- Rating:
- PG-13
- House:
- Schnoogle
- Genres:
- Angst Mystery
- Era:
- Multiple Eras
- Spoilers:
- Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire
- Stats:
-
Published: 09/05/2001Updated: 10/30/2001Words: 173,859Chapters: 12Hits: 46,966
Dracaena Draco
Al
- Story Summary:
- In the months following the end of the ill-fated Triwizard Tournament, the usually indomitable Draco Malfoy is thrown into a situation that will change his life for ever. In a time when nobody is quite what they seem, can the Dark Side really be divided? The first story of three in the Dark Descending Trilogy.
Chapter 10
- Chapter Summary:
- Fic Summary:
- Posted:
- 10/03/2001
- Hits:
- 2,601
CHAPTER 10. DRAGON RIDERS.
Harry awoke with a start. Sunlight was streaming in through the windows, and he could hear the sounds of activity down below in the courtyard, of shouted orders and hurrying footsteps. He snuggled down under the covers, and then gave a cry of alarm as he felt someone's hand underneath the small of his back.
Slowly, he turned over. There was a head on the other pillow. He sat up hurriedly, flinging off the bedclothes.
Hermione stirred, she rolled over into the space Harry had vacated, and then opened her eyes, blinking in the bright light. She gasped as she saw Harry looking at her.
"You gave me such a fright!" she exclaimed. "Have they brought our breakfast yet?"
"Hermione," said Harry. "I ... I just, I just woke up ... and, you were lying next to me ... actually in the bed!"
Hermione nodded. "Yes, and?" she said. "You expected to wake up with Draco lying next to you?"
Harry shook his head. "No ... no," he said. "This isn't happening, tell me this isn't happening."
"What’s the matter, Harry?"
"No ... no. This isn't happening to me," Harry had gone a funny colour. "Oh, Christ, no ... say this isn't happening to me!"
"What isn't happening?" said Hermione, looking perplexed. "What are you on about ..."
"No ... shut up ... I didn't!" cried Harry. "I couldn't ... I'm ... I don't even know how ..."
Hermione sat up, and put her hands on his shoulders to calm him. "What the hell are you on about?"
"I think I need to go and take a shower," murmured Harry. "Please, just tell me we didn't ..."
"We slept together, if that's what you mean," said Hermione. "And by slept, I mean to lose consciousness. Relax ... nothing happened ... I just, didn't much fancy sleeping on the sofa, and you kind of crashed out here, so I thought, well ... what harm can it do?"
"You swear you didn't do anything to me?" asked Harry.
"I promise ... you're still wearing your pyjamas, aren't you?"
"Damn ... you've got me all disappointed now," said Harry. "Perhaps I ought to have a shower after all."
Hermione sat up in bed ... she was wearing a long, white satin nightgown. "I'm sorry, Harry," she said.
Harry didn't say anything to this.
"Harry?"
"Forget it," said Harry.
Hermione scrambled over to his side of the bed. "No ... I'm sorry," she said. "Please, it was stupid ... I don't know what made me. I should have slept on the sofa."
"I said, forget it," grinned Harry. He cuffed her playfully on the shoulder. "You really know how to disappoint a guy, don't you. Look ... I'm going to have a shower. I may be some time."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Al Tamimi closed the door behind him, and slipped silently into Malfoy's office. Malfoy, who was standing by the window, watching two buzzards circling something that had died in the gorge, turned round.
"How are our guests this morning?" he asked.
"All is well," said Al Tamimi. "Draco is still sleeping ... but I understand the others will shortly be served breakfast."
"And of our Lord and Master?"
"He is being tended to in his quarters by his manservant, Pettigrew," said Al Tamimi. "All seems well."
"Excellent ... I need hardly remind you for the importance of creating the right impression for Lord Voldemort," said Malfoy, rocking backwards and forwards upon his heels. "If anything were to go wrong, it would be your head I would be demanding, on a silver platter."
"I quite understand, Master," said Al Tamimi.
"What of Chaldean?" asked Malfoy.
"He is under heavy guard in the dungeons," said Al Tamimi. "His breakfast was taken down some time ago. Tell me, Master, what are we to do with him now that we have him?"
"Chaldean is the vilest of low-life scum," said Malfoy. "He deserves to die ... however, I cannot help thinking it would be more constructive to allow Koschenko to play with him for a little while."
"Koschenko ... I will inform the guards," said Al Tamimi. "What of the children?"
"Make ready the altar," said Malfoy. "The sacrifices will commence at sunrise tomorrow. First the three Weasleys ... I may yet find a use for Romulus' stupidity. Then Potter's blood must be spilled to appease our Lord. Then, finally, to complete the ritual and open the chamber, Draco. I will see him later."
"What about the Mudblood?" asked Al Tamimi.
"The one Draco will insist on calling Hermione?" said Malfoy. "I thought it might be fitting for her to serve as a birthday present."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Draco sat grumpily in the chair in front of his dressing room mirror, as his Father's personal hair stylist fussed over him. There was a towel draped around his neck, catching the clumps of hair as they fell.
"I like my hair as it is," he moped.
"Nevertheless," said the hairdresser. "Your Father has requested that you adopt a more civilised style for your birthday celebrations."
Draco huffed. "It's my birthday," he said. "I don't see why I shouldn't get to do what I want."
"The guests will be most distinguished," said the hairdresser, who was not used to dealing with stubborn kids, and was rapidly starting to become annoyed with Draco. "They will not want to see you looking scruffy."
Draco was offended. "I am not scruffy," he said, imperiously. "I am esoteric and mysterious ... and I like that floppy bit at the sides ... leave that well alone ... it took years."
The hairdresser attacked it with the scissors. "We're just making it a bit less extreme," she cooed. "To be fair, Draco, you can barely see out of your right eye."
"I like not being able to see out of my right eye," said Draco. "It gives me an air of dashing sexiness ... is that a word?"
The hairdresser shrugged. "Anyway," she said. "I think that should do."
Draco opened his eyes, and looked in the mirror. "You know," he began.
"It isn't too bad, is it?" she said.
Draco put a hand to his head. "It looks ... better. How much did you take off?"
"About half of it," said the hairdresser.
"Doesn't look it," said Draco.
"That's magic," she smiled. "I must say ... I'm rather proud of that."
"We should get you at Hogwarts," Draco went on. "You'd be much better than the usual barber."
"I aim to please," said the hairdresser. "Now," she whipped away the towel, "we need to select you an outfit. Your Father wants black, for the ceremony and the reception, you understand ..."
"Of course," snarled Draco. "What the dear darling Daddy says goes."
"However, for the party in the evening," she said. "I think something to bring out the colour of your eyes. A nice navy blue usually works well with Malfoy hair. Do you think ... something with a high collar?"
"I like high collars," said Draco, grinning.
She had produced two sets of dress robes on hangers from the wardrobe behind them, and was holding them up. Draco turned his swivel chair around to see better.
"Plain and simple on the left ... classic magical elegance. This one is Gregorio Yannucci, and the other one, a touch more class, very extravagant but very debonair, it's a genuine Branford, you know."
"The simpler one," said Draco. "That one looks like some sort of bordello."
"A very wise choice," she said. "Now ... we need to get you a fitting for your new work robes."
"Work robes?"
"The ones you will be wearing to your initiation," she said. "Stand up ... this won't take a moment."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The hairdresser had also paid a morning visit to Harry and Hermione to spruce them up. However, she had not done such a good job as she had on Draco, and Harry's hair had been successfully butchered. Now he sat on a little stool in the bathroom, as Hermione whispered some choice words, and waved her wand over Harry's head.
"Did it work?" he asked, feeling the top of his head. To his enormous relief, his hair had grown back.
"Like a charm," said Hermione. "Which is ironic, really, because that's what it was."
"Mirror," said Harry. Hermione handed him one. He looked just as good as normal.
"I didn't really think the BNP look was for you," said Hermione. "Do I still look okay?"
Harry nodded. Her hair had been put up into a bun, which made her look slightly more severe, but no less pretty than usual.
"We should explore," said Harry, after a moment's silence.
"Can we ... actually, you know, get out?" asked Hermione.
"Don't see any reason why not," said Harry. "The bloke who brought our breakfast kept calling us honoured guests ... and you don't really think they'd give me all this gear and not expect me to try and find someone to show it off to," he grinned and rubbed his hands together.
"You're in danger of turning into a fashion victim," said Hermione. "Are you sure my bum doesn't look big in this dress?"
"You are in no danger of becoming fat," said Harry. "I'm going to go look around ... do you want to come?"
Hermione shrugged. "Yeah ... I suppose," she said.
To Harry's surprise, the door had been left unlocked, and it opened without a sound. Outside, they found themselves on a balcony running all the way round an atria, open to the sky, with cool fountains playing at the bottom, and climbing plants threading their tendrils around and about the ornate, antique stonework. Apart from themselves, there was no sign of life
"It's lovely," breathed Hermione. "Isn't it?"
Harry nodded. "Let's go this way first."
He led her along the balcony, and down a flight of stairs to the bottom. Leading out of the atria there was a dark, shady corridor patterned with exquisite tiling that Hermione immediately identified as Moorish, or at the very least, Moorish influence.
"This is just like the Alhambra," she said, following Harry along the corridor. Now they found themselves in the courtyard visible from their balcony. There were still several cars parked there, although the truck had gone.
"Wonder how big it is?" said Harry. They wandered towards the gatehouse ... but finding their way barred by two very menacing looking men carrying Kalashnikov rifles, who shouted something at them in Russian, they turned back, and headed into the main body of the castle.
Inside, it was much, much cooler, very calm, and very quiet. It reminded Hermione of being in a cathedral, except there were no hordes of tourists trampling all over the place. They both stood in acute wonder for some minutes, staring up at the ceiling, which had been adorned with fine frescoes. The sunlight falling through the stained glass window cast an enchanting pattern on the floor.
"Awesome," was all Harry could say.
"I could die in a place like this," whispered Hermione ... the calm serenity of the enormous room seemed to somehow dampen every noise. Even their footsteps sounded quieter as they walked across the hallway, and down a flight of steps into another corridor lined with suits of armour. There were several very large, heavy looking wooden doors as well. Harry pushed open the first one.
"Looks like some kind of study," he said, stepping inside. Hermione followed. They did, indeed, appear to be in a study, there were shelves, filled with ancient books, lining three walls, and French windows giving views of the mountains ... the floor was of polished wood, and standing directly in the centre of the room was a magnificent mahogany desk. There was a stack of papers on the desktop.
"See anything interesting?" asked Hermione.
Harry thumbed through the papers. "It's all in Russian," he said. "I don't read Cyrillic."
"This place is giving me the creeps," said Hermione. "Let's look somewhere else."
"What's wrong with it?" asked Harry. "I think it's very nice ... kind of Baroque."
