Splendour Falls

Chapter Two: The Darkness Gathers

The worst part about it was the smell, really. From a distance, Harry and Ron could look down at the crumbled ruins of what used to be Ron's house and not feel anything--the heap of ashes and rubble bore little resemblance to the Burrow they knew, and they could pretend for a moment that it was centuries into the future, or some other world entirely. It was an illusion. It was a dream.

But no dream would smell so much like burning. Thick smoke, seeping into everything, what was left of wood and stone, walls and floor and foundation; burnt cloth and food and plastic, shattered glass, the acrid smell of fire that got into the nostrils and lay thick and heavy on top of the lungs. It was hard to breathe, and it made their eyes water, so that it was hard to tell if they were crying, or just making a desperate bid for oxygen.

Two years ago, Ron had written a paper for Divination class about fate and free will. There were parts of your life, he thought, that you made decisions about. Some were innocuous, minor, little things like whether you should study the chapter on trolls or kelpies in the Defence Against Dark Arts book, or whether to duck right or left in a Quidditch game. Some were bigger, life-changing even. Things like whether to try to make friends with the scraggly, skinny, lonely-looking boy on the school train even though you know he's famous. Everybody's going to want to be his friend, and all you have to offer is two older brothers who turn everybody's tongue purple at least twice a term.

And that's where things get fuzzy, hard to pin down. Because there are other things you don't have any say in at all, things that take the direction of your life entirely out of your control. The actions of others, all the decisions your parents or brothers or sister or best friends make that all converge to affect you.

So what if some of the things you thought were decisions, like asking the boy with the scar if he wants to share a compartment with you on the train, weren't really your decision at all, but something set up by Fate or whatever passes for it? Something that was 'meant to happen,' and even though you were both given a chance to reject it, you really had very little choice in the matter at all?

There were so many reasons, really, for the Dark Mark to be hovering above the remains of his house at this particular moment. His father's work uncovering Death Eaters among the Ministry of Magic, the enemies he'd acquired while doing it. His outspoken criticism of the policies introduced by people like Cornelius Fudge and Lucius Malfoy. The whole family's connection to one Harry Potter.

Ron had never entertained the notion, ever, not since that first day on the Hogwarts Express when they were eleven, that he would be better off without Harry. There were times when he'd been jealous, bitter, resentful, when they'd gotten in stupid fights and tried not to speak to each other for days at a time. They always made up, but in quiet ways, they never got teary the way Hermione did sometimes, or made sappy declarations about how they'd be best friends forever and ever. Of course they would, and they knew it. They were stuck with each other as surely as if they were brothers, and that was what gave them the freedom to get angry sometimes. When they made up, it was simple, it was comfortable. They would get tired of not talking, or whatever made them fight in the first place would gradually wear away, and one night, out of the blue, Harry would say "Come have a look at this astrology chart, Ron, would you?" and Ron would lean over his shoulder and make a face and ask, "Don't you think you're overdoing the rabid poltergeist angle just a little?" and that would be the end of it.

So when Harry, rubbing soot out of his reddened eyes and staring pensively down at the remains of the house, started to get that look, the one that said as clearly as any words could have that he was thinking 'this is all my fault, it's because of me,' that guilty expression that meant he was taking responsibility for all the ills of the world again, Ron saw it coming.

"Stop it, Harry."

"Hm?" Silly, really; Ron thought he didn't even notice he was doing it, anymore. It was becoming too ingrained, too natural. He peered at Ron owlishly, his black hair sticking to his forehead. "Stop what?"

"You're getting that 'this is all my fault' look again. It's not. Stop it."

"Oh," said Harry, a little amused and a good deal sad. "I didn't realise. Sorry. It's just--it's your house."

"Yours, too," Ron said, and Harry just nodded.

Contrary to what some people believed, Ron had also never been ashamed of his family. There were times, yes, when he wished there was a bit more money to go around, but when it came down to it, secondhand robes were hardly the end of the world. (Unless one was fourteen, at his first ball, and had lace on his sleeves, that is.) He used to protest when Harry bought him things, it didn't seem fair, made him feel awkward. Then one fall, just before sixth year, he saw his mum hug Harry on the train platform. He saw the way Harry closed his eyes and clung to her, for just those few moments, and how she kissed the top of his head and patted his shoulder, and how, when they pulled away, Harry was blinking a lot and smiling just as much. And Ron realised how much he really did take for granted sometimes, and that when Harry said things like 'it should be your money as much as mine anyway,' that he really felt that way and it wasn't just a line to make Ron feel better. It wasn't even that Harry was extravagant, unless you counted the serious sugar addiction. He saw things Ron needed, or Ginny, and he bought them, and somehow every gift he gave them held an undertone, as if it seeped through his heart and his fingers, that said 'this is for years of silly-looking jumpers and every hug your parents gave me, for the way your mother looks at me when I've been gone all summer at the Dursleys' and the way you all cheer for me in Quidditch games; it's not really enough, it's only a thing after all, but you're my family and I need you to realise it.' And so they did, slowly, gradually, until they could barely remember ever having felt differently.

