Knights of Nothren

Chapter One

Draco's Mirror

Draco was angry again. He often found himself boiling through and through these days. It was not something of his nature; he had once been the proud owner of an idle temperament. However, he was still obnoxious and severely egotistical; numerous people told him so every single day.

Before Voldemort had got himself all riled up and had yet again declared war upon absolutely everyone and anyone who opposed him, Draco had enjoyed his easy, work free life. He had simply floated along on success. All he had to do was wave his name about, or flaunt his brawny bodyguards and he usually managed to claim whatever he wanted, but the recent turn of events had begun to change things.

Lucius had started meddling with his mind. He was trying to plant silly ideas into Draco's head that one must actually work hard in order to succeed, that being a pureblood was not just enough and that the highest slot of power must be aimed for and must always be reached. Draco had never heard of such preposterous notions. He could not for the life of him understand why Lucius was suddenly turning his back on the ideas and rules that he had been hammering into Draco for the last fifteen years. Why did it have to change now that he was sixteen years of age?

Draco had thought hard for several nights as he lay in bed, waiting to fall asleep. After what he thought to be the third night, a week ago now, he had finally come to a sensible conclusion. Death Eaterism. It must be that, why else would Lucius try to toughen him up? He was preparing his only son to receive the Dark Mark.

Now, try not to get Draco wrong, he is not quite a daft as he first seems. He has developed his own agendas in life, all spawned from the root of greed, obviously, but still, they were his very own agendas. Death Eaterism was not on his agenda by a mile. He had gazed from afar at the many different consequences of serving the Dark Lord. The three main ones were Azkaban, the Dementor's Kiss or a rather messy Death. There were some who had wheedled their way out of trouble, like Lucius had done, but Draco knew he did not possess the suave cunning of his father.

Draco had decided that being a Death Eater was not the thing for him; it was too messy for his liking. He envisioned himself as the Minister for Magic, or someone else who is rich and has lots of power over lots of people. Certainly not Death Eaterism, not by a long shot.

Nevertheless, he needn't worry about becoming a Death Eater anymore. A dead man can't force his son to become a Death Eater.

Draco hissed. He was certainly angry again. The thought of it made him sick. He snatched up his clock fro his bedside table in his school dorm and flung it with all his might across the room. It shattered against the opposite wall, its delicate innards showering everywhere. Draco huffed. The action had not quelled the energy of his rage. He looked around for something else to fling around the room. He spotted a beautiful glass ornament. It joined the clock on the floor.

After several minutes the whole floor was littered with shards of broken objects. He had swiped all the books off the shelves with a fuming power, the curtains around his bed and those nearby had been ripped off, hanging at odd angles to the rails that held hem up. On one stretch of the wall he saw a tint of a blood spatter where he had roared and smashed his head. He felt the thick liquid ooze down his right temple.

Cussing and grumbling, Draco stomped away from his mess into the bathroom, his anger not yet subsided, though his energy quite spent. He slammed the door viciously behind him, wincing slightly at the sharp bang. He turned and locked it before diving to the sink, suddenly feeling very queasy, fearing that he might vomit. The long, pale and claw-like fingers gripped the sides of the basin, trembled and slipped from a cold nervous sweat. He rolled his tongue around his mouth, yearning a cold drink. Water sprayed up into his clammy face as he flicked the cold tap onto full blast. Draco did not mind; it was refreshing. He bent and put his lips to the steady stream of beautifully ice-cold water. After quenching his sickly thirst and driving his nausea away he straightened and gazed into the large mirror above the sink.

'You look awful, sweetheart.'

Draco ignored the magic mirror's comment, though he could see the truth of the words upon the silver surface, he saw the truth and it stabbed him in the gut.

He let out a little moan of despair and crumpled his pallid face, reminiscent of the way a person who was very drunk the night before begins to remember all the dreadful personal secrets they have spilt. He growled and let his clammy forehead bump against the mirror. He drew back and did it again, a little harder, and again, and again, and again.

Draco sped down a narrow deserted corridor; a Dementor on his tail. He had sworn loudly, cursing the fact that the rotten creatures did not even care who they were fighting for and who they were fighting against. He could here its rattling breath roll along the cold air towards him. Fortunately (for Draco at least) a seventh year Ravenclaw came bursting from another junction, the back of his cloak on fire having come off worst in a duel with a Death Eater, totally diverting the Dementor's attention. The livid blaze ripped apart the darkness and threw Draco's face in an ugly orange glow, a jolly luminosity that did not belong in a war.

