The Innocents

Chapter One

I know a house, and a cold old house,

A cold old house by the sea.

If I were a mouse in that cold old house

What a cold mouse I'd be.

~

Pansy stood stock still, gaping at the parchment that slowly crumbled in her contorting hand. She closed her mouth with a small clinking sound and scrunched the letter into a tight ball, which she then threw with all her might at the owl perched on the windowsill. It flew away with a half-indignant, half-frightened screech, and its preservation instinct delivered it from a very dire fate indeed.

At that particular moment, Pansy was more than willing to kill the messenger.

Daphne was dead. The letter had made it quite clear that she had snapped under the pressure and killed herself, but it had wisely refrained from showering the details of the situation on her. Ignorance was bliss sometimes.

She started shaking slightly; her hands had grown steadily colder over the past two minutes. Her vision was blurry at the borders, and small black dots flecked it. She recognized the signs of approaching faint, so she braced herself against the windows and focused on breathing.

Breathe in, breathe out; breathe in, breathe out. She closed her eyes and slowly regained control over her body. When she felt confident enough to walk across the room, she sat down cautiously in a chair by the desk. Luckily, it was just uncomfortable enough with its pillows scattered on the floor to keep her sharp and alert. Breathe in, breathe out.

'Her too. Why? She never wanted anything to do with this. Why do the innocent ones always get hurt first?'

Startled, she pondered the epiphany. Yes, so far it had been correct. Theodore, Daphne and herself had been the only sixth years that hadn't participated in the secret late-night Joining Debates. As far as they were concerned, there was nothing to consider. Becoming a minion was out of the question; they had seen what it did to their parents and Draco.

Theodore had been killed the previous week. Daphne had--passed away--the day before.

The innocents always get hurt.

All she had to do was make sure she and Ivy wouldn't get caught on the innocent side.

All thoughts of mourning banished, she steeled her resolve and went down to breakfast. She didn't want to put Ivy back in a bad mood; she had only just recovered from losing Marianne. All she had to do was muster a little acting ability and pretend to be surprised by the "short and unforgiving illness" that the Daily Prophet would claim had taken her friend.

It was only ten a.m. on Monday morning, but she felt she had taken too much for the entire week.

*

Another letter came after lunch. She had skilfully postponed reading the newspaper until well into dessert, and then given a very convincing representation of shock for Daphne's death.

This letter was from Minerva McGonagall. She was advising the Parkinson sisters to leave the house immediately, as they were very likely the next victims.

Ivy had looked at her father and sister with apprehensive eyes, but they gave each other a knowing look and a curt nod and he had said, "No, dear. The decrepit Head of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has failed yet again to predict the next move." His sarcasm was thick enough to make any Slytherin sneer at its target without pausing to think about it. "The next victim from Slytherin is Cassandra, from sixth year." Pansy had nodded, as she had guessed that long ago, and Ivy seemed to gain more strength under their confident gaze. They were safe for now.

*

Later that evening, Pansy decided that the situation had entered the Big Crisis area, so she had given Ivy a conspiratorial wink and taken her on another trip to her stash of alcohol.

As she selected a very high-prized 1679 bottle, she chanced a look at her sister. She was drawn and slightly skinnier than she had been at the end of term, but the good meals had restored colour to her previously bloodless skin. Ivy caught her eye and raised an eyebrow questioningly.

Pansy shook her head and pushed the closet door closed with the tip of a pink, fluffy foot, then extracted two glasses from a drawer and placed them on the bed.

Almost there. Don't look desperate. Keep calm, and for heaven's sake, don't let your hands shake! Show no weakness.

She half-filled the glasses, ignored the ice cubes, and raised her Firewhiskey in a toast.

"To bravery," she said, wincing a little at the Gryffindor sound of it, and made to drink. She noticed Ivy's hand had fallen limply on the blanket.

"What is it?" she asked as gently as she could, pinning her with a transfixing gaze. Reassuring, confident, not overly pushy, she recited with bitter, well-practised ease. Along with Show no weakness around Ivy, it was quickly becoming her summer mantra.

"I'm not completely sure I'm brave, sis," Ivy said dejectedly. It was serious. She only called her "sis" when something very, very, very serious, troll-within-ten-feet serious happened.

