldemort or any of his followers.� Most worrisome was the fact that they saw and
heard nothing from Severus, either.
�� Hermione had dared to seek out Lucius and ask him about it.� He said that she had to trust in Snape�s ability to take care of himself.� That was all they could do for the time
being.� He didn�t seem concerned and that
at least made her feel a little better.
�� In the meantime, they were combing
through the mountains of junk in the Room of Hidden Things.� Harry had remembered seeing a tiara of some
sort in there when he was hiding a book.�
There had been a few false alarms, but in spite of groups of five working
in shifts around the clock, the Diadem of Ravenclaw
was no closer to being found than it had been when it all began.
�� Through it all, Hermione and Lucius studiously evaded one another (save for the one time
she braved asking him about Snape).� Hogwarts was a large place, but avoidance was
more difficult than it seemed, particularly at meal times.� Lucius showed up to
every one and ate twice as much as she did.�
She knew because she watched him.�
She supposed he needed the energy and the nutrients to heal.

For a few days, the color had returned to his cheeks.� Now, on day nine, it was fading again.
�� Aside from her stolen glances over
her pumpkin juice, he was in the library a lot � a man after her own
heart.� Not surprisingly, he spent most
of his time in the Restricted Section.�
She wished she knew what was going on inside his head.� He was plotting, as ever.� If there wasn�t the danger of them succumbing
to the yearning of their fragmented souls against the cobwebbed bookshelves,
she would have asked him what he was doing.
�� Other than that, he took his shifts
sorting through the objects in the Room of Hidden Things, separately from her,
of course.� She didn�t know what else he
got up to.� He was very quiet and no one
knew quite what to make of it.� After
all, in the past he had been the type to speak just to hear his own voice.
�� Most people were sympathetic.� Some were unabashedly glad that he was on
their side.� Others received him
frostily, with cold silences and resentful glares.� He responded only with what was required to
be polite.� He spoke the most in Order
planning sessions and even that was usually limited to a few terse sentences.
�� Hermione knew that Remus had tried to speak to him.� No one else was brave enough (or cared
enough) to try to crack his exterior.� Remus was good at getting people to talk with that gentle
way of his, but Lucius wasn�t interested in talking.
�� She was worried about the silly git.
�� Hermione sighed and stepped into her
flats.� A mini-avalanche had fallen on
her in the Room of Hidden Things earlier that morning and she had a wicked cut
on her arm.� It had stopped bleeding on
its own, but it hurt and she figured that it was best to have Madame Pomfrey check it out.
�� Her feet carried her to the
infirmary on autopilot.� She really was
worried about Lucius.�
It seemed like he was withdrawing from everything and everyone; the only
thing that spurred a response from him was plotting Voldemort�s
downfall.� The piece of his soul within
her was quiet, as well, only providing the occasional sarcastic monologue or
dark thought in her mind.� She was used
to it now.� Reading had told her that his black humor was
actually quite healthy.� And she had to
admit, it felt sort of liberating to not have to police her mind for right and
wrong, because it was only her mind � as long as it stayed just a thought and
didn�t become an action, it didn�t matter.

She walked into the infirmary and reached the very quick
conclusion that he was here, also.� Upon
hearing his voice relating symptoms to Madame Pomfrey,
she ducked behind a curtain.� He said he
was tired, achy, and dizzy.� Hermione
frowned; tired and achy could be symptoms of depression.� Dizziness, though?� That didn�t seem right.� The mediwitch
performed some diagnostic spells on him.�
Hermione listened intently.

By the time she was finished, Madame Pomfrey
was beside herself.� She shrieked at him
that he was walking around with three quarters of the blood that he needed and
his body was struggling to function and replenish the rest at the same
time.� His blood pressure was too low,
his immune system in total disarray, and if he had gone much longer without
treatment he could have permanently damaged himself.� She concluded with a lecture on how �Sectumsempra is not a minor health condition, young
man!�� Hermione bit back a smile.

�Then give me some blood replenishing potion and be done with it,�
was his response, heedless of the emotional tirade that had just been
delivered.

�Not this time.� You most
certainly need a blood transfusion.�

There was a beat of stony silence.

�Do it, then.�� Lucius�s tone was supremely detached, but not in an
arrogant way.

