The Innocents

Prologue

For we are the children of darkness,

And to darkness we must turn...

*

The house was cold, silent, and oppressive. Pansy was in the kitchen with Ivy, trying to force some coffee down their throats. It was common these days to be alone with the quiet elves, and it didn't bother the girls anymore.

It was one of those tense mornings when they knew something was wrong even before they even opened the Daily Prophet. They woke up with trembling hands and a restlessness they couldn't hide, and dreaded the moment of confirmation.

Pansy steeled her resolve, carefully placed her cup on the countertop and gave Ivy a reassuring gaze before slowly walking over to the table and picking the paper up.

She looked at her sister, then at the paper, then out the window, then back at her sister before catching herself. She was being weak and a coward. She knew better. Besides, every minute she spent without knowing the news was working against her. She unfolded the paper slowly and scanned the front page, feeling the beginning of a bad headache just behind her eyes.

The front page was full of the same stupid and pointless warnings to ward houses and avoid leaving them. The person who wrote this was obviously either a Hufflepuff or a Ravenclaw. Probably a Hufflepuff, as any Ravenclaw beyond second year would've noticed that all the latest attacks had taken place in private residences. Bloody idiots.

She skimmed the article quickly; a line caught her eyes. Her brows furrowed, which obviously didn't pass unnoticed for Ivy.

"Ahem."

Pansy cleared her throat too and read tonelessly: "Stay inside, blah, blah, blah. The usual. Although it appears there have been a few more attacks."

"Anyone we know?" came the painstakingly casual question.

"Wait a second," Pansy said while flipping to the last pages. There was always a little list beside the warnings column with the names of the most recent victims. She read it and, surely enough, she saw a name that caused her breath to catch in her throat and the looming headache to descend upon her, crushing her temples.

"The Notts' estate was raided last night." She raised her eyes to her sister, whose lower lip was trembling with barely restrained anger and apprehension. Marianne Nott was in Ivy's year, and they were quite close. "There were no survivors," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, but calm and even. She threw the paper on the counter.

Ivy's composure crumbled and she threw her arms around Pansy. These moments were very rare, and this fact steeled Pansy's resolve to mourn for her friend when Ivy was not present. She had to sort her out first, but she refrained from using any cooing sounds that insulted her intelligence. Ivy hardly ever lost her calm, and it was alarming that this was the second time in as many weeks. It made Pansy wonder whether she was going to make it through the summer, with the dark, bloody times ahead.

It just wasn't fair. Ivy was thirteen and she had already lost two close friends to this stupid war that none of them wanted or cared about. With their cold logic, they had long since reasoned that force wasn't the best way to get rid of Muggle filth. It required subtlety and shrewd political manoeuvres.

This summer, however, a most peculiar thing was happening. The Dark Lord and his followers had stopped targeting solely mudbloods. They were attacking the houses of Hogwarts students from every House and lineage, setting the pure-blooded families in turmoil. The only way to remain safe was to join him, and the girls' father was rather uncomfortable with the prospect of giving the last remaining heiresses to the Parkinson fortune (the male line of the family, at least) to The Dark Lord.

Millicent and Blaise had already begun their Death Eater training a couple of weeks before. Apparently, the number of younger students killed had convinced their families, if not them.

Pansy had figured out that, if they wanted to close down Hogwarts, they had to kill younger students and recruit older ones. Theodore's death didn't fit the pattern. He will - would have been a seventh year this fall, and he was also a Slytherin. Why hadn't he been recruited? He came from a Death Eater family, so why hadn't they been spared? They had all been killed. What if this happened to her own family? They were in the exact same situation, down to the ages of the children. No, she and Theodore were not children anymore, she hastily corrected herself. Not after what had happened at school.

Her line of thought caused a knot to form in her throat and her arms to squeeze the air out of Ivy, who was just extricating herself from the hug. Pansy let her go and Ivy glared, eyes red and puffy.

"I just lost another one of my best friends. However, I don't need to be put out of my misery just yet, so I suggest you think of another way to make me feel better."

Pansy gave her a weak smile and watched her rearrange her clothes in silence. "Do you want some tea?" Ivy shook her head and continued smoothing down her shirt. "Some coffee, then?" She shook her head again. Ok, so this was going to take a little more than that.

Pansy knew it would come down to this sometime this summer, but she hadn't expected the time to come so soon. "Some Firewhiskey, then?" she asked tentatively.

Ivy slowly raised her eyes and looked at her sister, making sure the offer was genuine. The logistics of the matter crossed her mind. "Where are you going to get Firewhiskey?"