"Harry ... have you seen some of these books they've got?" asked Hermione. She picked one up off the shelf. "Harry ... this is Mein Kampf."
"What of it?" asked Harry ... the expression on his face making plain the fact he had never heard of it.
"This was only written by Adolph Hitler. This is only the most hateful, racist book of all time."
"So why do these people have a copy in their study?" asked Harry.
"I don't know ... perhaps they're fascists," said Hermione, giving him a withering stare. "Harry ... this place is freaking me out ... I want to get out of here."
"I regret that won't be possible," said a harsh, drawling voice. Both of them spun round to see a tall man standing in the doorway. In looks he resembled an older, harder, more pinched Draco Malfoy. Both of them recognised him at once.
"What're you doing here?" asked Hermione, turning up her nose.
"Well," said Malfoy, snatching the book from Hermione's hand, and replacing it on the shelf. "Considering that this is my castle, I would assume, young lady, that I have a right to be here. What ... might I ask ... are you two doing in my private office?"
"Nothing," said Hermione, quickly. Harry shook his head.
"Just looking around," said Harry. "Sir," he added, gulping.
"It seems you were doing considerably more than looking around," said Malfoy. "It seems to me as though you were both spying ... nasty little wretches sneaking around my home, spying upon my personal affairs. How did you get out of your room?"
"The door was unlocked," said Harry. "We didn't think anybody would mind ..."
"I mind," said Malfoy. "I mind considerably. Who knows what you might have stumbled across. For your own safety, I must insist that you remain within your quarters at all times."
"We weren't hurting anything," protested Harry.
"But you may have been hurt yourselves," said Malfoy. "Step closer into the light, Harry ... I want to see you more clearly."
Harry stepped forwards, the sunlight pouring in through the French windows illuminating his face.
"You always did look like your Father," said Malfoy. "A fine, upstanding man ... although it is a pity he refused to work for us."
"He'd sooner have died!" spat Harry. Hermione put a hand on his shoulder to restrain him. This was a potentially violent man they were dealing with here.
"Yes ... as I seem to remember rightly, that is exactly what he ended up doing," said Malfoy ... his face cracked suddenly into a grin. "Must have been rather a shock for the poor man, don't you think?"
Hermione sneered. "Better dead than you," she spat.
Malfoy's grin became a glower of rage. "I would watch your lip, girl," he said. "Someone with your ... blood type can scarce afford to provoke me. Now return forthwith to your room. Tomorrow you will serve your purpose."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Draco had privately resolved to sneak off and find Hermione just as soon as an opportunity presented itself. He wandered the corridors and passages of the castle for a good fifteen minutes, before realising that, of course, he didn't have a clue where she was staying, or even if she was in the castle.
If the truth be told, Draco was scared out of his wits. As the situation appeared to him, his Father had kidnapped him from Hogwarts ... flown him to his estates, and was planning some sort of birthday surprise ... and that surprise involved Voldemort ... which was not an especially pleasing prospect. He sighed as he remembered how only a month ago, he would have laid down his life for the cause of the Dark Side. But so much water had flowed under the bridge since then ... so much had come out. He felt like a different person ... a new Draco, and the new Draco was rapidly consuming the old one, and making its presence felt. New Draco certainly did not want to go to his birthday party, however nice the surprise turned out to be. New Draco was frankly dreading it. Old Draco was still standing in the corner of his mind, looking worried, but New Draco was on the verge of victory.
No ... there was no question of what Draco wanted to do. Escape was the only thing on his mind ... well, that and Hermione.
"Draco!" he heard a loud, booming voice ... his Father's. "How fare you this morning?"
Draco stood stock still. "Well, thank you, Father," he said. Old Draco jumped triumphantly up and down, and danced a little jig.
"I take it we are off exploring," said his Father, clapping what Draco supposed he must interpret as a paternal hand on his shoulder.
"Yes ... we ... am," said Draco.
His Father smiled. "Your command of the first person plural must be improved as a matter of urgency," he said. "But it is of no consequence right now. As a matter of fact, I have been looking for you ... I want to show you something. I think you will like it."
"What might that be?" asked Draco.
"You will see when we get there," said his Father. "Come, follow me."
"What is it?" asked Draco, as he followed his Father down the corridor. "Is it a present?"
"Kind of," said his Father, mysteriously. "It is a little, surprise I have been organising. Think of it, if you will, as an early birthday present."
"Talking about my birthday," said Draco, stumbling slightly as he struggled to keep up with his Father, who was walking very fast indeed. "How is ... our Master this morning?"
"Lord Voldemort sleeps right now," said his Father. "He does not wish to be disturbed, and I do not advise you to try and see him."
"No, I ... um, wasn't going to," said Draco. "Father?"
"What?"
"Why did ... why did you tell me Chaldean was going to be ..."
"I had imagined your curiosity would be aroused, Draco," said his Father ... turning left into another corridor. They were evidently deep underground, for the passages were now hewn out of the solid rock itself, and water was dripping from the ceiling, and collecting in puddles at their feet. "Chaldean abandoned Voldemort ... that part of the story was true ... but I never abandoned Voldemort. It is as I said ... I had to pretend to have renounced the laughable evils of His glorious reign, to allow myself to get close to the traitor Chaldean."
"What are ... what are you going to do with him now you've caught him?" asked Draco, tripping slightly, for the floor of the passageway was very uneven. Ahead of them was a shaft of light. As they passed, Draco looked up what appeared to be some sort of air hole. There was shimmering blue sky directly overhead.
"He will be executed tomorrow," said his Father. "Voldemort will be there."
"I don't want people executed on my birthday," said Draco. His Father stopped dead in his tracks, and wheeled around to face him.
"Nevertheless, it has been decreed," he growled. "Do not vex me, Draco. Events have been very tiresome just lately, and I am not at my best natured ... and there are no pathetic teachers to come to your aid here."
Draco gulped.
"Now ... do you want to see your surprise, or don't you?"
They walked further, in silence, for a couple of minutes. Then Draco looked up ... the passageway he had been walking along had suddenly become a lot darker, the braziers were fewer and further between, and the walls seemed to be shaking with what sounded like very loud snoring. The passage seemed to be hewn out of the rock itself, and it had the look of having been hollowed out by water, or some liquid, for the walls were smooth and curved. It was almost like walking down a pipe.
Cautiously, he pressed on. He had not noticed it as he had been walking along, quietly absorbed in his thoughts, but the temperature seemed to be rising steadily. He carried on walking. The snoring sound was getting louder too ... and with it, came some strange hissing sound.
Draco rounded a corner, and stopped dead in his tracks at what confronted him. He had entered a large room ... no, he had entered a bloody massive room. It seemed to go on for miles. The room was lit with a peculiar orange glow, the heat was intense. Curled up on the stone floor, sleeping, were four enormous black dragons.
Draco stared at them, open-mouthed. He had always loved dragons.
As his eyes became accustomed to the strange light, he could see people scurrying about on the floor below, carrying what looked like pails of water, suspended from yokes across their backs. They worked only semi-clothed in the fierce heat, and each of their faces was gaunt and pale from lack of sunlight. And now Draco noticed ... they were all stopping, and staring up at him.
"I leave you here, Draco," said his Father. "Somebody will be along directly," with that, he turned on his heels and disappeared the way they had come.
Directly in front of Draco was a stone staircase leading down to the floor. Gingerly, for he had never had the eyes of so many people on him before, he began to walk down it. Some of them moved hurriedly away, as if the sight of him disturbed them somehow.
"I wouldn't go any further, boy," said a voice behind him. Draco stopped, and turned.
There was a woman standing behind him on the steps, wearing dragon hide boots, with fearsome looking spurs on the heels, and what appeared to be some kind of suit of armour ... but one that fitted like a glove, and seemed to shimmer in the red light, as though it was not entirely there.
"You must be Draco," said the woman. "Your Father told us you might be interested in seeing what goes on here."
"He ... he did?" asked Draco ... who had not seen someone as beautiful before in his life.
"My name is Tatiana," she said, stepping forwards. "I am a Dragon Rider."
"A what now?" asked Draco.
"A Dragon Rider ... I ride the dragons ... I allow them to take flight, and I guide them through the sky," Draco could do nothing but nod. He had heard of Dragon Riders, of course, he had even seen pictures. In the old days they had been a constituent part of Voldemort's Dark forces. He had never dared to hope he would ever meet a real one. To pilot a dragon would be the greatest thrill of his life!
Tatiana held out her hand to Draco. "I suppose you'll be wanting to see the dragons up close?"
Draco nodded.
"You had better come with me then ... you will need some instruction."
She led him slowly back up the stairs, and through a small door that Draco had not noticed before. As the door swung shut behind him, he could hear the people down below resume their wearisome work.
Tatiana had led him into a large room – the walls adorned with expensive tapestries and the floor lined with furs, where there were two other women lounging around on easy chairs. One of them was smoking a cigarette.
"Romana, Iselda," Tatiana said. "This is Draco. You will recognise him, of course."
Iselda nodded. "It is an honour to meet you," she said, in a heavy Russian accent. "We were the ones who brought you and your friends here."
Draco smiled. "I wish I'd been awake," he said. "Are all ... are all Dragon Riders so ... so ..."
"Beautiful? Yes Draco. You see, dragons are great lovers of beautiful things. They are, after all, the most wonderful of God's creations ... you have only to see a dragon soaring through the twilit sky, to appreciate what a beautiful thing a dragon is. Dragons worship beauty ... they see it all around them, and they respond to beautiful things. We can control them, I mean ... really control them, through their thoughts. We can see through their eyes when we fly with them. Only the beautiful can do that."
"Do you think I ..." began Draco.
"There have been very few male Dragon Riders in history," said Tatiana. "Who knows, you may be one of the lucky ones."
"Certainly he is handsome," said Iselda. Draco blushed. "He has great potential ... and such hair as I have never seen."
"Ach ... they will not notice his hair," said Tatiana. "He will be wearing a helmet."
"You mean ..."
"If you want to come with me ... you may," said Tatiana. "It is your decision to make."
"Would I ever?"
"I thought you might say that," smiled Tatiana.
"What about my Father?" asked Draco, suspiciously.
Tatiana grinned again. "Do not think I would not have cleared such a thing with him first," she said, smiling. "I have your Father wrapped around my little finger... and besides, it was he who approached me first. He spoils you, Draco ... you should be very grateful to him."
Draco thought of the bruising that was still painfully evident across his back and chest, and decided to say nothing.
"You will need to be dressed properly," said Tatiana. "Come ... we will find you a suit."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Harry and Hermione had their lunch brought up to them again, and again, they ate out on the balcony, this time with a large sunshade to shield them from the fearsome midday rays. It was an impressive spread, no less, with a fish starter, some spicy local dish with crunchy vegetables and chunks of sizzling beef, and fruits and cheeses to finish off. Both of them were once again very hungry, and both ate well.
