The Innocents

Chapter Five

Theirs not to make a reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs is but to do or die.

- Lord Tennyson

*

Pansy got the shock of her life when she woke up next morning to look up at two shadowed, looming figures leaning over her bed. With a yelp and a lot of scurrying, she managed to put her wand between the intruders and her person, the tip aimed steadily at one of them. She focused on breathing, which she had not done since she was asleep, and allowed her brain to sift through its enormous bank of curse knowledge.

One of the figures removed its hood to reveal the startled face of Madeleine. She sighed and lowered the wand a little, but kept it trained at them.

"Careful where you point that thing, you might hurt somebody," Madeleine said in what was clearly an attempt at humour. Pansy would have none of it.

"Possibly the people looming over my bed at an ungodly hour of the morning," she drawled menacingly. "What are you playing at?"

Just as Madeleine opened her mouth in what was probably an explanation, the door burst open and Ivy stormed in, wand at the ready.

She took the scene in with the serenity of one who'd been a Slytherin at the same time as Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini, and asked, without looking at Pansy, "Do you need any assistance, sister?" Then she added, a little patronizingly, "I heard your yelp."

"I did not--" Pansy started indignantly, then realised her sister had a point. "Madeleine and, presumably, Jacques, were just preparing to give me an explanation as to why they were looming over my bed." She waggled the tip of her wand impatiently. "Go on, I'm listening, but there's a nice little curse I haven't tried yet and it sounds pretty appealing to me, so hurry."

Ivy stood motionless behind them with the air of someone who had been training for a moment like this since before they could form coherent sentences, which was partly true.

Madeleine cleared her throat nervously, trying to remember why she had thought waking a Slytherin up was a good idea. Pansy sent her a warning glare, so she opened her mouth to explain, but Jacques beat her to it.

"We're leaving. We were summoned ten minutes ago. We wanted to tell you goodbye." He shrugged. "So goodbye." He turned and walked towards the door, lowering Ivy's wand hand on the way out.

"Goodbye," said Madeleine, and turned to leave.

"You should know better that to wake a Slytherin up at sunrise, so I won't apologise for holding you at wandpoint. Goodbye, cousin," said Pansy.

"I believe we are to kill our mother today. She seems to regret having sent us into training." Her voice was so neutral, so utterly remorseless, that Ivy and Pansy shared a brief glance and a shudder at the thought that they could be forced to do the same to their father in a not-so-distant future.

"I hope that's not what you were summoned for, Madeleine," said Ivy in an equally neutral voice, although Pansy could tell it was more guarded than unfeeling. Ivy tried to find an emotion on her cousin's face, but the closest thing to feelings she noticed was a faint trace of boredom.

"I wouldn't mind, really. I hate her guts." The French girl shrugged elegantly and walked out of the room without another look back.

Ivy and Pansy looked at each other for a long moment, then blinked and stared at the windows. Each other's reflections were the only things they could face without their cold masks falling off.

"If I ever end up like that," Pansy declared, "I'll put myself out of my misery." Ivy just shrugged and went to fetch a bottle of Firewhiskey from her sister's wardrobe.

*

Just as the taut line of Pansy's mouth began to relax under the influence of five glasses of alcohol -and counting-, she suffered the second shock of the day.

A shabby grey owl was trying to fly through one of her windows, and had almost succeeded to knock itself unconscious before Pansy reached the window and let it in. She looked at the dirty spots the bird's head had left on the glass, and grudgingly began rummaging through one of the desk drawers for an owl treat.

Having fed the obviously malnourished owl, she removed the parchment from its outstretched leg and sat herself down at the desk to read the missive.

It was a good thing, too, because she might've collapsed had she been standing up. Her face turned ashen in perfect sync with the whitening of her knuckles and the slight tremble of her chin.

"Who is it from?" inquired Ivy.

"D-Draco," she managed to croak.

Ivy kept respectfully quiet while Pansy unrolled the letter and read it.