She switched her eyes to confident mode. "If you're not brave" --you'll die; please look at me, please trust me, do what I do-- "fake it." She quickly replayed the line in her head; perfect blend of reassuring and pushiness. She smiled, still in full confident mode, and drained her glass, Ivy mirroring her.

She poured another round and sighed inwardly at her little sister's newfound hold for alcohol. It took her three glasses to slur words and seven to knock her out for the night. At this pace, she'd become addicted by late August.

Four glasses later, Ivy's head was slowly falling into Pansy's lap. She knew that tonight, there would be no father to take Ivy to bed. She smiled bitterly. Yes, daddy had people to hunt down. Daddy had to act like an efficient little minion.

"Poor Cassandra," whispered Ivy, half asleep.

Pansy's blood froze, and she felt the prickling of tears in her eyes. Poor Cassandra indeed. She thought about the sixth year for a moment, remembered her dark red hair shining in the Quidditch stands, her green eyes blazing and wide with delight, jumping and smiling her pretty smile at the Slytherin players. Tonight that face would be torn to pieces by Cruciatus and who knows how many other curses, and then her eyes would glaze over and she would be gone. One less Slytherin next term.

She was starting to fear McGonagall would make a single House from the survivors. There weren't many younger students left.

Pansy decided that the Sobering Potion would be used another night. Sleep had been eluding her, and if a blinding headache in the morning was the price she had to pay for it, then so be it.

*

As morning broke, Ivy was awoken by a wave of pain that washed through her head. Keeping her eyes closed, she fumbled on her nightstand for a blue vial, and then swallowed its contents, wincing at the bitter taste.

It was becoming her morning ritual. At about five thirty, the tossing and turning of alcohol-induced sleep ended abruptly and in agony. Her headaches were becoming stronger every day, and she started to understand Pansy's sudden mood shifts. In fact, she was amazed her sister could function properly while being tormented by possibly stronger pain.

She threw the duvet off the bed and dragged herself to the bathroom. She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror and was startled. She had huge violet circles under her eyes, a spot had appeared overnight on her forehead and her hair was greasy. She had really let herself go lately. Something had to be done.

She took off her pink pyjama, filled the tub with bluish-white foam and got in. She scrubbed herself clean, applied conditioner three times, rinsed it and wrapped herself in the softest, fluffiest purple towel she could find in the stack on the counter.

Now clean, she took out a small bottle of Guaranteed Ten-Second Pimple Vanisher and dabbed some on her forehead. The swelling was gone, but an angry red patch appeared instead, which she camouflaged, along with the dark circles.

She towelled her hair until it was almost dry, put defrizzing potion on it, and brushed it until it was poker-straight and gleaming.

She re-emerged from the bathroom in the midst of a cloud of Venus-like steam. Having selected a pale pink outfit (light cotton dress and flat-soled shoes), she got dressed and charmed her hair into loose curls.

With a final drop of rose perfume, she left her room to get breakfast. It was seven a.m.

*

Pansy was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of steaming tea in her left hand and massaging the bridge of her nose with the right, eyes closed. She took a sip of tea, and then stared dejectedly at the rose pattern on the cup.

Planning was going from bad to worse. How could they be safe while not joining The Dark Lord? There was a way, she could feel it, a little loophole that they could use, but so far, she hadn't found it.

At first, she had considered starting training. When she realized Ivy was too young and would be killed anyway, she thought about sending Ivy to their cousins' house in France. Then their cousins started training, and it was no longer an option. She thought about sending Ivy to Durmstrang, while she pretended to be loyal to the Dark Lord, but then she realized that pretending was impossible, as he was an accomplished Legillimens.

In conclusion, all of her plans had been crushed, torn to shreds and burned right before her eyes. The loophole existed, but she was sleep-deprived, depressed and, to her eternal chagrin, desperate, so in no condition to find it. From experience, she knew that plans made in this state of mind were doomed from the start.

She pushed the cup away and rested her head on the table, groaning in a most unladylike fashion, thinking about her Death Eater cousins. Just then, she heard someone coming down the stairs and towards the kitchen. She quickly grabbed the cup and put on a neutral mask, one that practically screamed EVERYTHING IS ALL RIGHT, I'M JUST HAVING TEA, I'M NOT FAILING TO PLAN ANYTHING.