Pansy allowed herself a smug grin. "I think it's time I let you in on a little-known family tradition, dearest sister of mine, although I fear you are too young and impressionable for such extreme measures." Ivy's raised eyebrow eased her headache slightly; it was a good sign. She inwardly rolled her eyes, thinking how easy it was to manoeuvre younger Slytherins into anything by using their pride as leverage. She had never been that way. Of course not.

She paused for effect, watching Ivy's curiosity pique. She could wait. Ivy had to ask her.

Ten seconds later, the inevitable happened. "Ok, what is it? What's the great mysterious tradition?"

Pansy's smug grin became mischievous and she leaned against the countertop. She took her time sipping from her now cold coffee, the smirk never leaving her face.

Ivy began tapping her foot against the marble. She was wearing pink fluffy slippers, the pair Pansy had bought her during their shopping spree two weeks before. The first time, it had been easy to lighten her up. A little Slytherin pride, a little Parkinson pride, a lot of chocolate and a shopping spree had been enough to make her feel better. This time, the heavy artillery was in order: lots of alcohol, and no sobering potions.

Pansy put the cup down, and then pushed herself away from the counter with her hip. The soft skin there got crushed between her hipbone and the sharp edge of the counter, causing her to wince and curse under her breath. Ivy's eyebrows kept moving higher and higher on her forehead, until they almost melted into the hairline.

Rubbing the sore spot and cursing her judgment for not wearing thicker pyjama bottoms, Pansy made a full circle around her sister, under her scrutinizing stare.

"I was going to keep this from you until you turned fourteen, but so be it," she began reciting the speech her father had given her when she was twelve. "The Parkinsons have always been a line of very strong people, as you well know. Slytherins, important members of the community, the best of pure-blooded wizards. However," she said in a slightly amused voice, "when things got rough, they had a trick up their sleeves to get them through. The secret to their strength even through the direst straits has been, for countless generations, the abundant use of the best aged Firewhiskey money can buy."

Ivy smiled one of her rare honest smiles, then her brows furrowed. "Where are we supposed to get Firewhiskey now?"

"To be young and naïve," Pansy said, rolling her eyes, then laughed. Of course, naïveté was not a Slytherin trait, but in her current state, her sister didn't seem to mind. She grabbed Ivy's hand and whispered the answer into her ear.

"From my own personal stash, of course." Ivy's other hand shot up to cover her mouth and she giggled, wide-eyed and excited. Pansy giggled too, making sure it sounded right, a schoolgirl-up-to-no-good giggle, and started running towards the stairs, holding Ivy's hand. They raced up the marble stairs and down the dark hallway to the left, passing many tutting portraits of forgotten ancestors on their way, and came to an abrupt halt in front of Pansy's room.

She turned to Ivy with a serious face, although her eyes shone with excitement ('Firewhiskey! Almost there!'), and looked into her sister's baby blue eyes, so unlike hers and their father's. People said she had their mother's eyes, but Pansy couldn't remember what colour her mother's eyes were.

"Are you sure you want to do this? You won't regret it later?" she asked in a low voice, the voice of the wise big sister looking out for her best interest.

"I'm sure," Ivy said in an equally serious voice, so Pansy nodded, placed the mischievous mask back in place and opened the door, motioning for Ivy to enter first.

She stood in the hallway long enough to order an elf to bring them chocolate mousse, then entered the room and closed the door. Steady, you're almost there. Don't look desperate.

Ivy was already sitting cross-legged on the four-poster bed, a pink-clad girl with dark hair and twinkling blue eyes. Pansy smiled at her again, feeling the headache fade even more.

Ivy started fidgeting with the pink hem of Pansy's favourite wool blanket, the one their grandmother had sent her for Christmas when she was a firstie.

"Well, are you going to get the Firewhiskey or what?"

Shaking her head again at her sister's impatience and feeling quite satisfied with the way the plan was going, Pansy went to her closet, opened it, and took out one of the boards on the bottom. She heard Ivy gasp somewhere on the bed, the sound muffled by all the padded surfaces and plush cushions scattered everywhere. Everything was pink, even the closet, which had pale pink roses painted on a soft beige background. Yes, Pansy, like all Parkinson females, loved pink.

She surveyed the labels of the bottles lined in front of her in chronological order with a critical eye. Was this an 1845 case? Or, perhaps, a 1787? The fact that she had just lost one of her closest friends, and that the same applied to her sister, called for serious measures. She extracted one of her most prized bottles, a 1694, one of the best years in the history of Firewhiskey, and straightened her back with a hair-raising crack. Her hip was throbbing, and she was quite sure she had developed a nasty bruise.

She replaced the bottom of the closet, closed the door with a pink fluffy slipper, and strode victoriously to her sister's side, bottle held carefully with both hands.