ALIVE ALONE HELP

She put the parchment on the desk and leaned back in the chair, closing her eyes as she slid down on the smooth surface.

Pansy's voice was tired and small. "Professor Snape washed his hands of him. He wants my help."

"What kind of help?" asked Ivy cautiously.

"He probably wants to stay here a few days until he figures out what he'll do next."

Something dark recoiled inside Ivy's stomach as she waited for her sister's decision. They couldn't take Malfoy in, not before they were absolutely sure they could not avoid choosing sides. Yet, not taking him in meant that her sister would be left without her fiancé, which could prove disastrous for her morale.

Pansy lifted her head purposefully and reached for some parchment and a quill. Then she set to writing her reply, sealed it with black wax and her rose locket, tied it to the owl's leg and sent it away.

"What did you tell him?" Ivy asked in a low, frightened voice.

Pansy turned from the window to look at Ivy. Ivy had to squint her eyes because of the sun behind her sister's head, and knew the effect was intentional.

"I said no. I will not allow him asylum at the Parkinson Estate. I also asked him not to attempt to contact me again, or any of his former friends, for that matter. He once told me that this is wartime, and that he would take help wherever he could find it. I made it clear to him that he wouldn't find any in Slytherin."

Pansy turned back to the window and watched the owl getting smaller and smaller, until it was only a black dot underneath the morning sun and disappeared behind a cloud. She closed the window calmly.

"Another rule of Slytherin is that, unlike other Houses, we turn our back to the defeated."

Ivy looked at the floor for a moment, then raised the bottle to her lips and, as she took a large gulp, thought, 'To Draco.' Now that his House had deserted him, he wouldn't last more than a week. Pansy had just sentenced him to death, and because Ivy knew how much her sister cared for the boy, she was extremely proud of her.

It must've taken some guts to apply the Slytherin rules on someone you loved.

*

Pansy liked Malfoy Manor for many reasons. The most obvious one was that she almost only went there for parties, anniversaries, or traditional feasts.

On this particular occasion, she was here for the Malfoy Midsummer Ball. It began as all these events did, with handshakes and polite greetings and discrete conversation about unbelievably dull things, like the latest charity work of lady Narcissa Malfoy; who bought what business from whom, and the upcoming marriages between the Purebloods who had graduated Hogwarts.

Pansy answered when she was asked a question, making sure her voice didn't sound bubbly or cheery in any way. She had to sound subdued, after all, she was Draco's new girlfriend. Just as our parents wanted it, she mused, idly sipping champagne from a flute and ignoring what the elderly witches next to her were saying.

It wasn't until a slightly annoyed cough reverberated almost directly into her right ear that she tuned back into the conversation, noticing the others were waiting for an answer from her. Oh great. Public humiliation, she thought bitterly. Just what I needed on this of all days.

She thanked all her lucky stars and a few random deities when Narcissa Malfoy laid her hand gently on her arm and excused her from the gathering a few uncomfortable seconds later, under the withering stares of the assembly.

As always, the sight of stunning lady Malfoy made her breath catch in her throat. She would kill to have hair like that. And those eyes... so different from Draco's under normal circumstances, yet so similar when they were in a good mood. Draco's eyes were slate grey, cold and unforgiving, but hers were like a summer storm - electrifying and very much alive.

Her eyes always remembered Pansy of the way Draco used to be when they were younger: all golden hair and smiles. Then he had turned eleven and he had been hardened by his father for school. His hair had turned that special shade of Malfoy silver, his smiles had become sneers and his eyes became angry and mocking.

She didn't miss the old Draco. The old Draco wasn't a survivor.

Narcissa half-dragged, half-pushed a compliant and puzzled Pansy through the crowds, all heads turning to watch them. They made a striking pair: Narcissa - tall, blonde, wearing a black dress, and Pansy - quite short, with her glossy black hair (the grooming of which only herself and the family accountant knew how much costed), wearing a dark pink attire.

As the guests inside the main building started to get less and less frequent, a feeling of nausea washed over Pansy. She could feel the approaching marriage talk. As if she hadn't already had enough of those.