Draco watched as the ill-fated boy stumbled into the soul stealer, still screaming from the ever growing flames that clung to his back. He felt his stomach freeze as the grey, scabbed hand shot from within the folds of the beast's cloak and wrapped it's talons around the other boy's neck. The shrieks of fear grew louder and more desperate. The scene was blood-chilling, quite literally, but Draco could not tear his eyes for the sheer horror of it all. The Ravenclaw vainly thrashed around in the Dementor's teasing grip, staring wildly down the corridor as the fire started to attack his hair. He saw Draco and his eyes grew wide and feral.

'HELP ME!'

Draco felt his pounding heart in his throat, the frozen power of the Dementor was disturbing deep and hated memories within him. He cowered away from the incident that was unfurling before him.

'HELP ME! PLEASE!'

Draco spluttered. He could feel his blood rushing; there was adrenaline in his fingertips, his moment of heroism and honour... He scrabbled for his wand. It was tangled in the deep pocket of his winter cape. He could be just as much of a golden saviour as Potter, he could prove it, and he would do it even better.

'I'm coming!'

He had his wand; he aimed it directly at the terrible monster. It was leaning in; it was ready to perform its soul taking Kiss.

'Help!' The Ravenclaw's voice was weak now, the fire crackled loudly. 'Help... no...'

Draco trembled. 'Expecto Patronum!' He cried out. 'Expecto Patronum! I'm coming!' He staggered forth a few yards, but his own cowardice and realisation that he couldn't produce a Patronus held him back from advancing any closer to the Dementor.

'Mother - '

That horrifying last word of the Ravenclaw boy was eaten by the Dementor. Draco shuddered like death as he watched the soul being taken. His breath came in gasps. All he could hear now was the crackle of the fire on the now dead and soulless body and the awful slurping of the creature as it sucked on the mouth. Echoes of other people's strife as they battled on came hovering through the cold passage.

Draco suddenly found himself bolting in the opposite direction from the scene that he had just witnessed and had failed to prevent. He felt something awful welling up inside him. His failure to be a knight in shining armour, to save a pitiful life and gain wondrous respect and praise for it was bulging in his throat and under his tongue. He reached the heavy door at the end and wrenched it open, chancing a look over his shoulder. The Dementor had let the Ravenclaw slump to the ground, and seemed to be hovering over it in an eerie manner of reflection. Draco did not waste a single second.

The mirror was screeching at him now.

'Get off! You're getting blood all over me!'

Draco leant back. He had continued to dully thump his oozing head against the mirror as he ran through his painful memory.

'I hope you're going to wipe that off!' said the mirror with incredible indignity. Draco swelled with born-again fury and spewed a flow of incoherent swear words, hexes and screams as he threw himself at the haughty mirror and began to pummel it with all the might that he could apply with his balled and bloody fists, punishing it for its insensitivity and superiority. The mirror protested in a panicky voice as large cracks appeared in its surface. Draco's blood seeped into the fissures and spidered out.

'I say...!' cried the mirror, but those were its last words at it eventually broke into a myriad splinters and crashed to the floor. Draco gazed down at the carpet of silver shards, heaving, hissing ever so slightly. He held his hands limply. They were studded with razor fragments and the blood dripped freely onto the ruined floor.

He bent down and picked up one of the larger shards on mirror, gazing into it. He made to step towards the door and cursed out loud in shock as he stood on another shard. He toppled over and crashed into the bathtub, smashing his head on the ornate tiles. He simply lay there panting, his head pounding where he had smashed it, his bare foot was possessed with a screaming pain and now his already tattered palm was suffering once again as he clutched too hard on the large splinter that he had retrieved from the floor.

He sighed shakily, dropped the fragment of mirror over the edge of the tub and idly began to de-splinter his hands as his mind wandered back to the memory of the second event that had taken place during the Death Eaters' attack, only the wretched night before.

He sealed the large door with the bolt, lock and a charm and turned to find a suitable place to go. The shock of what he had just seen and failed to do had drained him of any desire or courage to join the battle that had been launched upon Hogwarts that night. It was the first mass attack of Death Eaters on the castle, in addition to a score of Dementors. Before now there had only been one or two Death Eaters who had been sent to sneak in and steal Potter from his dorm. They had always failed, and now Potter was probably taking on at least two Death Eaters of his own, backed by the likes of Dumbledore and Lupin, and no doubt the rest of the Golden Trio. Draco snorted, and if Potter was not doing that, then he would most certainly be cowering in a corner somewhere, wishing that he was in fact fighting a valiant battle against his enemies.