Hermione heard Madame Pomfrey bustle
around, going through papers in her file cabinet.� Presumably, she was locating Lucius�s old file to see what his blood type was.� Hermione itched to see that file.

�Erm�Mr. Malfoy?�

�What?� �His voice was flat
� just like his affect.

�Do you prefer that the donor�be a pureblood?� You see, I have to ask.� It�s standard procedure.�

Hermione held her breath.�
She didn�t have time to be offended that it was standard procedure to
ask a person what kind of blood they wanted; let the stupid purebloods die
while they waited for a pureblood donor with the same blood type to be
found.� Whatever Lucius
answered would be a clear indicator of whether or not he had really
changed.� She knew quite acutely that it
might just be that the fragment of her soul within him was making him behave
better than usual�and once it was gone he would revert back to a complete arsehole.

�I don�t care,� he said at last, in that disconcertingly dead tone
of voice.� �Do what you need to do.�

And Hermione forgot all about the cut on her arm; for the next
hour, she sat behind two screens, peering at him through the small space
between them.� Madame Pomfrey
never said whether the donor she�d located was pureblood or not and Lucius didn�t ask.�
He sat on the cot, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees
and the blood seeping slowly into him.�
He barely moved, and never once did any emotion cross his face.� He was like a statue.

The next morning, he wasn�t at breakfast.

He had gone to his shift at the Room of Hidden Things, but
disappeared soon after.� He didn�t show
at lunch and was absent at dinner.�
Hermione asked the house elves if he was having food brought up to his
room; he wasn�t.�

By lunchtime the next day, her patience was running out.� That was five missed meals.� He�d had the blood transfusion, but he�d
still been through a lot and he needed to eat.�
He was missing for his shift that afternoon and Hermione wasn�t the only
one who noticed; Tonks commented upon it, as did
eternal mother figure Molly Weasley.� With a perturbed sigh, Hermione resolved to
go see him and force some food down his throat � if she could manage to keep
her hands off him.

A thought hit her.� If she
brought Remus with her, he would be a powerful
deterrent.� Neither of them would want to
kiss or touch or do anything remotely sexual in front of him.� That would work�right?� She blew out a breath and went to find the
werewolf.

Lucius hadn�t
set wards on his door.� Hermione almost
went into shock when it opened with no resistance.� She couldn�t claim to know Lucius terribly well, aside from carnally, but common sense
dictated that he was the kind of man that probably warded the bathroom door
when he went.� In theory he was among
friends here; in practice there were still some that hated him.� He wasn�t foolish enough to drop his guard.

Except that apparently he was.�
She exchanged a glance with Remus.� He wore a concerned expression, too.� He drew his wand.� She gave him a questioning look; he only
shrugged, as if to say �just in case�.

Hermione left her wand where it was, up her sleeve.� She reasoned that the fragment of him inside
her would alert her if he was experiencing any kind of strong emotion that
would lead him to do something stupid, or if he was being attacked by
someone.� He was probably fine.

But she knew, whatever fine was - it was not Lucius
Malfoy leaving his door unwarded.� Remus stepped in
ahead of her and she took a breath.� A
brutally logical voice in her head reminded her that he could not kill himself,
anyway.� He was immortal.� That same voice also reminded her that
forever was a long time to be unhappy.

�Lucius?� Lupin called just inside the door.� Everyone else referred to him as Mr. Malfoy, seeming unable to forgo the formality brought on by
the intimidation a quiet, dangerously pensive Lucius
exuded.� Remus
seemed not to care.� Lucius
hadn�t expressed any irritation at the use of his first name and so Remus continued used it.

�Please leave.�� His voice
drifted from the bed chamber, low and raspy.

�We only want to check on you,� Remus
responded.� He stepped further into the
room.�

�And so you have.� Please
leave.�

God, that voice.� It was still flat, still devoid of
emotion�but in being so empty, it said all it needed to say.