The door opened and Ivy walked in. Pansy's jaw dropped a little as she took in her sister's appearance, then a genuine smile appeared on her face. Ivy looked wonderful. Still a little skinny, but groomed and smelling like roses.

"You seem to be in a good mood today," Pansy noted unnecessarily.

Ivy, who was pouring herself some tea, turned around, grinned widely and said, "I am. Thank the wonders of modern cosmetic charms!" Then she giggled-- giggled!--and sat down gracefully on a chair opposite Pansy.

If she keeps this up, she'll definitely put me in a better mood. A planning mood. Now, what would make her feel good? The answer hit Pansy as soon as she looked at her sister again. Of course. Glaringly obvious.

"I need to buy some things. Do you want me to ask father to take us to Diagon Alley?"

Ivy's face lit up. Shopping did that to her. "Of course. I need some new clothes and I was thinking of buying a new pet. I'm tired of having owls on my balcony."

Pansy thanked the gods she would get her owl back, then suspicion crept in. "What pet do you have in mind?"

Ivy took a sip of tea, and then nonchalantly said, "A cat."

Pansy considered screeching, and she settled for growling menacingly. "I don't like cats, Ivy." A pleading tone replaced the growl. "Can't you buy a snake? Or a toad? Or any pet besides cats?"

Ivy looked at her with something approaching amusement, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She was wise enough not to let it surface; her sister wouldn't take her shopping if she mocked her.

"You don't have to like the species, just my cat. I'm sure we'll find a nice one that won't annoy you," she added for good measure. It was always safer to keep her sister on her good side, even if that meant getting a boring cat.

Pansy thought about her sister's depression, compared it with today's mood, and concluded that anything that made her sister happy was necessary. She was getting soft. Then again, she was sleep-deprived, in, albeit not immediate, mortal peril and responsible for her sister's wellbeing. She had always been the one to take care of Ivy, as their father had become an alcoholic soon after their mother's death.

A defeated smile appeared on her face. "All right. We'll get you a cat, if that's what you really want. Mind you, if you get bored with it, you have to get rid of it yourself. Don't count on me to banish it. You'll have to do it yourself. The muggle way, to be exact."

If that didn't convince her to give up, nothing would. Ivy hated killing anything larger than an insect. Especially the muggle way.

Her sister's expression never changed. She had already considered it, and had decided she would take the risk. She really liked cats. How bad could this particular one be?!

"I'll risk it."

Pansy sighed and got up. "I'll go tell father."

*

He liked sleeping late. No, he loved sleeping late. Especially when he had a nasty hangover looming over his head, like this morning, for example. He had woken up at five, taken something for his headache and nausea, and then gotten back to bed.

A knock on the door woke him up at quarter past seven. He cursed, winced at the invisible knives that were stabbing his temples, and then growled something that could be interpreted as "Come in" by a very imaginative listener.

Pansy, well-versed in deciphering his growls, opened the door and glanced warily at her father. He seemed to be in a bad mood. Damn.

"Father, are you alright?" she chanced after a small pause.

"I was sleeping," he growled more comprehensibly.

She sat in an armchair near the door, not venturing any closer. When he was disturbed this early, he could decide to throw something at her, so it was safer near the door, in case a fast escape was necessary.

He rubbed his eyes and then looked questioningly at his daughter. She cleared her throat and started presenting her case.

"As you must've noticed, Ivy hasn't been taking the recent developments well. In fact, the only thing that kept her from falling into the deepest of depressions was alcohol. I assume you knew this, as you never questioned my judgment, giving a thirteen-year-old some of the strongest Firewhiskey in existence." He nodded tiredly and blinked a few times to clear his vision. She was beating around the bush.

"I tried my best to get her in a better mood, putting a lot of time into it, constantly pretending to be confident and strong, not even mourning for my dead friends until she was consoled for the loss of her own." He nodded again, remembering the sobs he heard from her room after taking drunken Ivy to bed on the day they found out about the Notts. He was proud of Pansy. She always did the best for her sister and the family.

She noticed the appreciative look in his eyes, and decided to make her move. "Today, something incredible happened. She came into the kitchen fifteen minutes ago, beaming and looking as the Ivy we know!"

His eyes grew wide for a few moments. "What can we do to keep her this way?"