Narcissa opened a narrow set of double doors and stepped aside, motioning for Pansy to enter the room beyond. The view that met her eyes was far from what she had expected. She thought she would be taken to one of those intimidating, dimly lit ancient studies with stone walls and unpolished granite floors, worn smooth by centuries of elegant steps. Instead, the room was warmly lit with dozens of candles set on every surface available, that is to say, not covered with books or comfortable-looking armchairs.

Narcissa closed the door with a small click and the room lapsed into silence. The crackling of the burning candles was eerie, and the smell of smoke was intoxicating. It didn't quite mask the scent of perfume that wafted from the cushions of the seats, from the very walls, sweet and heady, unmistakably Narcissa's.

"Take a seat, Pansy," the older woman said pleasantly, still on "polite party" mode.

Pansy obeyed and, not without gratitude, eased herself into one of the armchairs. It was probably the most comfortable chair she'd ever sat on, but she knew she couldn't just ask what charms had been used for it. She chanced a look at the armrest: beige and midnight blue silk. A French chair. So very chic. So very classy. The charms were woven into the material itself, which meant they never faded.

A discrete coughing reminded her that she hadn't been brought to what could only be Narcissa Malfoy's private chambers to admire the furniture. No, there would be a talk coming up. Strangely, Pansy's feeling were not in the same range as they were when her father had given her the Pureblood Marriage talk two years before; she had been angry then, as she was referred to as if she were a thoroughbred horse, valuable and abysmally stupid and easily mastered. Now she felt almost connected to the other person.

Yes, Narcissa Malfoy, born Black, had been in the same situation seventeen years ago. Narcissa Malfoy, who had been reduced to organizing charity works and balls, was once a smart, young, beautiful witch. Rumour had it, she was forced to marry Lucius Malfoy to clear the family name after the third Black sister had run away with a muggle. Pansy knew better. She had seen the way Narcissa looked at her husband and son; she was proud of them.

"Pansy, the reason I brought you here is your new relationship with my son," she stated bluntly. Beating around the bush was for party guests and the more daft people who found themselves in this room. Pansy was not one of them.

"Yes, Mrs. Malfoy," she recited flatly. "My father and your husband have arranged the terms of an engagement. We have three months to decide whether we agree to get married and for courtship." They both knew what that really meant. Draco had three months to make sure she was the witch he'd chief around for the rest of his life, while she had to accept him without protest. It was their families' business, not theirs.

"This isn't what I was talking about." Pansy started almost imperceptibly. "I was talking about your relationship with my son. You were talking about business arrangements."

Pansy nodded stupidly, more than a little baffled. "Well, this is what everyone refers to when they bring up my relationship with Draco, so I assumed..." She let the sentence trail away, struggling to convey all her questions and fears and doubts in a single fleeting look into the other woman's blue eyes, before gazing past her and out an arched window. Now that her ears had gotten used to the silence, she could hear the sounds from the party below. It didn't help the feeling of isolation she had suddenly developed.

"Pansy, there's more to marriage than that. Tell me, do you love my son?" asked Narcissa softly, but with an iron undercurrent that turned the question into an intimidating demand.

The girl stared out the window. It wasn't a question she dared ask herself in broad daylight, but now, surrounded by candles and that strong perfume - sweet roses and musk with a hint of lemon, something precious that could never be bottled; the scent of lady Malfoy's skin - she finally let go of her mind.

Predictably, memories of Draco flashed in front of her eyes. Draco, with a scraped knee, ten years ago to the day, angry tears spilling down his cheeks; Draco, flaunting his new broom when he was ten. Draco, disappointment and fury contorting his face on the last day of their first year; Draco, on the Quidditch pitch, with the sun setting behind him, bathing his hair in crimson ink, silvery eyes searching the air for the Snitch. Between these random images, there were the ever-present sneers he sent in the general direction of the Gryffindors, which became withering glares when his eyes locking with Potter's.