Remus once
again ignored him, striding slowly toward the door of the bedroom.� His movements were measured and
non-threatening.� Hermione was powerfully
reminded of a negotiator trying to end a hostage situation.� �Well, you see, Lucius,
some people have noticed that you aren�t eating.� When you didn�t come to your shift in the
Room of Hidden Things, we got worried.�
Madame Pomfrey says you�re still
recovering.� You need to eat to keep your
strength up.�

�The house-elves bring me food.�

�I�ve taken the liberty of speaking to them.� They haven�t been up here.�

�Well, aren�t you just on top of things.�

Lupin
chuckled.� �Occasionally.�� He put his hands in his pockets.� �Lucius, we just
want you to eat.� I�m going to order
something from the elves.� What do you
want?�

Lucius ignored
him.� Remus
looked like he expected it.� He strode
over to the floo and called the elves.� He rattled off a list of food � most of them
heavy and hot, classic comfort foods � more than one person could realistically
eat.� Hermione supposed he wanted to give
Lucius a choice.

�Hm,� he said after a moment.� �What to drink?�

�Coffee,� Hermione replied with certainty.� �Strong black coffee.�

Remus raised
an eyebrow.

�I�ve seen him drink it before,� she said, a tad defensively.�

The werewolf only nodded before he ordered the coffee.

Lucius didn�t
look terrible, just a little unkempt; he was in that moth-eaten sweater again,
and trousers that were faded and fraying at the bottom hem.� In yet another ironic twist, most of his
clothing since arriving was borrowed from others.� Secondhand.� She was fairly certain he would have died
before accepting someone else�s handoffs�before.�

She wanted to run a comb through his hair.� But other than that, he appeared fine �
outwardly.� He said nothing, did nothing,
and didn�t look at them as they entered.

In the end, they just placed the food trays on the rickety desk
and left.� Hermione didn�t quite see the
point in that, as he could just ignore the food the same way he�d ignored
them.� Remus
didn�t seem to think that would be a problem.

�He�s not going to eat that food,� Hermione fretted as they left.

�He might.� We�re going back
later, anyhow.�� Lupin
smiled.� �I have a secret weapon.�

Four hours later, Hermione saw exactly what that secret weapon
was.� It came in the form of a chubby
infant with blue hair.

�Oh,� she said, stroking Teddy�s cheek, �do you really think this
is a good idea?� He�s just lost his son.�

�I know.� It seems
counterintuitive, but believe me�he needs something that will push him over the
edge.� He needs to release his emotions.�

She looked at him anxiously.�
�But��

Remus smiled
and shifted Teddy in his arms.� The
little boy gurgled happily.

�Trust me, Hermione.� I
watched my mother struggle with depression for years.� She was just like that sometimes�� he
squinted, remembering.� �Frozen by grief
for my father and I.�
She once told me that it was like being under the Imperius.� Inside she was screaming but she couldn�t
make the outside match that.�

�You think that�s what�s happening to him?�

�I do,� was the simple reply.��

She thought for a moment, frowning.� Then she looked up at Remus.� �He won�t want to break down in front of
us.�� What she really wanted to say was in front of you, but it would seem
strange to do so.� Hermione had already
seen him ravaged by grief; he had nothing to hide from her.� Lupin was a
different story.

�I don�t doubt that.� We�re
not giving him a choice.� I might be
mistaken, but Lucius is experiencing guilt, real
guilt, for the first time.� It�s�a hard
pill to swallow.� If he doesn�t release
these emotions, he�ll just��

�Go mad,� Hermione finished softly.

He nodded.� He turned to
stride away, Teddy in tow, and Hermione followed.� She had never been a tremendous fan of the
�lancing the wound to let the infection drain out� method, but they really had
no other option.� Remus
was very perceptive and he certainly knew a lot about sorrow.� She had the feeling that he was spot-on with
everything he hypothesized.

�Remus?�

�Hm?�

�What ever happened to your mother?� she asked in a small
voice.� He never spoke about his past and
her curiosity got the better of her.�
There was a pause.� Then:

�She killed herself.� I was
19.�

She had a feeling that was how the story ended.� �I�m sorry.�

�It is what it is,� he shrugged.�
�At least she never saw the war.��
He said no more; the topic, so briefly opened, was closed once again.

Lucius hadn�t
touched any of the food.� However, when
they strode in he did have the coffee mug clasped loosely in his hands.� She hoped it was empty, because it was
tilting dangerously as he stared blankly out the window.

Hermione wasn�t quite sure what she was supposed to do.� She settled for hanging back in the doorway
and watching Remus work.� He was the one with a plan.