"I feel so fat," moaned Hermione, putting her knife and fork together on the plate.
"You don't look it," said Harry, smiling at her.
"You would say that," said Hermione. "You're a man ... you're duty bound to say that. Besides, if you had agreed with me, I'd have been technically entitled to knock your teeth out with a croquet mallet."
"Sounds nasty," said Harry. "We don't have any croquet mallets ... do we?"
Hermione shook her head. "I'd have used something else," she said. "There's plenty of stuff around here that would do. That Grecian urn, for instance," she pointed to it. It was mounted on a pedestal just inside.
"How much does a Grecian urn?" asked Harry, grinning.
"I'm sorry?"
"Forget it ... it was a crap joke," said Harry.
"I quite like your jokes," said Hermione.
"I'll tell you another ... if you'd like," said Harry, looking hopeful. Hermione nodded her agreement. "Okay," he went on. "The head of McDonalds goes to speak to God, and he asks if God would like to do a sponsorship deal, whereby, in the Lord's Prayer, instead of where it says 'give us this day our daily bread,' God changes it to 'give us this day our Big Mac.' Anyway, this guy is offering a load of money, and so God agrees," Harry paused for breath. "Then after, God goes to speak to Jesus and St. Peter and everybody else, and he sits them all down, and says; 'Guys ... I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that for changing a line in the Lord's Prayer, we get fifty million pounds a year. The bad news is ... we have to lose the contract with Hovis.'"
Hermione smiled. "That wasn't a crap joke at all," she said. "It was just ... stunningly average."
"It's nice to know I'm appreciated," said Harry. "Have you heard the one about the box of cornflakes?"
Hermione shook her head.
"I'll tell you next week, it's a serial."
"Harry ..."
"How about the one with the hedgehogs and the Robin Reliant?" asked Harry.
"Harry ... please ..."
"How do you get two whales in a Mini?"
"I don't know," sighed Hermione.
"Drive down the M4!"
"One more joke, and I really will smack you in the gob with that bloody urn," said Hermione. Harry shut up.
They sat in silence for a couple of minutes ... before Harry spoke again.
"What are we going to do all afternoon?" he asked.
Hermione shrugged. "We could sit and admire the view and chat," she said. "We could read some books."
"I'm bored," said Harry.
"You only just finished eating."
"I don't get bored when I'm eating," said Harry. "Besides, I thought you said all the books were racist, or something?"
"Some of them, yeah," said Hermione. "Besides, I don't feel much like reading this afternoon. It's far too hot."
"What we need is a swimming pool," said Harry. "I mean, we have a very nice bathroom, but it just isn't the same."
Hermione nodded. Someone, somewhere in the castle was playing music. "Harry," she said, looking up at him.
"What?"
"Isn't there an old gramophone inside?"
"I think so ... why?"
"Come with me ... I have an idea."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Getting kitted up to meet the dragons seemed to be a very laborious, time consuming process. There was a pair of flame retardant trousers, which came down to just below his knees, and seemed to be made out of chamois leather, the kind Draco had seen Simpkins use to polish the cars at home. Then there were the thick soled dragon hide boots, and then chamois vest ... over which he donned the silvery armour. This hung down to just below his waist, like a breastplate, and then the helmet. He also had to make sure he was carrying absolutely nothing that could possibly catch fire ... which meant no matches, cigarettes, cans of petrol and so on. Draco was not carrying any of these things anyway. Tatiana looked at the bruises on his back with interest, but said nothing.
He checked himself out in their mirror. He looked just like the old pictures he had seen. There was an insignia on his chest.
"What does that mean?" asked Draco.
"That is the Silver Serpent," said Tatiana. "I have one, too. It is the name of the magical society of which we are a part. It was founded many hundreds of years ago by Salazar Slytherin ... and it still exists to this day."
Draco would have said 'cool' ... but he didn't especially think it was anymore.
"You look very dapper," said Tatiana. "Of course, a hundred years ago you would have carried a shield and a sword when you went into battle. Such conventions are rarely observed anymore. Besides, a dragon is such a fearsome weapon, anything more was merely an extravagance. Follow me, Draco."
She led him back out into the room where the dragons were kept. Each of them was dozing on the floor, and each was being continually tended to by the army of workers, ferrying bucket upon bucket of water to the dragons to cool them down. The heat was intense, and Draco found himself sweating profusely underneath the many layers of thick clothing he was now wearing. As they had done before, each and every one of them stopped to stare in their direction. Tatiana spread her arms wide, and motioning Draco to do the same, bowed.
The entire company fell silent.
Tatiana now spoke in Russian ... words which Draco could not understand. As soon as she had finished, the workers down below erupted in a riot of babble, and then scattered. Some of them seemed to be heading for cover ... others were moving heavy chains and manacles around the floor ... still others had erected ladders up the heaving sides of one of the dragons, and were carrying some sort of saddle arrangement up it, which was duly lashed onto it.
"Would you like to wake the dragon, Draco?" asked Tatiana, turning to him.
"How?" asked Draco.
"You must sing to it," said Tatiana. "Any song or tune you like. You can even make one up should you wish. But it must be a beautiful song ... you must not sing of sadness or hardship."
"I can't think of anything," said Draco. "Perhaps you should ..."
"Very well," said Tatiana. "Follow me ... do exactly as I do and you will not disturb them."
"Why mustn't I ..."
"They were all once strong men and women," said Tatiana. "But so fearsome is the heat, so dangerous the work, and so arduous the tasks, most of them are not entirely of their right minds."
"But that's horrible," said Draco, all the while taking care to tread exactly in her footsteps.
"Such is the lot of the dragon carers," said Tatiana. "Believe me ... there are many people who would queue up for such work. They are paid well, and fed. When they retire they will receive a generous pension through your Father's goodness, and will want for nothing."
The workers watched them, beady eyed as they walked slowly across the floor to where their dragon was lying. His tail was swishing gently from side to side ... the hard, club-like end narrowly missing an attendant.
"His name is Bellerophon," said Tatiana. "He is the oldest, and the wisest of our dragons, and the best natured. He is my steed."
Draco reached out a hand to stroke Bellerophon on the head, but an attendant moved to block him.
"Not to touch, Master," he said, in faltering English.
"Ivan is right," said Tatiana. "You are not wearing gloves, and the natural oils present in the skin of humans can potentially make dragons very sick. And should you anger him, he has a bite pressure of nearly fifty thousand pounds per square inch. He could bite through a car as though it was an apple. Dragon riding is not to be taken lightly. It is a vocation, and you must be prepared for it. Ivan, will you help Draco onto Bellerophon?"
Ivan took Draco by the hand, and led him over to the ladder.
"Ivan is our most experienced attendant," said Tatiana. "He has worked with dragons all his life, and he knows Bellerophon."
Ivan was a withered, elderly looking man with a shock of bright white hair, sunken eyes and thin, trembling lips. He was stick thin, and the outlines of his ribs could be seen through his chest ... he walked with a stoop.
"Please to mount the dragon," said Ivan, steadying it. The mighty beast did not stir from its slumber.
Draco put one hand on the ladder, and began to climb it, taking great care not to let himself touch the dragon. The saddle had been fixed into place on the dragon's back ... he noticed there were two seats, and as he assumed he'd be riding pillion, he made for the back one. He curled his feet up underneath him, and held on tightly. The saddle was rising and falling in tune with the gentle breathing of the creature.
Tatiana now walked round to the front of the dragon, and kneeled before it. Ivan watched from a distance. She began to sing. Draco could not tell what language she was singing in ... it didn't sound like Russian, and it certainly wasn't English ... but a finer singer he had never heard. Her voice was beautiful, smooth and emotive. The tune haunting and strangely calming. Draco leaned forwards, and his helmet slipped off. He picked it up again, and jammed it back on his head.
The dragon stirred ... Draco, suddenly terrified, held on to the sides of the saddle as the vast body beneath him began to move. The wings unfurled, and flapped once ... twice, the rush of air felt deliciously cool against his bare arms.
Then, to his amazement, he heard a deep, throaty, rumbling voice.
"Who rides me?"
"Bellerophon ... it is I, Tatiana, and your Master's son, Draco."
"Tatiana. You are welcome," growled the dragon. "Draco bares our Latin name. I can sense his presence. He, too, is worthy to ride."
Tatiana looked up at Draco. "He says it is okay," she smiled at him. "Bellerophon, I will mount you now ... then will you take us out?"
"Where is our destination?" growled Bellerophon.
"I would like you to fly towards the Devil's Spine," said Tatiana. "Then, we shall see."
"Devil's Spine is beautiful," growled Bellerophon, happily. "I shall be honoured to bear you there."
Tatiana walked round to the ladder, and then climbed up onto Bellerophon's back. "You had better move onto the front seat," she said to Draco. "That is, if you'd like to drive."
"Can I?"
"I expect Bellerophon will let you," said Tatiana. "You will need this whip," she handed it to him, and Draco took it, a little uncertainly.
"I didn't know they could talk," said Draco, turning round in his seat.
Bellerophon growled. "I am also fluent in Arabic, Russian, and Turkish. And I can hear every word you say."
"Don't scold ... Draco is just curious," said Tatiana. "Bellerophon. Take flight, if you please."
"Very well," growled Bellerophon. "Hold tight please, Draco."
With those words, and Draco now clinging desperately onto the handles at the side of his saddle, Bellerophon took off ... his vast leathery wings beating slowly and rhythmically, fanning both the riders as they sat astride his back. Draco could hear shouts from the attendants down below, running footsteps, and somewhere, the clanging sound of heavy machinery being operated ... chains rattling, and then bright sunlight flooded the chamber as the heavy doors were heaved open. Bellerophon spread his wings ... and then they were flying properly. Out of the doors ... the ground dropped away, and below Draco could see down into the depths of the gorge, where there was a tiny river, looking insignificant, like a stream, flowing along. He thought he could see movement on the riverbanks.
"Tricorns," growled Bellerophon, as if sensing his thoughts somehow. "They roam freely throughout the gorge ... it is so inaccessible that men rarely tread there, and the creatures may live as they will."
He wheeled around to the right, and now they were flying along the southern flank of the castle, past row upon row of windows, and Draco could see how precarious their position was. If somebody fell out of the window, there was a drop of at least eight hundred feet awaiting them. They flew round a tall tower at the western end of the castle, and then Bellerophon caught an updraft, and they glided slowly upwards into the bright blue sky. Draco could have sworn he spotted people at one of the tower windows, watching him incredulously.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Well," said George, as they watched Bellerophon's vast bulk disappear into the distance. "There was me getting all worked up because a beautiful, blonde saviour was coming our way."
"I thought there were two of them," said Ron. "There was another, smaller one sitting at the front."