A nearby shout came out from the darkness of the passage in front of Draco, raising his nerves. He recognised the voice, it was oddly comforting. He lit his wand and staggered towards the source of the noise. Another voice rang out, a younger one, and it too, was familiar. Draco was still weak after his encounter with the Dementor. He felt the dawning disgust for himself, disgust for the life that he had not been able to save and infuriation for the hero's reward that he would not be able to claim now. A wave of nausea stifled him as the vivid image of the rotten lips over that burning boy's mouth suddenly flashed unwanted in his mind. He fell to his knees, vomiting emptily over the flagstones.

The voices rang out again. He gazed ahead with his pale, bleary eyes. The dark corridor swam but he could see lights at the end. There were people duelling. He again heard the voice that he recognised the most; he was shouting taunts and all manner of complicated curses and spells.

'Dad!' A renewed purpose boiled his blood and he scrambled to his feet, running doggedly towards the duellers and the end of the passage. 'Dad!'

'Draco! Get here and help me stun this brat!'

'Dad?'

'The Potter boy! Stupefy him Drac -'

Lucius did not finish his order. The corridor was briefly illuminated as though a streak of green lightning had torn over their heads. There was malice on that pale face, and it stayed set as the limp body crumpled forward. Draco buckled beneath his father's dead weight, falling to the ground.

'DAD! NO!'

Draco vainly shook his father's shoulders and tugged at his long silken hair, he did everything that had done when he had tried to wake up his father extra early on Christmas morning, everything he had done to rouse the man in the dead of night when he had experienced a bad dream. Nothing could awaken the dead man, much to Draco's confusion. Not even when he bit the fingers did Lucius stir.

'Dad...'

Draco settled to cradling his father's head, breathing deeply into that velvety silver-blonde mane. He rocked back and forth, mumbling things that only he would ever know. He glanced up, hazy-eyed, searching for Potter, the caster of the killing curse. He spotted the boy slumped beside a statue of a Goblin Warlord, trembling, his wand lying by his head. He too, was mumbling things to himself.

Draco gently let Lucius's head down onto the floor. He found his feet, almost falling back down again. He filled his lungs through his gritted teeth and stalked towards Potter. His wand lay forgotten next to his father's body. He did not notice, and if he did, he certainly didn't care. He would commit his next sin without the aid of his wand...

THUD THUD THUD

'Draco?' A deep, dull voice came through the door. 'Draco, are you in there?'

'Fuck off, Vince.'

Vincent Crabbe fell into an awkward silence. He plucked up his courage though, and spoke through the door once again.

'I tidied up the dorm.' He paused. 'I couldn't get the blood off the wall though.'

Draco exhaled a shivering sigh. He felt glad that his faithful goon had acquired enough initiative to actually do something without being told to it first. Vincent certainly had more brains than Gregory. 'Thank you, Vince,' he whispered softly. He wasn't sure if the boy had heard him.

'The, err, memorial feast is going to begin soon...'

Draco clenched his teeth.

'Draco...?' Vincent received no reply. 'Alohamora.' The door creaked open and the shards of mirror screeched as the bottom of the door swept them aside. 'Fucking Hell... what have you done Draco?'

'Go away,' snarled Draco. 'I've told you a dozen times that I want to be alone.'

Vincent paid the bloodied boy no heed and cast a cleaning spell around the room. When he came to fix the mirror, Draco cried out.

'Don't fix the mirror!'

'Why not?'

'It pisses me off when it talks to me.'

Vincent stared at him, but complied, and merely swept all the shards into a corner.

'You ought to get yourself cleaned up and down to the memorial feast,' he said gruffly, turning to Draco, who still lay in the bathtub, looking as though he had just suffered an attack from a possessed and murderous kitchen knife. 'I really don't want to come in here one day to find that you've slit your wrists and bled to death because you missed the last chance to see your dad before they put him in the ground.'

With those final words the tall, muscular boy swept away, his heavy, black cloak whipping away through the door. Draco stared after him, not really seeing at all. He considered Vincent's word, and with an almighty grumble he leant forward and heaved himself out of the bath, preparing to tidy himself up and face the rest of the world once more.