�I hope you don�t mind,� the werewolf said, bouncing Teddy
slightly as he ventured into the bedroom.�
�But Teddy�s mummy needed a nap, so I took him for a while.�

Lucius glanced
up for a short moment.� Almost as soon as
he did, he returned his gaze to the window.�
Hermione didn�t know what he was looking at; the glass was so old that
it was warped and uneven.� At best, he
had a distorted view of the castle�s turrets.�
It didn�t escape her that he�d chosen a room all the way up here � as
far from the dungeons as possible.

�I suppose I�ll send this food back to the elves,� Remus said conversationally.� Hermione knew he could have just banished it
with a spell, but no�he needed an in.�
This was it.� He stepped closer to
Lucius.� �Would
you just hang on to Teddy for a minute while I do?�� Even as he asked it, he was holding his
little boy out to the blond wizard.� Lucius had no choice, short of letting Teddy drop on the
floor.� Everyone present knew he wouldn�t
do that.

Lucius looked
like he was being stabbed, but he accepted the baby.� Hermione watched, riveted, as his paternal
instincts took over.� He shifted Teddy
into the cradle of his arm and though he appeared to try, he couldn�t look away
from the little boy.� Teddy stared back,
clear-eyed and content, if a little wiggly.

Remus moved
quietly to the desk and gathered up the tray.�
He watched Lucius and Teddy in his peripheral
vision, waiting.� Just
waiting.� When he had handed the
cold food off to the elves, Lucius spoke.

�He�s really a metamorphmagus?�

�Really and truly, just like his Mum.�

�And do they know yet�if he will be�a lycanthrope?�

�They�ve tested him.� He�s
just a normal wizard, thank Merlin.�� Remus smiled.� �I can
genuinely say I�ve contributed only the best parts of me to my son.�

�You hope,� Lucius replied, very, very
softly.� The storm was building.

�I suppose that�s all I can do,� Remus
agreed.

A moment later, Lucius made a quiet
sound of wonder.� Then, inexplicably, a
small, tired smile crossed his face.

�Teddy�� Remus said,
an amused note of disapproval in his voice.�
His son chortled in response.�
Hermione tilted her neck and saw what brought it on; Teddy had changed
his hair.� The little boy now wore a pale
blond mane, long and straight in imitation of Lucius.

�Careful, young man,� Lucius said,
hiding a tremor in his voice.� �You might
get stuck that way.� I�m sure no one
wants that��

�Could be worse,� Remus chuckled.� Lucius chuckled
with him.

Hermione couldn�t say when exactly his laughter transitioned into
anguish.� The spasm of grief hit him like
a truck.� He bit his lips, closed his
eyes, and held Teddy out to Remus.� Remus was quick to
reclaim his son.� Lucius�s
breathing was ragged, but he clutched onto his control.� It was exactly as Hermione had anticipated;
he didn�t want to break down in front of the werewolf.� But she could feel his pain welling and
burning in her chest, pressing against the borders of sanity.� It hurt.�
It was a fraction of what he really felt.

Remus had
crossed the room and now handed Teddy to her with a nod and a bittersweet
smile.� Hermione gathered Teddy to her
chest.� It was comforting to hold him; he
nestled happily against her bosom and his warm, soft baby smell calmed her
racing thoughts.

Remus
crouched down in front of Lucius so that he could
catch the other man�s downcast eyes.

�You have to let it out, Lucius.� Otherwise it will destroy you.�

The blond shook his head.

Remus looked
at the floor, brows furrowed.� He
appeared regretful and Hermione knew that he was about to jab that lance in
without mercy.

�You have nothing left to lose.�

It was true.� So brutally
true, and Lucius knew it.� It tore away the last of his control.� A sob escaped him and his shoulders sagged.

�It kills me,� he choked out.�
�It kills me to be here.� I can�t
stop thinking about him.� I can�t�I�everything I did�my son died because of me��� Agony made
him hunch over as if he had a stomachache.�
�I killed him.� I killed
them.� I loved them!� he nearly shouted, as if he was pleading for them to
believe him.� Tears began to stream down
his face.

�I know,� Remus said softly.� Hesitantly, he raised a hand to squeeze Lucius�s shoulder.