"I never knew people could ride dragons," George went on. "I'd love to be able to do that."
Fred looked up. "There used to be such things as Dragon Riders, you know," he said. "They used to work for You-Know-Who."
George gave him a very odd look. "How on Earth do you know that?" he asked.
"You should listen to Charlie when he comes home sometimes," said Fred. "It'd do you a power of good."
"You are not my brother!"
"That, for instance," Fred went on, quite clearly unperturbed at having just been disowned. "That was a Caucasian Black ... they're very rare."
"Where's Caucasia then?" asked Ron.
"It's that little bit in between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea," said Fred. "It must be where we are."
"Fred ... I shall tell Percy you're acting your age!" threatened George.
"Oh grow up, you silly sod," said Fred. "We're probably in imminent danger of our lives ... and all you want to do is lark around!"
"That is so not true!" scowled George. "I can be just as serious as you about this bloody shambles. And how come they still haven't brought us any lunch?"
"Is that all you think about?" asked Fred. "Where you're next meal is coming from?"
"Better than moping around the room going; 'oh my God, we're going to die'," snapped George.
"Well fine then," said Fred. "We'll see what ends up being more important. Ron ... I trust I have your full support in this unpleasant business."
Ron said nothing.
"Ronald ... are you listening to me?" snapped Fred. "Are you on my side, or not?"
"Don't listen to him," snarled George. "He's just upset because he can't take being the loser!"
"Ignore your so called brother," said Fred. "He's just upset because secretly he knows that he's peddling a load of balls."
"Oh shut up!" yelled Ron, his face going bright purple. Fred and George stopped staring daggers at one another, and looked up.
"We're trapped, okay?" Ron went on. "Live with it! If you keep bloody arguing, someone is going to get hurt ... and it isn't going to be me! Just calm down. Something will come ... something will get us out of this mess."
"That's easy for you to say," murmured George. "I think we should rush the guards, then run for it. There's cars outside, Fred can drive!"
"We could try," said Fred. "There's nothing to lose."
"You saw the guards," said Ron. "They have guns and stuff. We'd not have a chance."
"I reckon we would," said George. "We'll have the element of surprise! We can overcome them."
"We don't have any clothes apart from these ... things," said Ron. "We don't even have any shoes. We'll be massacred."
Fred shook his head. "I think not," he said. "I have a cunning plan. Now listen very carefully ... I shall say this only once."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Bellerophon set down atop one of the peaks. Draco, when he finally plucked up the courage to open his eyes found himself looking out over a stunning vista, rocky crags stretching away into the distance ... deep, forest-filled valleys.
"This is Devil's Spine," growled Bellerophon. "We shall not be disturbed here."
Tatiana said to Draco. "If you want to take charge of a dragon ... you must first bond with it. That means you must establish a link ... a pathway of thoughts. It is not too difficult. Bellerophon ... will you help?"
"It means I will no longer be bonded to you, Tatiana," growled Bellerophon. "Are you sure this is what you want?"
Tatiana nodded. "You knew this day must come Bellerophon. You know your destiny is to be Draco's."
Draco pricked up his ears. "No ... really, that's okay," he said.
"Draco ... he is yours already," said Tatiana. "He was born on the same day as you, to within an hour. I am merely his guardian until you are deemed fit to claim him. Your Father has decreed this time has come ... otherwise you would not have been brought here."
"She is right, Draco," said Bellerophon. "It has always been my destiny to serve you. Even I knew this day must come. Well ... Tatiana ... it has been a great pleasure."
"For me too," said Tatiana. "I have enjoyed it greatly, these last sixteen years."
"Tatiana," said Draco. "Please, honestly, I don't want ... I mean, I'll be going back to Hogwarts soon ... where would I keep him?"
"Draco ... you must take him," said Tatiana. "Father has decreed it to be so. This is my present to you ... an everlasting token of my love for you."
Draco turned round in his saddle. "What did you say?" he asked.
"Draco," she removed her helmet. "Do you truly not recognise me? Look closer."
Draco obeyed. He stared right into her eyes ... wondering what he was looking for. Her eyes were a cold steely grey, a mass of shimmering silvery blonde hair, like his, atop her head. She looked ... she looked.
"Mother," he said. "You look just like my Mother."
"Look closer," whispered Tatiana, leaning so close to him that their noses were almost touching. "Who else do you see?"
Draco saw it, in a flash ... there was something, a spark in her eyes.
"Me," he breathed.
Tatiana nodded. "Did you never know, Draco, that you are a twin?"
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"No ... take your hands off, please?"
"I said I don't want any!"
"Let me through ... I'm a British citizen!"
Gwyneth Jones, her old rucksack from her student days slung across her back, fought her way through the crowd of vendors besieging the front of the Terminal Building. The decision she had made had been a tough one ... she had agonised over it, before deciding that her hunch must surely be correct ... they must surely have been taken here. It had taken some persuading to make Professor McGonagall take her side, and as for Dumbledore, she had not even told him. Still, as she had told herself time and time again on the flight ... Snape was at Hogwarts ... Snape was a teacher ... surely he could help out.
She had packed a few things into her bag, and left Hogsmeade on the London train, with the intention of catching a plane to Azerbaijan. The savings she had left over from her days at the Institute had bought her passage as far as Baku ... where she had arranged to meet an old friend from university, who now worked for the Azerbaijani State Department of Magic, at the Baku Sheraton.
She flagged down one of the incongruous bright yellow Ladas that served as taxis to take her into the city centre ... a thirty minute hair raising ride on a newly built expressway, past the drab, grey, Soviet-era apartment blocks, dodging ancient trucks belching choking diesel fumes into the atmosphere, and the occasional bus. Gwyneth sat on the back seat, surrounded by her bags, clinging on for dear life, and occasionally offering up a muttered prayer.
The Sheraton turned out to be an unattractive building on Baku's seafront. It was separated from the sea itself by a four-lane dual carriageway, along which traffic poured ceaselessly. There were families relaxing on the beach on the other side of the road, and far out at sea, the faintly surreal spectacle of the oil rigs and pipelines supplying the coastal refineries.
Gwyneth left her bags in her room, and went straight downstairs to the bar to see if her friend had turned up yet. To her surprise, he had, and was sitting at the bar, nursing a glass of whisky. He looked up as she came in.
"Gwyneth!" he said, rising to his feet and enveloping her in a hug so tight she felt she could not breathe. "Long time no see ... how are you?"
"I'm ... fine, Ishmael," lied Gwyneth. "A little shaken up, perhaps."
"Ah .. yes, quite understandable," said Ishmael. "You ... believe you have a theory for me?"
Gwyneth nodded ... she sat down on a stool next to him, and ordered a double vodka. "I was thinking," she said. "Tell me what you know about Dragon Riders."
Ishmael raised his eyebrows. "They were an elite sect, linked to the Silver Serpent cult back in the seventies ... before they fell in with You-Know-Who, who used them for nefarious purposes. They were all captured and put on trial after You-Know-Who's downfall."
"Didn't they used to ride Caucasian Blacks?" asked Gwyneth. "You know ... really big dragons, vast wingspans."
Ishmael nodded. "They were based up in the highlands," he said. "You-Know-Who was able to use them for long range attack missions against our side."
"Tell me," Gwyneth went on. "Have there been any reports, of anything, any kind of unusual aerial activity, coming out of the highland regions?"
Ishmael looked thoughtful for a moment, then he said. "What kinds of reports, specifically?"
"Dragon type reports ... villages torched, murders, you know, like in the old days."
Ishmael continued to look thoughtful. "Now that you come to mention it," he said. "About fifteen months ago. It was in the International Magical Tribune ... something about an entire Muggle village razed to the ground from the air."
"Where?" asked Gwyneth.
"A tiny place, up in the mountains," said Ishmael. "I think it was called Zyrnel. Fifty people made homeless. The government kicked up quite a stink about it ... but Zyrnel is in Naxcivan ... and that's too far away for them to really bother with. I think nothing more came of it. There is enough trouble in Nagorno-Karabakh, and the Armenians control most of the area. It is a virtual war zone, nobody goes there ... very isolated, wild country. If somebody was getting up to something in Azerbaijan, Naxcivan would be the place to do it."
"Naxcivan," said Gwyneth. "That's where the note said."
"Note?"
"Ishmael ... I am here, somewhat incognito, because I want to track down some people who have been kidnapped ... my ... well, you remember Sirius?"
Ishmael nodded. "Well," he said. "Did he not end up in Azkaban?"
"Sirius is one of them, and yes ... he did. He's innocent though, and he's out now, working at Hogwarts with me," said Gwyneth. "The others are students, from Hogwarts ... Hermione Granger, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy."
Ishmael raised his eyebrows. "Harry Potter has been taken?" he said. "Then the situation is indeed grave. The name Malfoy rings a bell too. I believe the family owns property in the area."
"Property?"
"A substantial estate, actually," said Ishmael. "Several hundred hectares of land, in some of the most hard to reach terrain in the country ... up in the Zangezurskiy Mountains, in Naxcivan, near the Armenian border. Nobody knows what is going on up there ... Malfoy is very secretive, but the business seems to be legitimate ... some sort of research project, financed, as far as we can make out, by very powerful Magical connections in the United States. You have heard of the Silvermann family?"
Gwyneth nodded. "They control stakes in several large Muggle companies," she said.
Ishmael nodded. "And they are pouring money into Malfoy Incorporated Industries," he said. "Whatever Malfoy is getting up to in the mountains, he is certainly being funded well."
"Suspicious," said Gwyneth. "Ishmael, do you think there is any possibility that Malfoy may be training Dragon Riders?"
"I suppose ... it could be done," said Ishmael. "There are plenty of Caucasian Blacks up in the mountains. Around five hundred, I believe, not that anybody has ever been able to do an accurate count."
"That's what I suspected," said Gwyneth. "Ishmael ... I need to get to Naxcivan, and quickly. I believe time may be short."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Ron gave the bell pull a sharp tug, and somewhere, they could hear the sound of it ringing in the distance. He gave Fred and George, who were standing behind the door with the large shield from the wall, a thumbs up. Then he jumped down from the bed, ran over to the wall, and took down the spear. It was very bendy and whippy in his hands. The metal tip struck the floor with a harsh clang, causing all three boys to jump.
"Keep it down," hissed George. "We don't want to let them think there's anything wrong."
Ron nodded, and hoisted the spear up onto his shoulder, imagining as he did so how it might have been used in the past ... perhaps by a Zulu tribesman, defending his homeland ...
"Quit daydreaming and hold the spear already," whispered Fred. Ron could hear footsteps outside, and the sound of someone talking loudly in Russian. Next thing, the jangling of keys, and the rattling of the lock.
"Ready?" whispered Ron. The others nodded.