Pansy smiled and shook her head softly. "Father, don't pretend you don't know us. Take us shopping on Diagon Alley!" Her face fell almost imperceptibly. "She decided to get a cat."

He raised an eyebrow, looked pointedly at his daughter, and then broke into laughter. "And you let her?" He knew how much Pansy hated cats. She hated them passionately, with a force only rivalled by her protectiveness for Ivy and love for pink.

Her face fell completely. "What was I supposed to do? Besides, I wanted my owl back," she added deviously. Of course she had ulterior motives. She was a Slytherin, so her course of action had to have some advantages for herself. She wouldn't simply sacrifice her wellbeing without some form of compensation. Oh, how very proud he was.

"Give me half an hour to get ready," he said, and motioned for her to leave the room. He was going to London anyway, so why not make his daughters happy in the process? The London attack was scheduled a month from now, so they would be safe today.

*

When they got out of the Three Broomsticks, the first thing that hit them was the silence. The few shoppers that walked up and down Diagon Alley were very quiet, walking purposefully and staring them down with something between suspicion and loathing.

Pansy almost panicked. Please, please, don't let them get Ivy down, please don't let Ivy get upset, oh gods, I have to do something.

She put on an absolutely fake, absolutely beaming smile and took her sister's arm confidently. "Where shall we go first?" she asked in her most melodious voice.

"Twilfitt and Tatting's," came the prompt answer.

Mr Parkinson bid them goodbye and asked them to meet him at the Three Broomsticks in an hour, then left. The girls hurried to the shop, avoiding the eyes of the people they met on the way.

The saleswitch had graduated from Hufflepuff that year. She was blonde, short and rather plump, with a nervous smile attached permanently to her face.

She appeared out of nowhere as soon as Ivy and Pansy set foot in the store. "What can I get you?" she asked, sounding a little more jumpy than the last time Pansy had seen her. Then again, she had probably lost at least a member of her family this summer.

Ivy was the first to answer. "I want two sets of light pink velvet robes and two evening gowns. Do you have anything in vintage purple?"

"Sure, we have vintage gowns in the storeroom. I'll bring you a purple set for fitting!" She had already left when Ivy's slightly exasperated voice stopped her.

"I asked for gowns in vintage purple, not vintage gowns in purple. Please note the difference and pretend you know what you're doing."

Pansy snickered a little. It was always the same. Twilfitt got a fresh graduate to sell over the summer, and they always had a nervous breakdown by early fall. Then they had to get elves to sell until the next summer, when the whole thing repeated itself.

"Right, vintage purple. I'll be back in a jiffy," the blonde squeaked before disappearing through a side door.

"I'll be back in a jiffy?" Ivy mouthed fifteen minutes later, eyebrow raised; Pansy laughed soundlessly, then shrugged, mouthing "Hufflepuff."

Ivy shook her head, and then stood still for an exquisite set of robes to be fitted to her. Pansy did the same, having asked for a black cloak.

Fifteen minutes later, they were leaving the store with all the items Ivy had requested, plus a black cloak, two pink dresses, two black dresses and a black satin gown Pansy had longed for since third year, and shoes to match each of the outfits. They were laughing almost naturally, pointedly ignoring the looks people were giving them, almost believing this was just a normal shopping trip.

Ivy practically pulled the reluctant Pansy into the pet store, where she started cooing at each cage containing a cat. Pansy managed not to leave, and stood grudgingly in a corner, sneering at the nearest cat.

It took Ivy only five minutes to scream in delight. "This is it! My new pet!" she squeaked, pointing at a cage with a very furry white cat. Pansy thought she saw the cat raise an eyebrow, before realizing it was just a fold in its fur. Still, she had to admit it made it look intelligent and sort of Slytherin.

"I suppose it's as good as its species can get," she drawled. Ivy paid for it, having received consent from her sister, and they left. Pansy avoided looking at the feline, lip curled in barely restrained repulsion, while Ivy cooed at it.

Two minutes of annoying cooing later, Pansy had had enough. "Stop making these sounds. It's driving me mad."

Ivy looked at her reproachfully, and then stuck a finger through the bars of the cage to touch the cat's soft fur. Her finger was greeted with a swipe of a paw, leaving bloody trails in its wake.