�How could I?� How did I not
see?� What is wrong with me?�

�We all make mistakes.�

�Killing your family is not a mistake!� he cried, eyes flashing,
and he pushed the other man�s hand from his person with a vengeance.

�You did not kill them, Lucius,� Lupin said firmly,
undeterred.� �You didn�t raise the wand
or speak the words.� You know that.�

�I gave them away.� I gave
them to him like they were�pieces of jewelry, just�ornaments�Merlin��

A flash of pain spiked in Hermione�s chest.� It made it hard to breathe and the world swam
dizzily around her.� Abruptly, she sat
down, clinging to Teddy.� Sweet hell, that hurt.� She
felt like someone had plunged a meat hook into her chest and was now trying to
pull out her heart.�

Lucius had no
more words.� He broke down completely,
hands over his face.� Sobs turned to
great, heaving gasps, and eventually to one raw, soul-shredding scream.� It echoed against the high stone walls and
made a drowsy Teddy stir agitatedly against her chest.

That was the
internal screaming Remus had spoken of.� That was it, made real and whole; it drilled
into her very bones.� If there had been
any doubt of his remorse, it couldn�t stand in the face of such a howl.

Through it all, Remus didn�t
flinch.� He sat across from Lucius like some sort of anchor, a mooring that held him
fast in the face of his agony.� Hermione
wondered how many times the werewolf had felt like this, or just how often he�d
had to do this very thing for his mother.

Lucius
slumped, exhausted and trembling.� He
looked so defeated; instinctively, Hermione rose from her seat and went to
them.� She finally knew what to do.� After restoring Teddy to his father, she put
her arms around Lucius.� He folded gratefully against her.� Somehow she had known he wanted the comfort,
but still bore a slim shred of pride that prevented him from taking it from Lupin.

It said a lot that Remus was even
willing to provide it.� Lucius had never given him a single reason to.� Many couldn�t spare a shred of empathy for
the Slytherin with a questionable past.� Hermione�s respect for Remus
John Lupin rose exponentially.

She expected the werewolf to leave, but he only sat on the
windowsill, gently rocking Teddy.� When
the little boy fell asleep, his hair changed back to its usual blue wisps.� His emulation of Lucius
was complete, for now.

Lucius�s arms
went around her.� He held on tightly, as
if someone was trying to tear him away.�
He had no more tears, but his breath still came fast, full of panicked
sorrow.� His eyes were squeezed shut like
he expected to be Cruciated.�

But slowly, slowly, his breathing calmed.� The tension drained, loosening his muscles
and his grip.� He tilted down to the bed
like a felled tree.� She went with him.

It felt strange to know that Remus was
only a few feet away witnessing such an intimate embrace.� She knew Lucius
needed her, though.� His breath tickled
warmly against her collarbone.� Hermione
wished she could wick away more of his pain�osmotically,
perhaps, through the feverish touch of his body against hers.�

She didn�t feel that all-consuming sexual desire that had
overwhelmed them in the coat room.� This
was different.� His soul whispered to her
without words, begging, beseeching, needing her exclusive understanding �
needing his own understanding.� She had to whisper back.

Hermione squeezed him.� She
squeezed him so tight she worried that she would hurt him.� She wanted to wring the pain right out of him
like dirty water from a sponge.� The piece
of his soul clawed and roiled, raising goosebumps
along her skin; it felt like she was reaching for something that was just
beyond her grip.� Something she
desperately needed.

In time, though, it was soothed.�
He fell into a deep sleep.�
Hermione was prevented from doing the same only by Remus�s
gentle touch on her shoulder.� Carefully,
she extracted herself from Lucius�s arms.� She was grateful that Remus
had stayed.� If she were to fall asleep
here, she knew with leaden certainty that she and Lucius
would have made hard, tortured love when they woke.

Her soul hurt and so did his.�
But the time wasn�t right.� She
knew now more than ever that they had to destroy Voldemort.� If things did not go according to plan, she
and Lucius would be the ones left over to finish the
job.� She couldn�t endanger that.� For his sanity�for hers�they had to hurt a
little bit longer.

�Should we leave him?� she whispered.� He was so still.