The door swung open, and Leonid, the man who brought them their meals, stepped into the room.
"What can I do for ..." he was cut short by Fred and George, who slammed the shield down on his head. There was a sickening crunch, and Leonid fell to the floor, quite unconscious.
"We'd better tie him up," said Fred. "Ron ... is there anything we could use?"
"Bedclothes," said Ron, dropping the spear in his haste. He tugged the sheets off the bed, and with a great deal of effort, they succeeded in tearing them to strips, with which they then proceeded to tie up Leonid.
"He's carrying a dagger," said George, tugging it free from the man's belt. "We can use that."
Ron finished binding the man's hands together, and stood up to admire his handiwork. "That should keep him busy for an hour or so," he said.
"Come on then," said Fred, grabbing him by his arm, and pulling him from the room.
They descended the spiral staircase to the bottom of the tower ... where they found another door, mercifully unlocked. Ron pushed it open slowly. The corridor was deserted. Treading on tiptoe, they moved slowly along it, taking care to keep flat against the walls. Somewhere nearby, music was playing very loudly.
They turned a corner, and found themselves walking along a balcony, surrounding a pleasant looking courtyard, with fountains playing quietly in the bottom, and small trees. The music was slightly louder here.
"This is rather nice," said George.
"Shut up," said Fred. "We don't want to be seen."
Ron, however, had turned a sickened shade of white. He was pointing to something on the other side of the courtyard. Fred and George followed his finger.
"Too late," he said. "I think we already have been."
There was a man sitting on a chair, outside one of the doors, and he appeared to be staring right in their direction.
George shook his head. "No," he said, pointing. "Don't be daft ... he's asleep."
"Should we see if he ... perhaps he can help us?" asked Ron.
"Don't be so bloody naïve," said Fred. "He might have another one of those daggers though ... we can always use a couple of extra weapons."
They crept round to the other side of the balcony. He was snoring quite loudly ... and sure enough, there was a dagger placed on the floor at his feet.
"Silly sod," said Ron, picking it up. There was also a bundle of keys dangling from his hand, jangling slightly as they swung from side to side.
Now they heard footsteps, down in the courtyard below ... shouted orders. All three boys froze ... had the alarm been raised? Or was this something different?
"What do we do?" hissed Fred.
George smiled. "We duck into a room and wait for them to go past," he said.
"Well, hurry up then," said Ron. "It looks like they're coming upstairs ... oh hell ... George ... hurry up, they're Death Eaters."
George's face paled. He pushed the door to the room the man was guarding ... but it would not open. It was locked.
"Grab the keys!" squeaked Ron. He could hear their footsteps on the stairs now. They were coming up.
Fred snatched the keys from the guard's hand, and tossed them to George who selected a key at random, and shoved it rudely into the lock. Miraculously, it opened ... the door swung open, and they crowded inside, slamming the door shut behind them, they leant against it, breathing heavily.
"What the hell?" a voice said. It was a voice they recognised well. Ron, Fred and George looked up.
"You might have a bit more consideration," said Hermione. Harry had collapsed in her arms.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"I can't have a sister," said Draco. "I would have known about it."
Tatiana shook her head. "I didn't know I had a brother until a few months ago," she said, smiling. "Father told me you would be coming to stay for a while. He told me we were very much alike."
"He never told me anything," said Draco. "He hates me ... that's why."
Tatiana shook her head. "You know that isn't true," she said. "Nothing can ever make a Father hate his son. Father loves you very much ... as he does me. You know that he would do anything for you?"
"You don't know the half of it," said Draco, glowering.
"Don't look like that," smiled Tatiana. "You are very handsome ... I don't want an ugly brother."
Draco grinned. "How come," he began, "how come you live here then?" he asked.
"Father did not want twins," said Tatiana. "The Malfoys have only ever had sons ... for the last fifty generations there has been only a male bloodline ... only sons. The purest bloodline in Europe ... undiluted since the days of Slytherin himself. Look at our family tree ... you will see I am right. When we were born, he was consumed with shame ... and he could not look at me. He knew he must love me, as he would love you, but he could not risk the shame of the family. That is why he sent me here, and I was raised by nursemaids. He came to visit every so often, he bought me lovely gifts, and he always told me how much he missed me."
"He was lying," said Draco. "He's a hateful man! I hate him."
"Draco, please don't say things like that," said Tatiana, reaching forwards to put her hand on his shoulder. As she touched his skin, Draco felt suddenly warm inside, as though something beautiful and life giving was flowing into him. "He may have a temper, but you know what he does is best for you, and he thinks only of your future."
"Yeah, my future as a Death Eater," said Draco. "That's why he brought he here ... to join his soppy little secret society."
Tatiana shook her head. "No, Draco," she said. "That is partly the reason ... but he brought you here that you might find your vocation. He brought you here that you might become like me, a Dragon Rider."
"And what do Dragon Riders do?" snarled Draco. "Fly about torching villages ... murdering people? Well, I don't know what I want to do with my life yet ... but I'm damn sure I don't want to be a murderer."
"You do not want to serve your Father?" asked Tatiana, her voice suddenly crestfallen.
Draco shook his head.
"What has he done ... to put such sadness and contempt in you, Draco?" asked Tatiana, leaning forwards, her voice suddenly full of concern.
"He hurt me," said Draco. "A lot."
"How do you mean?"
"Beatings and such," Draco paused. He could feel the gentle rise and fall of Bellerophon's breathing beneath him, and he knew the dragon was listening to him. He looked up into Tatiana's eyes ... the more he looked at her ... the more of himself he saw in her.
"That is wrong," said Tatiana. "Do you speak the truth? Is that where the bruises I saw came from?"
"Of course," said Draco.
"No," said Tatiana. "He should not have done that. You are right. I am sorry, Draco ... he must have hurt you greatly for you to have turned against him so much."
"He never ...?"
"He has never so much as had a cross word for me," said Tatiana. "I have always seen him as the kindest, gentlest man. He helps me when he is here. He gives me things to do. It was he who suggested I train as a Dragon Rider."
Draco struggled to avoid her gaze. "You believe me, don't you?" he asked.
Tatiana nodded. "I always believe you," she said. "I know when you are telling the truth. Do you not feel our bond?"
Draco shook his head.
"Muggle twins have an exceptionally strong telepathic bond," said Tatiana. "Magical twins, like us, have an even stronger link. We know some of each other's thoughts, Draco ... at least, I know yours. You are telling the truth."
"I'm sorry," said Draco.
"There is nothing whatsoever to be sorry about," said Tatiana. "For a Father to beat his son, that can never be right. Perhaps I should speak to him ..."
"Don't," said Draco. "It won't help."
"It might do," said Tatiana. "He has always listened to me. Bellerophon ... what say you?"
The dragon shifted his weight underneath them, causing them both to grip onto the sides of the saddle for fear of falling off. Then he spoke. "I too believe Draco," he growled. "We are linked now. He speaks the truth, and it pains me to know it."
Draco smiled. "Thank you, Bellerophon," he said.
"I suppose you would like to return to the castle?" began Tatiana. "We can always begin your lessons another day."
"I won't be here long," said Draco. "Let's do it now."
Tatiana looked somewhat doubtful, as though she was seriously considering flying them straight home. Bellerophon, on the other hand, growled. "It is well. Draco, listen to my words, and pay great heed to them, for wise is the counsel of dragons. If you wish to fly me, you must know me first."
"How do I do that?" asked Draco.
"You must establish your part of the bond," said Bellerophon. "I am already linked to you in mind ... I accomplished this whilst you talked. Now you must do the same?"
"How?" asked Draco. "Tell me how."
"Close your eyes," said Bellerophon. "I want you to recover the memory of your birth."
"I can't remember that!" scoffed Draco, opening his eyes hurriedly. "Nobody can!"
"You can," said Bellerophon. "Everybody can. Remember the night your subconscious spoke to you in a dream?"
"How can you possibly know about that?" asked Draco.
"As I said, I have established my part of the Rider's bond," said Bellerophon. "I know you ... and now it is your job to do the same. Your subconscious told you that the brain is infinitely more powerful than you give it credit for ... indeed, you humans use barely ten percent of its capacity, whereas we dragons use ninety. Believe me, Draco ... you can recall the moment of your birth. It is within you. You have only to unlock the memory. Close your eyes, and try."
Draco took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, trying desperately to think, to remember. But it was no good. There was no memory ...
He felt a blinding white light around him, and he opened his eyes, but he was not sitting on Bellerophon's back ... he seemed to be curled up, and the light seemed to be getting stronger. Draco knew it was blinding him, but he couldn't close his eyes ... and then the light seemed to swamp him ... as if he was drowning in it. And then he heard the sound of crying, of a pair of lungs being used for the first time ... a baby bawling.
Vague shapes were swimming in his head. He could make out something coming closer to him ... a human face. It seemed to be looking at him, and then it spoke.
"Congratulations, Master," it said. "You have a healthy boy."
Other vague faces were moving around ... he felt cold, and somebody was wrapping him in a blanket.
"Is he all right?" another voice asked.
"Toes and fingers ... all correct," said the first voice. "You are lucky ... for a child to be born so early and survive ... we must incubate him directly."
He felt safe ... safer than he had done before. But as he tried desperately to hold onto the memory, he felt it fading, and he felt himself once again bathed in the warm Asian sunlight. He opened his eyes. He was lying flat on his back on the saddle, with Tatiana watching over him.
"It is done," said Bellerophon. "The most primal of memories. Draco ... the capacity was within you. You had only to unlock it."
Draco sat up, rubbing his head, which felt oddly sore. "Is that it?" he asked.
"The bonding process is complete," said Bellerophon. "See the world through my eyes."
As he said those words, Draco felt something inside him shudder ... and next thing he knew, he was looking at the world anew, through Bellerophon's senses. A cacophony of sights, sounds and smells. It was amazing.
"Cool," he breathed.
"That will do for now," said Bellerophon. With a jolt, Draco found himself back in his own body. "It is possible for humans to suffer sensory overload if I do that too much. In time you will get used to it."
"What would happen if my senses did overload?" asked Draco.
Bellerophon growled again, and a jet of fire spewed forth from his nostrils, setting light to a clump of bushes about twenty feet away. "You would die," he said. "To truly control me, to truly know me, you must ride the dragon's mind, as well as the body. It is something I shall teach you. For now, we shall stick to the basics."
"So how do I do it normally?" asked Draco. "Do I use the whip or something?"
"I wouldn't," said Bellerophon. "The whip is for ceremonial purposes. Anybody who tries to harm a dragon would not live long."
Tatiana leant over him. "Draco," she said. "I want you to fly Bellerophon over to that other peak, in the distance, across that valley."
"But how?"
"Think it, Draco ... think yourself there."