Hermione's hand touched Ron's arm, paused, and fell away. "We need to go," she said softly, her voice subdued. "Dumbledore's waiting."

****

"What I'm still not sure about," Remus Lupin said wearily, his head slumping onto his arms, "is why now, and why you? I understand you've been working against Fudge and Malfoy in the Ministry, Arthur, but that's been going on for some time now. Choosing today just seems so...arbitrary."

"I can think of a few reasons," Mr Weasley answered, leaning back in his chair. He and Lupin, along with Mrs Weasley, Professor Dumbledore, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, were scattered around Dumbledore's office, all tense and worried. "I just can't pinpoint one. It could be as simple as a warning to me, or they might have really meant to kill us all and just timed it wrong...."

"They could have been trying to kill me, too," Harry said quietly. He was curled around himself, knees pulled up to his chest, in an overstuffed armchair near the fireplace, where a large black dog stretched out on the hearth pretending to doze. "It's not much of a stretch to think I'd be staying with you after graduation."

"The fact of the matter is," Dumbledore said slowly, his eyes half-closed and dull behind his glasses, "that for all we may speculate, we do not know. Nor will we, unless our agents in Voldemort's ranks can find out for us." There was an uncomfortable pause, and Harry thought about Malfoy and Snape, and his fingers clenched and wrinkled his robe. "More pressing for the moment is what to do now. I confess I think it best that you and Molly, Arthur, go into hiding for a time."

"Hiding!" Arthur snorted angrily. "You think we should disappear and leave our children to fight for us? Alone and unprotected?"

"Hardly unprotected," Lupin spoke up gently. "Your children and Harry here are among the most carefully-watched wizards in England, Arthur. All we're suggesting is that you let us watch you, as well."

Mrs Weasley glared at him fiercely. "We've still got one at home, you know. What about Ginny? Where will she go?"

"She'll stay with us," said Ron suddenly. He glanced across the office toward Harry, and they traded a look and a slow nod. "We'll move my things into Harry's room when we get home, we're not unpacked yet anyway. She can have my room until school starts." Mrs Weasley looked about to protest, but he cut her off, gently. "Don't worry, Mum. She can't be much safer than if she's around Harry. And we'll talk to you through Fred and George as often as we can."

"I just don't like her being involved," Mrs Weasley murmured, slumping in her chair. Her eyes were tired, her face lined.

"I'm already involved, Mum." Ginny had been silent through most of the meeting, sitting with folded knees on the floor near the fire, her back against the wall. "You and Dad are, Percy, the twins, Ron, Harry, Hermione--how am I supposed to be kept away from it?" She sighed, massaging her temples through strands of smooth red hair. "Besides, I got mixed up in it years ago. It's a bit late to be trying to hide me away."

Mrs Weasley looked defeated, and Mr Weasley folded her hand into his. "All right then," he said, his voice and posture tired. "Where do you want us to go?"

Dumbledore met Lupin's eyes, and glanced toward the fireplace. "I'm sorry to do this," he murmured, almost to himself. "Sirius? Have you a safehouse for the Weasleys?"

The office went silent, with only Harry's startled gasp to punctuate it. Mr Weasley's face was rigid, Lupin's eyes were wide. Ron just looked worried. The black dog stretched in front of the fire looked up, rose to its feet, and began to change. Its body morphed, stretched, growing taller and less shaggy, to become a tall dark-haired man in a rumpled robe.

"Sirius Black!" Arthur Weasley all but leapt out of his chair, and Lupin rested a restraining hand on his shoulder. "You--what's he doing here--should be in Azkaban--"

"No he shouldn't!" It was Harry whose voice cut across the room like a bolt of lightning, and Arthur, shocked, fell silent. Harry hadn't moved, his face still half-hidden behind his knees. "He never did--what they said he did, Mr Weasley. He's on our side. He didn't betray my parents, and he's the only link to them I have left."

Arthur sank back into his chair, deflated and confused. "This is too much," he said miserably. "Too much." Ron left his chair and moved to stand behind him, resting a reassuring hand on his father's shoulder.