�Yes,� Remus whispered back, his eyes
distant.� �I think he�ll appreciate being
alone when he wakes up.�

And the autobiographical taint in his voice ate at her, just like
everything else about this godforsaken war.�

The next morning he came to breakfast.� Eyes turned to him as he walked in.� He had bathed and there was nothing remarkable
about his dress, except that the sweater he wore looked suspiciously like
something Molly might have knitted.�
Hermione wondered how long it would be before she was making him holiday
jumpers with a big green L on them.� If
they all lived to see the next holiday, perhaps he�d actually wear one.

�Why is he always wearing sweaters?� someone to her right
whispered.

�I know!� It�s June!� her
companion whispered back.

Hermione stared at her scrambled eggs.� She knew why he wore sweaters.� If she were him, she would not want to look
at the mark of the man who had murdered his family, either.� Snape�s restrictive
wardrobe suddenly made a lot more sense.�
She hoped the grumpy fool was all right.�

But really, it wasn�t the sweater that provoked the majority of
that morning�s whispers.� It was his
face.� Simply put, he looked like he had
just finished a good cry.� He hadn�t
tried to conceal it.� Misery was swathed
around him like a cloak.� But he sat,
pulled up a plate, and started to fill it.�
He took a sip of pumpkin juice and inhaled, congestion producing a sound
that was dangerously close to a sniffle.�
The Great Hall was subdued, all eyes on him, the ceiling too high to
reflect the undercurrent of hushed conversation and causing it to furrow around
the tables like mist.

Her linkage with him gave a little squirm that told her he felt
like a creature on display at a zoo.� She
started to stand, intent upon sitting with him, but someone else beat her to
it.� Arthur Weasley
rose from his spot and resolutely strode over to the empty table.� He sat as if this was something he did every
day.� Arthur prepared a plate and the two
men began to eat.� They were silent, but
determined to temper the awkwardness.

Gradually, others filled in the spaces at Lucius�s
table. Remus went next, along with Tonks, and then Molly and Andromeda took a seat
together.� Hermione watched, wondering if
a fractured generation was slowly repairing itself here.� It was in that moment that her heart ached
for the others who had never lived to see this.�

She wondered what Sirius would have thought.� Hermione had to admit to herself that she did
not think of him often enough; he had been so frustrating to deal with that
last year of his life.� She understood
why, though.� She understood the waiting,
the need to feel useful, the unknown looming over her head�but most of all, she understood what it was like to be seen as a
caricature.� The people on the other side
of this war saw her as scarcely more than a chimpanzee, which by some bizarre
twist of genetics had been granted the same exclusive abilities as them.� She wasn�t sure if it was worse to be thought
of as a villain or a parasite.

Her eyes flickered once again to Lucius.� Slughorn had moved
to the table now and was attempting to draw him out with small talk.� Lucius responded
politely around his breakfast.� He was
slightly more verbose than usual; he was giving two and three word responses
instead of a curt one.�

Slughorn, though
terribly ingratiating at times, understood people very well.� He recognized that Lucius
needed the distraction of human presence.�
What they spoke of was meaningless; the important part was that Slughorn was speaking to him at all, probing his mind for
trite answers, filling it with something other than Draco
and Narcissa.� Remus had pioneered it and Slughorn
was capitalizing on it.� The others
quickly picked up on what he was doing.�

In fifteen minutes, Lucius was socially
included, but without any kind of pressure or expectation.� For periods of time, he would remain silent,
pale eyes cataloguing the turns of conversation.� At other points, he would offer his opinion
on whatever issue was being tossed around in a quiet, steady voice.� That voice still held a note of lifelessness,
but it wasn�t consumed with it.� The
healing had begun.

Witnessing the smooth transition of awkwardness to the beginning
stages of comfort at that table chased the uncomfortable curiosity out of the
room.� The volume had just started to
pick up in the Great Hall when a loud crash startled some into silence and drew
sharp, startled cries from others.

In an instant, people were on their feet, wands drawn.� Hermione was one of them.� She didn�t even know how she reacted so fast;
it was like touching a hot stove.� Her
hand pulled at her wand like it would have pulled away from the burner.� That reflex had to be Lucius�s�

The center window behind the staff table had shattered near the
top, as if a brick had been thrown at it.�
Shards of glass tinkled onto the stone floor.� Among them was a vial.� It, too, shattered, and a waft of smoke
curled from its smashed remains.