There was a knock on the door that startled them for a moment, before an elf's head appeared. Pansy motioned for in to enter, and it scurried to the side of the bed, a tray bearing a huge bowl of chocolate mousse and spoons perched unsteadily on its arm. Pansy took the bowl and the spoons, dismissing the elf.

While the elf was making a run for the door, Ivy asked for a pitch of pumpkin juice. Pansy raised an eyebrow questioningly, and Ivy shrugged while stuffing a spoonful of delicious mousse into her mouth.

"We'll need glasses, right?" she said, grinning around the spoon. Pansy was getting a little queasy at the sight of the mousse, so she reached for the hairbrush on her nightstand and began stroking her hair vigorously, eyes on the bottle.

A few minutes later, the elf reappeared with a pitcher and two glasses. Ivy slowly put the spoon on her napkin and rubbed her hands together. After the elf left, bowing all the way to the door and finally being shooed by a well-aimed toss of the hairbrush, Pansy picked up the bottle and looked at it lovingly.

"You know, this is a 1694 bottle, one of the ten left in the world. It's one of my best bottles," she added proudly.

Her sister cast it a critical eye and snickered. "It must be worth more than the Weasleys' house."

"Of course it does," Pansy retorted in feigned outrage. "Shall we?"

Ivy set the tray with the glasses between them and licked her lips. Pansy took this as a cue to open the bottle and half-fill each glass. "Do you want ice with that?" she asked Ivy, who was staring at her drink. The girl nodded, so Pansy threw a couple of ice cubes from the tray into it.

"Don't you like ice in yours?" Ivy asked, her eyes never leaving the liquid.

"Not really," came the thoughtful answer. "If it melts, it makes the drink milder."

"Good."

They reached for the glasses and raised them in a toast. "To Slytherin girls. Because we're worth it," Pansy said with a smirk, and downed her liquor in one go. Ivy drank it in two, pausing to swirl the drink around between them.

Pansy raised an eyebrow. "You're drank this before, haven't you?" Of course she had. She was a thirteen-year-old Slytherin, for crying out loud.

Ivy looked at her sister for any sign of discountenance. "A few times," she conceded, when she saw her sister's knowing look. "Nothing this strong, though. This is good stuff," she said, nodding admiringly, while her glass was being refilled by a relaxed-looking seventeen-year-old.

This glass, she downed in one go. She felt a little giggly, and realized she was getting drunk. She looked at Pansy, who was very methodically doing the same.

Pansy was also feeling a little better. The war seemed distant when seen through the haze of alcohol, and although she was hardly an alcoholic, like her father was, she was milking this for all it was worth. Comfort was so very hard to come across these days. Today she had lost one of the people who made her feel safe, one of her childhood friends, and the rest of them were slowly becoming minions of the Dark Lord. Some, faster than others.

She sobered as reality came crashing in. She remembered how cold and remote Marcus Flint had been the previous summer, after he had begun his training. She shuddered as she thought of her friends who had done the same this year. What if Millicent and Daphne would be the same this autumn? What if Blaise was sent to Durmstrang instead of Hogwarts?

At least she could be certain of one thing. Draco had become a full Death Eater around the same time as Marcus. The old Draco, with his slow kisses and his imitations of teachers and his jokes, was gone forever. The new one might soon follow.

Daphne would be at school this term, all gossip and whispered comments and comparisons between boys. Everything would be alright. Not as good as it had been until last year, but it was their seventh year, and she'll be damned if she let war come between her and what friends she had left. After they graduated, someone would propose, they would get married, and life would be just grand.

She poured another round of perfectly aged Firewhiskey and smiled fondly at her little sister, who was currently going a little cross-eyed. Yes, everything would be alright, as soon as she was drunk enough to enjoy her sister's company instead of mourning for her friend. No use crying over spilled potions, she thought bitterly, and raised her glass in a toast.

"Cheers."

"Chairrs," Ivy slurred, and they both drank, Pansy a little surprised at how well her sister was holding her drinks. At her age, Pansy would've been asleep. She smiled a little; no, at thirteen, after a few drinks, she would be snogging either Draco, or Blaise, or both.

A glass and a half later, she remembered to get the Sobering Potion. She called for an elf, which brought it swiftly, and luckily took the mousse when it left. The smell was making her sick to her stomach.

At precisely six p.m., right after she took the potion and Ivy fell asleep with her head in her lap, their father arrived home. He came, as always, to Pansy's room, drank for a good five minutes, leaning against the doorframe, looking at Ivy's curled form. Pansy couldn't blame him. The man led a tiring life.

Finally, when he was anaesthetised enough, he asked, "What happened?"