"Trust us, Dad. Please?"

A long, slow, unhappy nod, as Arthur Weasley covered Ron's freckled hand with his own. "All right," he said slowly, his voice thick with defeat. "Where do you want us to go?"

****

It was well past suppertime when Harry, Ron and Hermione finally gathered on the train platform at Kings Cross station, and they were getting hungry. The sun had dipped below the buildings but it was June, and evening's shadows did not yet stretch into the crooks and crevasses of the buildings nearby. Hermione perched atop the larger of her two trunks, a great, worn, leather-covered affair with a collection of travel decals pasted to it that had belonged to her father. The smaller was the simpler Gryffindor-red one she'd had at school the last several years; her swinging foot kept thumping against it.

"You can stop that any time," said Ron. "It's irritating."

"Sorry." She stopped.

None of them were talking, even though there was plenty to be said. Separating for the summer was not strange by itself, but this time they couldn't quite seem to be rid of the knowledge that this time they would not be meeting again on this platform, or buying textbooks and school things in Diagon Alley.

"Going to be a nice trip, I think," said Harry, gamely attempting conversation. "Scenery's supposed to be really pretty."

"I guess so." Hermione shrugged and patted the copy of the A Magical History of the British Isles, vol. 3 on the trunk next to her. "I'll probably read most of the way anyway, but it's got to be better than getting Floo powder in my nose." She frowned suddenly, and Harry felt like he was about to come under attack. "Speaking of getting places, though--didn't you have your Apparation test yet, Harry? I thought you were taking it the same time as Ron."

"I did." He fixed his eyes somewhere in the leather straps binding her trunk shut, but he heard her sigh anyway. "Yes, I failed it. I can't do it. And no, I don't know what I was doing wrong. Before you ask."

"Harry...." Her voice was frustratingly sympathetic, and he glared at her.

"I'm going to take it again, all right? Stop worrying."

"Not even Harry Potter can be good at everything." It was a new voice, and it interrupted their conversation smoothly but seemed to come from nowhere. It was a mellow, candy-coated alto, and the three of them looked around frantically trying to place its source.

It was Ron who cut off their search with a sudden, gruff laugh. "Oh, it's you. Here, Herm--was going to wait for you to find this, but it's awake now, apparently." He picked up A Magical History of the British Isles, vol. 3 and shook it, til the small glass pendant he'd hidden within the pages tumbled into his palm. "Don't be rude," he chastised it, before handing it over to her. Carefully not looking into her face, he added, "My mum thought you'd like it."

"So did Ron," said Harry, because somebody had to, and the tips of Ron's ears turned pink.

"I wasn't being rude," the pendant retorted cheerfully. "Truthful. But if nobody wants to hear what I have to say anyway, I'll just go back to sleep."

Hermione took it from him, the chain pooling in her fingers, and held it up. "It's--I read about these!" Ron snuck a look at Harry, because her voice had taken on that particularly Hermione-ish quality usually associated with libraries and dusty books that made them sneeze when they opened the pages. She smiled broadly at Ron as her fingers fumbled with the chain. "Fasten it for me, will you?"

The train whistle sounded. Ron had an even worse time with the pendant's clasp than Hermione had, but Harry stubbornly refused to help either of them, and he had the feeling neither of them minded quite so much as they meant to. Watching them flirt was fun; he'd made a hobby out of it for the past several years of his life--probably before they'd even realised they were doing it, if truth be told. He'd already given her his going-away present of a QuickNotes Quill. She said she didn't trust the things; he responded that her handwriting had reached an all-time low and her fellow researchers might, at some point, want to be able to read whatever she came up with.

Harry realised acutely that he was really going to miss her.

"Come back and visit," he said suddenly. "Often as you can."

She smiled at him, and hugged him tight. "Of course I will. I'll pop back for your birthday, anyway, won't I? You two take care of each other." He nodded, and promised, and she moved on to hug Ron.

"Take care of yourself, Herm," he said.

"I will." A pause, where neither of them wanted to let go, but weren't quite willing to look like they were holding on. "Thanks again for the book. And the necklace."

Ron grinned awkwardly. "You're welcome. Well. Maybe it'll keep you company on the train or something."

Hermione nodded, and held up her camera suddenly. "Oh! One last picture? Stand together, Ron, Harry--"

The Ron and Harry in the photograph, once it was developed, continued incessantly to wave goodbye.

****

Draco had known he was going to be a Death Eater since he was fourteen. That was the year Lord Voldemort returned to a modicum of power; when he had called his faithful--and not so faithful--back into his fold.