"Ouch! Why, you little--"

Pansy snickered and decided to allow herself some Slytherin entertainment. "Oh, Ivy, I don't think it likes you," she said with exaggerated concern, earning a glare. "And to think you're stuck with it until you crack and strangle it..." She chuckled evilly, Ivy's glare intensified, and a few heads from the nearest street corner turned towards them.

Pansy's eyes narrowed when she recognized their faces. Great. Golden Gryffindors on a day out. "Oh, is there no place in wizard England where I can have a Weasley-free afternoon?" she drawled. "Hmm, probably not, as there are so many of you. But do you absolutely have to bring others with you? To pay the bills, I'll bet."

The Weasley King was being physically restrained from punching her by his sister, who looked as thought she was doing this only to punch her herself. Granger and Potter glared at her from their sides.

"You can have a Weasley-free afternoon in Knockturn Alley, pug-face," the Weasley girl retorted with a fierce look.

Pansy raised an eyebrow. "Why exactly would I go to Knockturn Alley? I am a respectable member of society. I do not associate with scum." She emphasized "respectable" and made sure it was clear she didn't consider them as such, but rather the latter category.

Potter's eyes blazed maliciously. "That's rich, coming from a Slytherin," he drawled in response.

Before Pansy could defend the honour of her House, Granger had already wisely dragged them away, followed by two very alert men that pretended not to be following the four teenagers around. Ivy and Pansy looked at each other with matching expressions of disgust, and then chorused, "Gryffindor bloodtraitors."

They sulkily went to the Three Broomsticks to meet their father.

He was expecting them to be at least as cheery as they had been earlier. When they entered looking gloomy, he immediately asked them what had happened.

"The youngest two of the Weasley spawn, Potter and his mudblood friend were in Diagon Alley," Pansy said in an undertone.

The wheels in his head turned so fast, it was almost painful. "Potter is in Diagon Alley? Right now?" he asked rather stupidly.

"Well, yes, unless he left; I guess it's possible, we saw him about ten minutes ago."

"I have to go. I set up a Portkey," he said, pointing at an old newspaper on a table. "It'll take you to the west gardens. Go home as fast as you can, but don't arouse suspicion," he added quietly. With a swirl of his black robes, he dashed out of the building.

The look that passed between the sisters spoke more than they would ever say. It spoke of darkness, approaching danger, fear for themselves and their father. Then, as fast as it came, the moment passed and they avoided each other's eyes.

Ivy's finger found its way back into the cage, where it was no longer rejected. Pansy stared at the newspaper. It was the one announcing the Notts' demise.

She shook herself mentally and decided to talk her way to calmness. "You know, you can't refer to it as 'the cat'. You should give it a name."

"I should, shouldn't I?" Ivy said thoughtfully. A smirk appeared at the corner of her mouth, causing a dimple to come into view. Pansy privately thought Ivy's single dimple looked adorable, but if she ever voiced said opinion, she would've been hexed into oblivion. So she just looked at her little sister expectantly.

"I probably should, but I won't. I'll just call it cat."

"Well, if it starts with a capital letter, it's still a name."

"No, just the noun. It's a cat, so I'll call it 'the cat'." She looked at the animal thoughtfully, then added, "Or 'my cat', if there are other cats around."

The way they debated childish things so seriously was one of the things that made them a sort of group-within-a-group in Slytherin. None of the others ever entered these exchanges, so it started being considered a 'sister thing'. Draco sometimes played the voice of reason--if the voice of reason drawled, that is--and ended these tête-à-têtes with a cutting remark on the silliness of the situation.

Right now, the matter settled itself with the cat being named 'cat" (without a capital C), a name worthy of its feline kind. At least it wasn't facing a life as 'Puffyschnoomple', like that poor anorexic cat of Millicent's. They stood in silence for a while; after briefly considering getting butterbeers and deciding not to, Pansy concluded it was time to leave.

"Shall we?" she asked, pointing at the newspaper, which was luckily folded so that the 'Recent attacks' headline wasn't visible.

Ivy nodded, so they grabbed their shopping bags, the cage and then laid a hand on the week-old newspaper, a supremely unimaginatively camouflaged Portkey made by their father.

*

Two minutes after they left The Three Broomsticks, some twenty Death Eaters Apparated in Diagon Alley. Their primary target was the Three Broomsticks. It lasted for about thirty seconds.

Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron and Ginny Weasley were already safely away.

*