Draco closed his eyes again, and the movie camera of his mind's eye showed Bellerophon lifting off the ground. He opened his eyes again. Bellerophon was hovering a few feet above the ground, his wings beating in the air.
"Very good," smiled Tatiana. "Don't stop now. Imagine, without closing your eyes."
Draco tried to visualise Bellerophon flying through the air ... and to his amazement, found that he could ... and then Bellerophon started to fly ... he soared upwards into the deep, aquamarine sky, all the while Draco thinking him higher.
"Here is an updraft," growled Bellerophon. "Hold very tight, this may be a bit turbulent."
The dragon's whole body seemed to shake as Bellerophon's wings caught the wind, and now they were gliding ... a thousand feet or more above the towering peaks. Draco could see the towers of the castle in the distance, and far below, what looked like the remains of a village.
"What happened there?" he called out.
"Forest fire!" Tatiana yelled back.
Bellerophon banked sharply so as to give them a better view. There were charred and ruined houses, shops, and what looked like a school. In the streets were battered and gutted cars. It couldn't have been home to more than four or five hundred people, tops. Draco wondered what had become of them all.
"It was called Zyrnel," said Tatiana, as Bellerophon flew skywards once more. "A great tragedy ... the people were re-housed, and chose not to return to their village."
"They didn't want to come back?" asked Draco, puzzled ... to him it was incomprehensible how anybody could not want to live in a place so beautiful.
"There is no work for them here!" called Tatiana. "It is better for them to live in Naxcivan itself, where there is work, than up here in the mountains. Here life is beautiful, but life is also hard."
Draco turned his gaze away from the ruined village. He could see sheep grazing on a nearby hillside.
"Someone still lives here!" he yelled.
"That is Hamud!" shouted Tatiana. "He is an old shepherd, and he remains here only because he has nowhere else to go. He sells the wool to Father, for cloaks and things. I don't see him walking with the sheep today."
Bellerophon again banked so that Draco could see. The sheep took fright and scattered as the dragon's shadow passed over them.
"Once our kind would have killed and eaten those sheep," growled Bellerophon. "They are stupid ... woolly minded, and not hard to catch. But now such times are past, and we are fed well by our human friends."
There was a little wooden hut standing isolated on the ridge, which Draco assumed must be the shepherd's home. There was no sign of life however. Tatiana looked slightly worried.
"It would be bad if something had happened to Hamud," she said. "He is our eyes and ears ... if the government comes up here."
They flew over the top of the ridge, and now were flying very low over what looked like some sort of plantation ... there were rows of little plants spread out beneath them.
"Does he grow vegetables too?" asked Draco.
Tatiana shook her head. "No ... this is Father's land, and his crop. Hamud warns us if government men are coming up here, or people from the Magical Authorities. This crop is not entirely legitimate."
Draco stared at the little plants. "What are they?" he called. He had a feeling he already knew.
"Funny you should ask!" replied Tatiana. "That is Dracaena Draco ... technically, it is illegal, but such things are relative in these parts. Now come, Bellerophon. Home again!" * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
They laid Harry down on the floor, and brought him round by patting him gently on the cheeks a few times. Finally, he opened his eyes, blinking.
"Can you hear me?" asked Ron.
Harry blinked again. "Yeah ... no problems in that respect," he said. He reached out his hand, and gingerly touched Ron's face. Ron did not react.
"You're real?"
Ron nodded.
"Not some sort of ghost then?"
Ron shook his head.
"What about Fred and George?"
"They're as real as they'll ever be," said Ron, who was kneeling on the floor next to him. Hermione, Fred and George stood over them, looking concerned.
"I'll be fine," said Harry. "Stop faffing about and try and think us out of this place."
"That's just it," said Hermione. "We ... we don't actually know where we are," she looked slightly concerned by this. "We know we're in Lucius Malfoy's castle, but we don't actually have a clue where his castle is. Well, we do, but this doesn't look much like Gloucestershire. And you'll excuse me for saying that Chipping Sodbury probably isn't just over the next ridge."
"This is Malfoy's pad?" asked Ron. "Wish I'd known that ... I'd have set fire to the place, burned it to the ground. It's more than that stinking family deserve," he almost spat this last sentence.
Hermione shook her head painfully, remembering, of course, that Ron had no idea of the events that had transpired since his disappearance.
"Don't knock Draco too hard," said Harry. "There's more to him than meets the eye."
"I bet," snapped Ron.
"Don't be cross, Ron," said Hermione. "Lucius Malfoy is still evil ... I think. We don't even know that Draco's here. We can still, well, commit arson if you really want to."
"Won't do us much good," said Fred, who was standing in the doorway to the balcony, surveying the remains of their lunch hungrily. "Once we have escaped, assuming we can without being annihilated by all these Death Eaters that seem to be crawling around the place. We are still faced with the slightly tricky problem of exactly where we are ..."
"There are Death Eaters?" asked Hermione.
"We just saw some outside," said Ron. "We only just managed to avoid getting caught by them as well."
"That puts a new complexion on matters," said Hermione. "We're stuck in some castle in the middle of nowhere, and there are Death Eaters roaming the place. We're basically buggered to kingdom come, aren't we?"
"Yup," said George.
"Well," Fred interrupted. "Not entirely. We think we might be somewhere in Caucasia."
"And just where is Caucasia?" asked Harry, sitting up and rubbing his head, which was aching from all the wine he had been drinking.
"Fred is bluffing," said George. "He doesn't have the foggiest where we are ..."
"We're somewhere in between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea," said Fred.
Hermione sighed. "Like that really helps," she said. "That puts us in any one of about five countries, most of which are at war with all the others."
"Well ... at least we have a vague geographical idea," said Fred. "And as the sun set out that way," he pointed to the west. "Then that must be the way home."
"So we follow the setting sun," said Harry. "Then where?"
"Well, eventually we get to the Black Sea," said Fred. "Then, if memory serves ... it's Turkey, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, Germany, Austria, France, England ... problem solved."
"Memory doesn't serve," said Hermione. "It's Austria, Germany ... actually ... sorry," she added, upon catching the withering look upon all their faces. "And how exactly are we supposed to get across six countries without any money and without speaking the language? Especially with you three dressed in those see-through nightgowns."
"They are not see-through!" protested Ron. "And might I remind you, Hermione, that we still hate you for running off with Ferret Boy?"
"Ron, shut up for one second!" shouted Hermione. "One ... they are see through ... two, nice pants ... three ... I'm not going into the whole Draco thing. I'm worried about him, and if you knew half of what Harry and I do, you'd be worried too."
"So you're talking to her are you?" snarled Ron.
Harry nodded. "Well, yeah," he said. "She was teaching me to dance, actually ... and we can see your underwear, incidentally."
"Like you'd be looking! I do not believe this!" shouted Ron. "You're both sleeping with Draco! How long has this been going on?"
"I resent that comment!" yelled Harry, getting to his feet. "I have not been shagging Draco Malfoy."
"Says you!" retorted Ron.
Hermione waded in, forcing both boys apart. "You both should be ashamed of yourselves!" she yelled. "You should be grateful you aren't dead right now!" she turned on Ron. "And you need to learn some respect for your friends!"
"Excuse me for breathing!" snarled Ron. "I've been blown up, knocked around, had both my legs broken, and I've been cooped up in a tower room for the last two days with Laurel and Hardy here!"
"We resent that comment, too," piped up George. "Can I ask you guys to stop biting ..." but he was drowned out by Harry.
"Well, I've not been having a rosy time of it either!"
"What ... not even with your sordid threesomes?" asked Ron. "I bet Draco is brilliant at ..."
"Shut the hell up!" screamed Fred.
All three of them fell silent.
"Might this be the time to remind you guys that there are Death Eaters outside, and that we are making just a teensy bit of a racket in here?" hinted George. "Now ... I'm not saying we should all kiss and make up ... in fact, I reckon if we ever get home, we've all got some talking to do, but please, let's at least try and put our heads together on this one?"
"That's what I've been trying to say all along," said Hermione. "Five heads are better than two."
"And three in a bed ..."
"Shut up, Ron, before I hex you," said Harry.
"This is all bloody Draco's fault," snapped Ron. "I'd like to wring his scrawny neck ..."
"Ron ... pipe down," said Fred. "Just ... just don't bloody talk to one another for a while. Please, for all our sakes?"
"I'll speak to you later," snarled Ron.
"Happy to," retorted Harry.
"Ron ... cool it," said Hermione. "We still haven't worked out how we're going to escape from this place."
"Did I hear we ... what would I be doing escaping with a couple of sluts like you?"
Harry let out a roar of rage, and flung himself forwards, catching Ron a glancing blow to the side of his head. Both boys went tumbling to the floor, Harry atop Ron.
"Say ... that ... again!" yelled Harry, banging Ron's head repeatedly on the floor.
"Bugger off and die, Potter!"
"I might just do that!" snapped Harry. Hermione leapt forwards, and tried to grab him around the waist. "Leave it, Hermione ... this is personal," at which point Ron kicked him hard in the groin, and he collapsed, gasping in pain.
Fred and George grabbed Ron by the arms, and hauled him to his feet.
"Go and stand in the damn corner, Ron!" yelled George. "You're a bloody liability!"
"His fault," snapped Ron, sticking his middle finger up at Harry. "Rent boy!"
"Jealous bastard!"
Hermione leant over him. "Calm down, Harry ... please."
"What do you mean calm down? He's just rendered me impotent!" snapped Harry.
"Please ... you're not helping matters either," said Hermione. "We need to work this out. We've got to get out of this place ... if it's the last thing we ever do. If we don't get out of here you aren't going to get the chance to have sex anyway."
Fred and George had steered Ron into the bedroom, and were talking to him, much as a trainer would talk to a boxer between rounds.
"You can't let this bother you," said George. "We have to throw in our lot together. Just work it out. You can knock seven bells out of Harry when we get home ... just see if we care. But for now ... just cool off. You're putting us all in danger."
"It's his fault," said Ron, sulkily. His nose was bleeding from where Harry had punched it. George staunched the flow with the sleeve of his robes.
"It isn't Harry's fault," said George. "Get over it Ron. I don't like it much either, but I'm not about to start beating people up over it."
"He needs a good walloping," said Ron.
"No, he doesn't. Just snap out of it."
Hermione had helped Harry to his feet. "Just say you're sorry to him," she said.
Harry fumed. "Don't want to."
"Harry ... nobody is going to want to have anything to do with you if you carry on behaving like a twelve year old kid," said Hermione. "Now are you going to shake hands?"
"Maybe," said Harry. He shook her off, and approached the bed. Ron looked up.
"See what you did?" he asked.