Lucius Malfoy was one of those not-so-faithfuls. Malfoys did not, as a general rule, serve anyone, but they were opportunists, always on the lookout for greater and grander things. And once, a long time ago (relative to Draco's lifetime), Lucius had been impressionable and young and eager.

He hadn't felt, at the time, that he was throwing in his lot with the Forces of Darkness. He was being a leader, a revolutionary, a force for such sweeping change that the wizarding world would be all but built anew. A liberator--and who better than Lucius Malfoy to help lead the magical world into a new and better time? His name would be engraved in the annals of history as one of the great heroes of revolution, like or Joan of Arc or Napoleon or Morgan of Avalon. Far in the future children would learn his name, emulate his haircut or his particular way of walking; young parents would name their babies after him.

All this Draco understood. He had believed it once himself, when he was younger, and in the beginning he had felt very daring, had pictured himself dashing and brave. He was not sure at what point his father had soured, turned to bitterness and racism and arrogance, but there was nothing glamorous about it anymore. The Death Eaters, at their core, were only a self-congratulatory coterie of jaded old men.

Then Draco had seen the Dark Lord for himself. He was fifteen, nearly sixteen, and home for the winter holidays. It was two days before Christmas and he was scouring the manor for his presents. He'd done it every year as long as he could remember; he didn't care what they were when he found them, but it was the challenge that tempted him. He started with the closets, moved on to the secret passages, and ended with the tunnels beneath the building itself.

One of the passages utilised the length of a chimney, stemming from a fireplace in an unused study on the second floor. There was a little ledge just above the entrance to the fireplace, and it was the only spot to stop and take a rest until you got to the top. You could brace your back against one wall and your feet against the other and sit on it, but then the edge of the bricks dug into your seatbones. A more comfortable way involved a sic spectare charm, and you sat sideways on the ledge with your head dangling down. This was more fun for Draco anyway; he liked the way the world looked different upside-down, but not too different--the eyes attempted to correct for the strangeness of vision but couldn't quite manage.

While he was hanging there, that winter before he turned sixteen, he heard voices in the study: his father, and a low, sibilant purr that could only belong to one person. He recognised it intuitively. At first he was annoyed that his father was hiding the Dark Lord in their house without mentioning it--they should have had dinner with him at the very least, introduced him to the family. Lucius would say, "This is my son, Draco," and Voldemort would perhaps commend him on his intelligence, ingenuity, or general good breeding. He would be tall and grand, and Draco would go back to school and see Potter (stupid dull Potter with his ugly spectacles and messy hair and those too-big clothes that hung off him beneath his crisp black school robes), he would see Potter and tell him, "I have seen your enemy, and there is no way you can win."

Crumbs of loose mortar filled a peephole in between two of the bricks. Someone in the history of the house had undoubtedly used it to spy on either guests or relatives; Draco had never felt the need before since the room had gone so long unused. Now he scraped loose some of the dust and crumbled stone and peered through.

Voldemort was not grand. Tall, yes, but gaunt, skeletal, as if he were barely alive. His eyes were dark and his face worn; there was no aristocracy there, no majesty. It was not the face of a leader. Really looking at that face for the first time, Draco wondered if maybe Potter weren't the better of the two after all. It was the expression, really. Voldemort's face held ambition, yes, and a certain desperate ruthlessness, but lacked the conviction that showed so vividly in the set of Potter's mouth when he was angry, the flash of his eyes.

Draco was disappointed in Voldemort.

He was also disappointed in his father. In the Dark Lord's presence Lucius became simpering, self-important, pathetic. Draco had a sudden glimpse of the future. He saw himself in Lucius' place, tasting the acid of servile words and feigned respect. He saw his family not as heroes but forever subservient to this thing, this wizard who had been beaten not once but three times by a child--and now, in this momentary epiphany, Draco understood why. He had always thought it was only bad luck before, or some deviousness on the part of Dumbledore, that kept Potter a step ahead. Bitterness rose in his throat, wet the inside of his mouth, stung his eyes. Draco Malfoy was made for better things than this.

His determination had morphed over time. He tried to confront Lucius about Voldemort once, but was told in irrefutable terms that he wouldn't understand the complexity of the issue and to be quiet, do as he was told, and not bring any further shame to the family name.

Draco did not say, that time, that his losing a few Quidditch matches to Harry Potter could hardly disgrace the Malfoy name more than Lucius was already doing.