"We found out about the Notts," she managed to say through the blinding headache that had returned with a vengeance. The Sobering Potion hadn't been brewed properly, so her sensitive head was pounding.

"Oh," was all he said, before taking Ivy in his arms and slowly walking out of the room. When the door closed behind him, Pansy buried her head in a lavender-scented pillow and eventually allowed herself to cry.

*

Dinner that evening was unusually quiet. Pansy, black-clad and grim, was pushing food around her plate, and her father was too drunk to venture an explanation as to the reason of his latest break-up. Pansy was glad, of course, that the tramp, having received the diamond necklace she had been after, had decided not to pursue any further goals. Personally, Pansy thought this tramp was better than the usual tramps, in the sense that she wasn't blonde or clingy.

Besides, the trinket wasn't important. The girls had much more valuable jewellery at school with them than their father could ever give away, so, as long as they got rid of a money-thirsty leech, diamonds and pearls were expandable.

She took a tiny bite of salad and chewed it thoughtfully. Her father poured his fourth glass of Firewhiskey ('1768, expensive but with average taste') and swirled it around, looking through it at the fire blazing behind Pansy. It was at the height of summer, but the house had thick walls and a lot of wards, so it was chilly.

There was a cool breeze coming through the large French doors on the circular wall on Pansy's right, and she could hear crickets chirping. It had rained that day, and the cinnamon perfume of the dining room melted into the fresh scent drifting in from outside.

The salad was getting yellow, so she pushed her plate away and asked for desert. It was chocolate mousse; she sent it back to the kitchen. At this point, her father realized something was not well.

"Is there something wrong?"

"Yes, there is. Father, Theodore Nott was of age, and a Slytherin. Do you," She paused to think of a mild way to put it, and found none. "know why he was killed? Instead of recruited, I mean."

He sobered slightly, and fixed it with a swig from his glass. "No, dear. Those things are not my business to know."

She knew she was pushing the limit. "Were you in the group that raided the Notts' house?"

He frowned and swirled the liquor a little faster. "Are you aware of the fact that this is way beyond your head?" he asked, a little edge making its presence felt behind the alcohol slurring.

She lowered her eyes to stare at her hands. Was there a more beautiful shade of nail varnish than sheer pink? Not likely.

"I'm sorry, father. I never should've asked you what you cannot tell me," she said in her most subdued voice, thanking her lucky stars that she had taken that Sobering Potion.

"May I be excused? I must write a letter."

Her father smiled a little guardedly and motioned for her to go, happy to be alone. She nodded and walked back to her room, measuring her steps and counting the stairs to keep her mind off the Notts.

As soon as she closed the door, she ran to her desk, took some parchment and a quill from the drawer and chewed it while she formed the letter in her head. Her quill, now a little soggy, was replaced with a new one, and she started looping words on the page.

Surely you must've heard by now about the Notts. Again, surely you must've thought the same as I did. Theodore was of age, his blood was as pure as ours, he was a Slytherin, and none of that kept him alive.

Should we make any plans to escape or are we to wait for others to do that for us? Do you think we'll take the same route to safety as Blaise and Millicent?

Please reply soon, as it is not only my safety, but Ivy's as well. I'm trying to keep her in a good mood, but Marianne Nott's death meant only alcohol works for now.

Pansy

P.S. Can you find out who was out last night?

She admired her handiwork and sealed it, then took out another parchment and wrote a similar missive for Daphne. Having finished, she briefly considered writing to Cassandra, but decided against it. She was likely to be killed next, so a coded letter arriving while the Ministry was investigating could do no good to anyone.

She went to her sister's room, sneaked to the balcony and sent the letters with the family owls. Why she had agreed to keep her owl on Ivy's balcony was still a mystery; it gave her sister an easy opportunity to map her correspondence.

She glanced at Ivy's bed, but the curtains were drawn, so she couldn't see the girl. Hoping she was sound asleep, she slipped out of the room, across the hall, and straight into her own bathroom, where she took a long bath.

It had turned out to be a long day. She only hoped morning would bring letters, good news and alcohol.

*

Minerva McGonagall was not a tense woman by nature, but she hadn't had a decent night's sleep in two weeks. There was an attack nearly every night, usually two houses at a time, always students' families.

She made a mental sum and pinched the bridge of her nose with ice-cold fingers. If this kept up, Hogwarts wouldn't open for the next term. It was her responsibility to keep students safe, but this was more than she could stop. The Ministry didn't want to send a warning to each student's home, so Minerva had taken to writing them secretly.

Yes, it meant ignoring direct orders. And yes, if it would keep even a single student alive, she would do it again.