"Ron," began Harry. "Look ... let's ..." he got no further, for Ron had lashed out again, and punched him square on the nose. Harry yelled in pain, and lunged at Ron, knocking him backwards over the bed and onto the floor. They disappeared. Hermione looked to Fred and George. The covers fell off the bed on top of them both, muffling the sounds of the fight.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Gwyneth pulled her rented Hyundai over to the side of the road, and got out. The afternoon was still blisteringly hot, and not having much money to spend on luxuries, she had foolishly chosen a model with no air conditioning. She leant against the roof of the car, and unfolded her map. Ishmael had warned her off making this journey ... the country roads weren't safe for a woman on her own, he had said. Better to wait until I can accompany you. Gwyneth, however, had chosen to ignore his counsel ... besides, there might not be time to waste. Lives might be in imminent danger.
Now she found herself on a deserted, potholed, two lane highway, about eighty kilometres from Baku ... and still another three hundred to go before she even had to cross the section of Armenia that stood between her and the province of Naxcivan. The map proclaimed her to be somewhere in the vicinity of a sizeable town called Ali Bayramli. The physical evidence of any form of human settlement continued to elude her, however.
She opened one of the bottles of Coke she had bought with her, and drank gratefully. Many years of having to work closely amongst Muggles, especially with those who had accidentally seen a dragon, had given her an almost innate sense of their cultural mores and tastes, and to the casual observer, she could almost have passed as one. It was her dress sense that gave her away however. She was wearing a very long royal blue cloak over her robes ... which made driving rather difficult, and was something she was regretting.
The two teenage motorcyclists who had tried to race her on that stretch of road outside Randzhbar had thought she looked like a Muggle. They had been rather disappointed when she had transfigured their scramble bikes into small donkeys.
Sighing, she got back into the car. She had bought a couple of cheap cassettes from the airport duty free in London, and she stuck these on now, and drove to the music, occasionally popping an Every Flavour Bean into her mouth.
She checked her watch. It was getting on for half past five. She judiciously sped up a little ... it wouldn't do to have to spend the night in the middle of nowhere.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Hermione hauled Harry off Ron, who was now sporting a cut lip and a black eye. Ron tried to lash out again, but Fred held him back.
"Get off me!" Harry yelled, trying to wriggle out of her grasp.
Hermione could stand it no longer ... before she knew fully what she was doing, she had smacked him hard around the face. Harry stopped immediately.
"Ow," he said, blushing very red indeed. "What did you do that for?"
"Because you won't stop pissing about," said Hermione. "Please, Harry ... this is really important, and you and Ron seem to want to prove something, you're going to get us all killed or something."
"Get Ron to apologise to me then," said Harry. "I'm just defending my honour ..."
"Oh, shut up about your bloody honour!" snapped Hermione. "Scrap this whole stupid masculinity thing ... you have nothing to prove to anybody! Ron's just upset, and if you can't understand why that is ... then I don't want to be your friend, Harry."
"Then get him to say sorry," said Harry. "That's all I want."
"Harry ... it so blatantly isn't," said Hermione. "I don't know what the hell you think you want, but you're going the wrong way about getting it. Now ... the rest of us want to get out of this hell hole ... you and Ron are holding us up!"
"Like this is all my fault?" started Harry.
Hermione nodded. "Of course it's all your bloody fault ... how could it not be, with you being you ... having been through what you've been through."
Harry couldn't have looked more shocked if his parents had just walked through the door. "How could you say that?"
"Harry ... I'm sorry, but it's true," said Hermione. "Now we've got to get out of here before something horrible happens, but we need you to help us. Please."
"Get Ron to say sorry!"
"You get Ron to say sorry ... or go and say sorry to him or something. Stop mucking about and do something."
Harry sneered, but he stood up anyway, and slouched over to where Ron was sitting. Ron looked up.
"What?" he asked.
Harry reluctantly stuck out his hand, then turned to look at Hermione, who nodded at him supportively.
"Sorry," he muttered.
Ron took his hand, and shook it. "My fault," he said. "I'm sorry I said that stuff about you and Draco."
"I still don't actually like him ... much," said Harry. "We've not made friends since you ... since you left. We just, talked once or twice, that's all it is."
"That's it?" asked Ron.
Harry smiled, slightly. Ron did the same. He looked up into Harry's eyes, and could see that they were brim full of tears.
"What's the matter?"
"I'm ... the newspaper said you were dead ... I thought you were dead," said Harry. "I was ... I believed them."
Ron bit his lip to stop himself from crying ... he was dimly aware of Hermione, Fred and George looking on. Next thing he knew, Harry was hugging him, and crying onto his shoulder.
Harry pulled abruptly away from his friend. "I'm sorry," he said again. Ron was smiling.
"It's okay," he said. "Look ... more wounds to show off when we get home!"
"More wounds, indeed," said a harsh, drawling voice. All five of them looked up.
Standing in the doorway was Lucius Malfoy ... flanked either side by two masked and robed Death Eaters, who, if they had not been wearing masks, would surely have been grimacing.
"That was a touching display of affection, Harry. One might almost think you were looking for a relationship ... certainly it was marvellously acted. I do hope you haven't been hurting each other, boys," said Malfoy, stepping into the room. Harry noticed with some alarm that he was carrying what looked like a gold topped cane. "That is Vladimir Koschenko's job. We will be most disappointed to learn that you have designs upon his position in this castle."
Harry and Ron both scowled evilly at Malfoy, across whose face a slight grin was playing. "I see the legendary Weasley brothers have done it again," he said. "You have had us running round in circles for the last fifteen minutes wondering where on earth you three had got to. I must say ... I think you made it rather too obvious. If you don't mind me saying so, Ronald, if we had wanted to find you, we would have known where to look."
"Stuff you, Malfoy!" glowered Ron.
Malfoy looked slightly offended. "I really do not think that is the politest way of addressing your host. Poor Leonid is most offended as well ... he wished only to ensure your comfort, and you repay him by knocking him out with a very valuable tribal shield."
"He had it coming to him," snapped George ... he and Fred moved protectively in front of Ron and Harry.
"Devotion to your friends notwithstanding," said Malfoy. "The fact remains that you have disrupted my afternoon, and caused the abandonment of a most important summit meeting I was attending, with your humorous antics. I suggest you behave yourselves ... you have a most important day ahead of you."
"Oh, yeah?" snarled Fred.
"Oh, yeah, indeed," replied Malfoy, maintaining throughout his disconcerting aura of complete calm. "Tomorrow is Draco's birthday ... and we are planning some fun and games to mark the occasion. You are all cordially invited to attend. It should be interesting, to say the least. You must return forthwith to your room, and sleep."
One of the Death Eaters stepped forwards, and beckoned for them to follow. Ron, Fred and George skulked out of the room ... their escape attempt at an end. Ron threw a backwards glance of sheer hatred at Malfoy, who didn't notice.
Malfoy and the other Death Eater advanced on Hermione and Harry.
"And as for you two troublemakers," said Malfoy. "I believe I have already had to warn you once about breaking the house rules. No sneaking around ... no spying ... and certainly no Weasleys. You must both be punished."
He raised his cane above his head, and Harry automatically flung up his left arm to shield himself from the blow, which slammed into him with such force ... he heard a ghastly crack as the bone shattered, and he collapsed to the floor, screaming in pain.
Hermione dropped to her knees by his side.
"You had better come with us, girl," said Malfoy, as the Death Eater hauled Harry to his feet. "You must be made ready for your part in the celebrations. Such a big part you will have ... I feel sure you will enjoy it ... and I feel sure Draco will, too."
Harry doubled up and dropped to the floor again as the Death Eater delivered a crippling punch to his kidneys. Hermione backed away from Malfoy.
"Come now, dear," he said. "You have nothing to fear from me ... nothing at all."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Bellerophon touched down in the fading evening light. Draco heard the sound of the doors grinding shut behind them, and as the last chink of daylight disappeared, and his eyes became used to the darkness, he could see the attendants clustering around Bellerophon with ladders for them and buckets of water for the dragon. Bellerophon growled contentedly.
"You had better get off first," said Tatiana, as the ladder swung into view. A short man Draco recognised as Ivan was holding it in place. Slowly, for his legs were sore through sitting still so long, he got to his feet, and began to descend the ladder, Tatiana following.
"I take it you enjoyed that," she said, dusting herself down.
Draco nodded ... he was still slightly overwhelmed.
"Thank you," he managed to stammer.
"No problem," said Tatiana. "It ... well, like I said, you should think of it as an early birthday present."
"He's ... you're lovely," said Draco, turning to Bellerophon, who was sighing with great relief as the attendants doused him with water. "But where am I going to keep him ... when I go back to England?"
Tatiana raised her eyebrows. "This is your home now, Draco ... why would you want to go back to England?"
"I ... I have, had, friends," said Draco.
"Exactly," said Tatiana, removing her helmet and shaking out her hair. "There is nothing remaining there for you. You would be so much happier here ... can you not see that?"
For the briefest of moments, Draco could, indeed, see what she meant. What was waiting for him back home? Nothing really ... no real friends anymore ... an uncaring Mother ... and if he was truly to become a Death Eater, a fact that he was beginning to become reluctantly resigned to, then there was truly nothing. Then he shook his head. He was not going to become a Death Eater ... he wasn't going to do his Father's bidding ... he wasn't going to allow it.
"Draco? Are you all right ... you look glazed?" asked Tatiana.
"I'll be okay," said Draco. "I just ... feel a bit weird. Too much has happened to me just lately ... it doesn't really seem real."
Tatiana nodded. "A bit of a wrench ... right?"
Draco smiled. "Yeah," he agreed. "You're reading my thoughts again, aren't you?"
"Yes," said Tatiana.
"How come I can't?"
Tatiana shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "I expect ... I hope it will come to you, soon. Perhaps you're just, not used to the idea of having a sister yet."
"Maybe," said Draco. "It's kind of been worrying me."
"Well, at least you don't need to worry about planning your life anymore," said Tatiana. "Father has already done that for both of us."
Draco was just about to say something along the lines of; 'As if,' when he felt somebody's eyes boring into his back, and as though obeying some sort of celestial cue, Draco turned round to see his Father standing at the top of the steps, leaning on his cane. He was smiling.
"Father," said Tatiana. "You came down to see us."
Lucius Malfoy came slowly down the steps, his cloak billowing slightly in the breath of the sleeping dragons. The smile seemed somehow fixed on his face.
"Hello, Tatiana," he said. "Draco. I see you two have been getting to know one another."
Draco scowled. "You never told me any of this ... how come?"
"Draco ... I, could not," said his Father. "I could not have told you ... until you were ready to know. But now you do, and now, we are all together again."
Draco shook his head. "I don't understand you," he said. "You just, completely confuse me," he noticed Tatiana was looking horrified. "Why would you think it right not to tell me? What about Mother ... what does she think?"
"She is aware of the situation, and she agrees that, what we did was for the best, for the benefit of the family as a whole. You must see that what we did was for everyone's good," said his Father ... an imploring look which Draco could never remember having seen before spreading across his face.