Seeing this, everyone backed away.�
No one knew what it was.�
McGonagall and several others cast wards around the sinuous smoke.� Everyone waited, tense, paranoid, in a wide
ring about the mysterious vial.

Gasps went up as the smoke began to take form.� It circled and writhed, creating a tall,
narrow shape in a flowing cloak.� The
bald head that topped it made her stomach churn.� She knew who it was before the facial
features finished their materialization.

�It�s not him,� Harry said firmly, somewhere to her left.� �It�s just an illusion.�

�How do you know?� someone called out.

�My scar doesn�t hurt,� Harry responded.� He exuded calm; Hermione knew he was
purposely trying to, because if he was calm, everyone else would be, too.� He had grown up so much.

�It�s some kind of trick!� another person yelled.� �Destroy it!�

But nobody moved.

The ghostly Voldemort stood there,
blurry but unmistakable.� After another
tense minute, the white lips moved.

�Mr. Potter is right.� I am
an illusion.�

Hermione�s stomach gave a lurch at his voice.� Memories barraged her; Voldemort�s
cold, bare feet prodding her, his sneering face high above her, the bored look
in his red eyes as his servants tortured her�and others, still, others that
were not her own.� Jumbled collages of
fear, pain, and hate flashed behind her eyes.

Harry stepped forward.�
�What do you want?� he demanded coldly.

�Temper, temper, Harry,� the clone chuckled.� �I have a message for you.�

�Make your threats and be done with it.�

A non-existent brow rose.� �Very well.� I suggest
you pay close attention to muggle news for the next
few weeks.� I fear the muggles will find themselves�quite overwhelmed.�

�Your fight is with me, not with innocent muggles!�
Harry snarled, his button effectively pushed.

�Isn�t it, though?� Voldemort asked
idly.� �They are as much a threat as
half-bloods and mudbloods these days.�

�I know your game.�� Harry�s
voice was strong, as was his posture, but Hermione knew him well enough to predict
that guilt and rage was flaring inside him.

�Indeed you do, but you still can�t stomach it, Harry.� You can�t stand to know that innocent people
will die because of you.�� The image of Voldemort
raised its arms slightly.� �And here are
the first casualties.�

Gasps went up all around the room as two heads appeared in his
hands.� He held them by the hair; one a
head of dark, over-coiffed poodle curls and the other a meager salt and pepper combover.

�Unfortunately,� Voldemort said, �your
cousin proved to be a bit stronger than expected.� He�s a boxer, yes?� His talents�got the better of dear old MacNair.� We�ll find
him, though.�

Oh, Merlin.� Those
heads�they were Harry�s aunt and uncle.�
She knew that there was not much love lost on them, as far as Harry was
concerned�but they were still his family and he would still feel a terrible
guilt over this.

�Imagine,� Voldemort said, his voice
falsely remorseful, �their only mistake was accepting a mudblood�s
orphan.�

Three people fired spells at the demon painted in smoke.� Harry wasn�t one of them.� The spells dissipated against the wards,
anyhow, and Voldemort chuckled.� With a movement of his elbows, the severed
heads disappeared.

�I ask you, Harry, how many deaths can you bear?�� His eyes flared in sadistic pleasure.� �Next, I think I shall go on a little
expedition to locate Miss Granger�s parents.�

�You�ll never find them,� Hermione spoke up.� Her tone was so cold that she scarcely
recognized it herself.

�They say you are a bright girl, so no doubt it will be a
challenge.� But you mongrels need to
learn,� his voice and face turned ugly, �that when you take something from me,
you will pay dearly for it.�

�Heed your own warning, you charlatan.�� Lucius�s voice cut
through the tension like a whip, sharpened with malice.

�Ah, Lucius.�� Voldemort said
softly.� He turned, pinpointing Lucius among the crowd, red eyes skewering him.� �I never imagined anyone would take Mr.
Potter�s place as the person I wanted to kill the most.� I have a message for you, as well.�

�What�s that?� the blond wizard spat.

�I know that you think that I can do nothing worse to you than
what I have already done.�

Lucius tensed
visibly.

�You are so very wrong, Lucius.�� His voice lowered, resembling a feral
growl.� �So very wrong.��

A smile that was purely evil stretched his face, and then his
image disappeared in a puff in black and red smoke. �
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The Last Gift