When it came to it, that was when he first turned to Professor Snape. He'd respected the Potions master before, but now the man became his mentor--oh, he had his issues, to be sure, but at least he stood up for himself in whatever way he knew how. This was when Draco began to believe, too, that a quiet power, out of the spotlight, could be as satisfying as being hailed and respected by a cast of thousands. Quiet power got more accomplished.

And now Draco was going to use that quiet power, use the cunning and subterfuge and everything else they had taught him. He no longer needed the recognition of being the one to bring the forces of darkness to their knees. Potter would have that; he'd been groomed for it for years. And this older, grimmer, more bitter and dedicated Draco, so different from the child they all remembered, would be satisfied with having been part of it.

Lucius nudged him, in the middle of his back between the shoulder blades. "Stay awake," he muttered gruffly. They stood in a shadowed archway leading into a cavern somewhere below a castle along the coast of Devon. Draco was not sure who it belonged to, or why the Death Eaters used it as an headquarters. It was uncomfortable, drafty and damp, with the smell of centuries-old blood thick in the walls.

A group of older Death Eaters, robed and hooded, stood in a ring in the bowl of the cavern. Voldemort himself stood in the very centre, and at his side was a small stone table bearing a decanter (stoneware, black) and a glass. Draco and Lucius were not the only ones waiting--here were the faces of so many of his classmates. Here were Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, Hope Carter, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle. He wanted to be somewhere else. He met Greg's brown eyes and saw determination there, steely and cold. Greg nodded, barely. Lucius nudged Draco again, and whispered, "Forward. Now."

Draco obeyed, striding confidently into the sickly crimson light of the cavern. He felt the eyes on him, glaring from behind black hoods. He felt, saw Voldemort watching him, eyeing and assessing and appraising him. He held his back straight and his head high, and stood proudly before the Dark wizard until the moment when it became impossible to pretend he didn't realise he was expected to kneel.

"Do you pledge your being to our cause?" Voldemort asked slowly, softly. Ritualistic. "Do you swear to serve me, to aid me in battle, and t always strive for the world we all envision?"

Draco gave a single decisive nod. "I do." He thought the lie should taste strange on his tongue, like sardines perhaps, or salty and stinging like lemon in a wound. It did not. They were only words, and nothing more.

"Give me your hand," Voldemort commanded. Draco held out his arm, watched impassively as his sleeve was pushed back, as the tip of a wand was pressed against his skin. He felt poison bleeding into him from the wandtip, deadening his skin in a pattern of burnt black on his pale forearm.

When it was done, and the Dark Mark was singed heavy on his skin, Voldemort held the glass toward him.

"Drink."

The liquid in the chalice was thick and dark, like blood, but sweet like burnt sugar. Draco lifted it to his lips and tilted it back, it pooled like syrup on his tongue, trickled down his throat.

There was magic in it. He could feel it running through him, first a chill, then a rush of heat. Then something lit off a spark inside his gut, and it exploded--the walls and red light and black hooded shifted, melted, and fell together.

He fell, and the Lord of Darkness caught him up before his head could hit the floor.

In that moment, watching from the shadows of the archway, Greg Goyle thought it was all over. He saw Draco drink from the chalice, saw his hand twitch, his eyes go wide and glassy. Saw him crumple, red liquid trickling from the corners of his lips, his arms hanging limp at his sides, and for that moment, Greg thought they'd been discovered somehow, that the game was over before it had even begun. He was prepared, in that instant, to go down fighting. His hand went to his wand, tucked neatly inside the sleeve of his robe, and only Vince's fingers, pressed restraining and discreet against his arm kept him from reacting too soon and giving them away for real.

Voldemort caught Draco in his arms, holding the limp body against him. Draco's pale face was a garish splash of near-white against the black robes, washed in the dim red glow that didn't quite light the room, and the shadows of it spilled across his skin like blood.

Then the Dark Lord bent his head, pressing his lips against Draco's forehead. "Awake," he whispered, and though his sibilant voice was low it echoed through all the corners. And Greg knew, then, that Draco couldn't really be dead, because he lifted his head, weakly, heavily, and stared into the darkness of the archway at them. His eyes were flat and hollow and silver, and Greg wanted to do something violent and horrible to avenge that emptiness. Draco's face was white, and the drink was scarlet and vivid against his skin, and it reminded Greg of the way the blood had clung to the corner of his mother's mouth for just a moment before it slid down her cheek and onto the floor. She never raised her head, that was how he knew Draco was alive, because dead people couldn't look up, couldn't move, their eyes were empty in a different way than Draco's eyes, they swallowed the light instead of reflecting it. Vince's hand tightened on his shoulder for the briefest of seconds, and then fell away.

****