"Which family ... your family family, or some stupid, outdated notion of loyalty and honour? What matters to you more, Father ... me, and Mother, and Tatiana ... or what some dead bloke might think?"
"Draco, please," his Father went on. "You must understand ... I have businesses to run, an image to uphold."
Draco turned away. "I don't want to know," he said. "I want to go home."
His Father stepped forwards, and put his hand on Draco's shoulder. "You always were of an independent bent," he said. "I always admired you for that."
Draco huffed, and folded his arms. Tatiana made as if to step closer to him, but their Father waved her back. "I always admired my son ... you were never part of the crowd. You always had to be different."
"So why have you always been so horrible to me?" asked Draco. "Why all ... why all that?"
"I was only doing ... what my Father, your Grandfather did to me a hundred times or more. Draco ... you are no different to me, however much you may want to believe that. I was only ever, trying to raise you as I thought proper, as I thought to be the ... well, the correct fashion."
"Then how come nobody else does it?" asked Draco, still refusing to look at his Father. Bellerophon was observing them out of one sleepy eye, and breathing softly.
"I ... I do not know," said his Father. "Draco ... please. I love you as a son. You're my boy, my heir. How could I not want what was best for you? I know ... I know you think that you do not feel the same way about me ... but I hope in time you will understand. Now will you face me, that we might talk together?"
Draco turned around. "You look like the warrior you are in that armour," said his Father. "Do you remember how you wanted to be a soldier?"
Draco nodded. "Father ... I ..." he began.
"Be still, Draco. I want you to come with me now. I want to show you some things. Tatiana, you may come too."
Draco and Tatiana were led out of the dragons' chamber, and back along the passage which Draco had been brought along earlier that day. They climbed several long, winding flights of stairs, cut out of the solid rock itself, until at length, they reached another, vast chamber. There were huge, towering windows, stretching up to a ceiling so distant it was almost invisible. It looked like a cathedral, except dominating the room, instead of a cross, was an enormous statue of what appeared to be a snake. It was a cobra, reared up, and ready to spit, its collar flaring around its neck. Before the statue stood a raised dais.
"This is the Animation Chamber, Draco," said his Father, sitting down on the steps leading up to the dais. "It is the centre of my operation ... everything hinges on this room ... this place of beauty that I have created, every statue a work of genuine art. Come and sit with me."
Casting suspicious glances at one another, Draco and Tatiana stepped forwards, and sat down either side of him.
"Tomorrow morning, Draco. At the precise moment dawn breaks over this castle ... we shall begin the ceremony."
"What ceremony, Father?"
"The ceremony of your initiation. Last night you were privileged indeed to be presented to my Lord and Master, Voldemort ... and tomorrow you shall join him. Then we shall open the tomb behind us."
Draco turned to look, but saw nothing, save for the statue of the serpent. "Father ... there's nothing there."
His Father was shaking his head. "Look closer, Draco ... what do you see?"
Draco stared at it ... but there seemed to be nothing awry ... it was just a statue of a snake ... a fearsome one, but a statue, no less. "Father ... there isn't anything."
His Father shook his head again. Then he clapped his hands. The floor beneath their feet began to rumble, as though some giant creature was stirring far beneath them. Then Draco heard the cranking, grinding sound of machinery ... and he looked on in awe as the statue sunk into the ground, revealing another room, and one even more beautiful, behind it.
"The ancient tomb of our family," said his Father, getting to his feet, and motioning for the children to do the same. "Many years ago, Draco, our forefathers came from this region of the world ... they were barons and knights under the Russian regime ... they were also powerful sorcerers and great wizards. They built this castle, and it has remained in the family ever since. Some day, I dare say, you will inherit it."
Draco stepped forward into the tomb. The walls were covered with exquisite renaissance frescoes, that somebody had evidently paid a fortune to have done. The floor was of polished marble.
"Once," his Father went on. "It was foretold in this very castle that some day, a Dark Wizard greater than all who had gone before ... greater, though this is blasphemous, than Salazar Slytherin himself, would rise. They foretold he would rise, and would then be defeated, only to rise again and claim the life of the boy who had dared to challenge him. They foretold that the legions of Malfoys buried within this room would rise again, to come to the aid of their master. It is I who am to have this honour ... the honour of raising our family from the dead."
"All of them?" asked Draco, who was standing, a little cautiously, on a large slab set into the floor, upon which was inscribed the following.
'Seek you not the bones of the family that lie around you. Seek instead the spirit, for the spirit is strong.'
Draco suddenly understood. "You mean the Ancestral Rite ... right?"
His Father shook his head. "I refer to the Lazarus Potion."
Draco raised his eyebrows. "There's no such thing."
His Father was shaking his head. "Alas are the young ignorant in the ways of their elders," he said. "There is such a thing ... and I should know, for I have spent the last six years perfecting the recipe in the laboratories, here, within this very castle, we discovered the secret of raising the dead."
"But it can't be done!" protested Draco. "It's a near impossibility ... Snape said so."
His Father smiled. "Ah, yes, Severus Snape," he said. "Well, Snape was partly responsible for the work we have done here. He always was a slimy little swot at school. He had been working on such a thing for some time ... he had only sketched preliminary notes, of course, but he surrendered those to Voldemort ... who in turn gave them to me. It was I who realised that Snape had stumbled across a truly awesome concept, and it was I who completed the work. The potion is now complete, and tomorrow, it will be tested."
"Tested?"
"If we have got it right ... the Malfoy clan will rise once more. Think of it, Draco ... think of them."
Draco tried to imagine all the dreary looking people in the Portrait Gallery back home coming back to life. The concept depressed him.
His Father was speaking again. "But then comes the ultimate test. There is one more piece of the puzzle to fit. Then ... we will perform the sacrifices."
"Sacrifices?"
"Beyond that door," his Father pointed to the far end of the tomb, where there was another set of doors, these ones covered in pure, shimmering gold. "Lies the last resting place of Salazar Slytherin. Engraved upon that door, centuries old, mined from deep within the Earth, are the runes. The runes state that to open the chamber, the blood of Slytherin's heir must be placed in the mouth of that dragon gargoyle."
"Do you have his heir?" asked Draco, pretending to sound interested whilst secretly wishing he could run away from this place. The presence of all his ancestors, buried under the floor of this vast tomb, made him faintly uneasy. It was as though a thousand years of history was sitting on his shoulders, or under his feet, in this case. He noticed that Tatiana had paled considerably.
His Father nodded. "You are his heir, Draco ... Voldemort is his heir ... Tatiana is his heiress ... even I, am his heir."
"How ... fortunate," said Draco, taking a hasty step backwards. A smile spread across his Father's face.
"Do not be fazed, Draco," he said. "I would not sacrifice my son ... not even for the glory and the honour that would bring me."
Draco looked away, he couldn't bear to think about it.
"We will be using just a tiny amount of your blood. To further satisfy the spirits, we will also be using the blood your schoolmates, the Weasleys ... and you will perform that deed, to demonstrate your worthiness to be a part of the Silver Serpent."
Draco backed away. "You sick freak!" he snarled, under his breath. "You've done it again! You expect me to buy this crap …"
Tatiana stepped forward, and put her hand on his arm to calm him. Draco shook it off. "What purpose can this fulfill, Father? Why would you need to do that? Why would anybody?"
"Draco, please understand me," his Father began. "I am only doing what my Master has deemed necessary ... it is for your own good … for our purposes …"
Draco snarled. "For your purposes? What kind of bull is that? That's the lamest excuse I've ever heard. I want nothing more to do with this. I do not want to be your son!"
"Draco ... think of the honour it would bring you ... to be the one who resurrected Salazar Slytherin from the grave. Think of the honour for our family."
Draco was shaking his head. "You disgust me," he said in a low voice. "You make me physically sick. You would kill children to further your aims?"
"I know you shall see clearer in the morning," said his Father.
"Oh no I won't. I want no part in this ... this bloodbath. You unspeakable fiend ... I want out of here. I'm not joining your crappy cult, and I am not killing anything!"
His Father stepped forward. "How dare you," he growled. "How dare you cast a slur upon this most noble of deeds? Do you realise I could strike you down where you stand?"
"Come on then," snapped Draco ... if he had had sleeves to roll up, he would have been rolling them up. "Give me your best shot. Remember ... I went to boxing classes when I was a kid."
"You couldn't take on a six year old," snarled his Father. "I, however, am schooled in over ten ancient martial arts. If you think you are man enough ... hit me ... lay out your Father boy ... and you will see how you cannot escape your destiny."
"Don't do it, Draco," cried Tatiana, lunging forward and trying to grab her brother around the knees ... Draco, however, had stepped forward, and she missed, going crashing to the marble floor of the tomb.
"Go on then," said Draco. "I win ... I walk out of here."
"You have a deal ... and if I win?"
Draco was now standing right up close to his Father. He barely came up to the man's shoulders. He could smell his breath, warm on his face. "If you win. We shall see," said Draco, his calm voice masking the fact that he was very nearly struck dumb with terror.
"Very well," said his Father.
Before Draco could move, his Father had grabbed him round the neck, and his head was trapped between his arm and torso. Then he began to twist. Draco's neck felt like it was about to come clean off. He felt a rush of blood in his head, could hear Tatiana screaming for their Father to stop, and then he fell to the floor ... choking.
"Have we had enough yet, Draco? Are we crying yet? Come on ... I would like to see you cry, it would confirm what I have long feared for you."
Draco whimpered. Next thing he knew, his Father had slammed the toe of his boot hard into his ribs. Draco screamed.
"Father, stop it!" Tatiana was yelling.
Draco could feel bile rising in the pit of his stomach ... he gave a short lurch, and vomited over his Father's boots.
"You vile, putrid, little boy!"
"Father ... I," he winced as his Father trapped his head between his feet. The smell of vomit was overpowering.
"Do you want me to make you lick it up, Draco?"
Draco yelped, and tried to wriggle free, but he could not speak, and then his Father had kicked him again, around the back of the head, and he blacked out.
Tatiana dropped to her knees. "Father?" she asked.
Lucius Malfoy turned to face her. "You were not here," he said, kicking Draco's limp form once more for good measure. "Believe me, Tatiana ... I do it only out of love for my boy. See how he must be educated? See how doubt grows in his mind?"
"It was all true," she said to him. "He ... Father, I know what you did to him. I don't want the kind of man that would do that as a Father."
"Tatiana?"
But Tatiana had turned, tears in her eyes, and fled the room, running as fast as she could away from him.
"Tatiana ... wait!"
Author notes: I am influenced by all sorts of cool and groovy stuff, including, but not necessarily limited to Red Dwarf, Blackadder, Pratchett, Rankin, Douglas Adams and more. I do not own or claim any rights to any of these things