You'll be next, Mudbloods... I bet you're not dangerous at all...

Silver hair, silver eyes, deadly pale skin, pointy features; the ever-moving mouth that only knows how to hurt and command now. The distant memory of that mouth smiling genuinely, those eyes flashing with excitement, that skin flushed swam in front of her eyes, then melted and vanished. That golden boy she once knew was gone. He had been vulnerable, impressionable. He had once been warm, like his mother, both made of golden threads that broke easily; now he was cold silver, like his father.

She knew it was for the best.

She knew she had once been gentle, and free, and wild, and that she had changed as soon as she set foot on the Hogwarts Express. She hadn't changed to mirror him or because she had been told to, but because she wanted to make sure he wouldn't turn back. Her father had told her a story when she was little, about a boy who was too soft for Slytherin... and he had never made it to his graduation, oh no, he was buried somewhere near their estate in a muggle cemetery, not even in a wizard cemetery.

She knew she would to it again if she had the chance.

That was her answer.

She allowed her eyes to lock with Narcissa's. "Yes," she said simply, and they nodded in unison.

"Good."

They looked into each other's eyes for a long time, but time didn't seem to have any relevance in this room. Then Narcissa looked out the window, and her eyes glazed over.

"He's in great danger, my son. The Dark Lord will use him to get revenge on his father. Draco is too weak to carry the burden of his lineage, a thousand years of crime and hatred coursing through his veins with the blood of the Blacks and the Malfoys. He was never strong enough. That's why I didn't allow Lucius to send him to Durmstrang. Goddess only knows what might've happened to him there... it's not like Hogwarts, you know. It's full of ancient feuds and strong wizards from all the great families of Europe, all pulsing with the dark magic that is part of those crumbling walls."

Narcissa looked at Pansy thoughtfully. "We British wizard families think we're the most important, but we're not. It's the illusion of islands. We haven't had many fights for land or bloodlines; there aren't enough of us for that. However, on the mainland, even those of the purest blood must fight for supremacy. That's why Draco was not sent to Durmstrang. It's like a giant Slytherin House where dark magic is permitted." Pansy shuddered. "At least ten students out of each generation never make it to graduation. These... incidents... are never mentioned. It's as though they didn't exist at all."

Pansy stared in the flame of a candle on the floor. Despite the high temperature of the room, her skin was dreadfully cold.

"Pansy, the reason I always encouraged my son to seek your company was not your blood." The girl's head shot up, a bewildered look on her face. "I chose you because you are just as ruthless as my son, but don't use that ruthlessness so casually. You can keep him on track. You can help him survive this year. It won't be easy, but I'll get you two some help. I can't tell you much about it, the details are out of my reach for the moment, but you have to promise to tell me everything that happens to him. Don't let him get sidetracked!" A hint of desperation slipped in her tone, and it chilled Pansy to the core.

"I promise. I'll do everything I can to keep him alive." They touched the tips of their fingers lightly, and an electric discharge shot through their arms. Contractual magic, Pansy realized with a jolt. May the deities bless the many loopholes of the English language! I only promised to do my best. I didn't bind my life to his. Yet.

She gulped.

Yet.

Narcissa smiled at her, the soothing smile that had turned her into the best-known society woman of the isles. Pansy felt immediately better and even managed to send a weak smile back.

The moment passed quickly. They straightened their backs at the same time, ran their fingers through their hair, smoothed their robes and got to their feet. Narcissa led the way to the door.

Once they both reached it, she placed a hand on Pansy's arm to stop her. "This room is placed under a very powerful charm. Nothing that was spoken here can be mentioned in the outside world; time has no relevance within these walls; and if any promise that is made here is broken, the penalty is immediate and painful death."

She turned to search Pansy's face, her own forehead creased with concern. The girl immediately realized what she was looking for. "I won't back down."

Narcissa relaxed, smiled again, gave her the briefest of hugs (Pansy was pretty sure not even Draco had been hugged by her), and led the girl back to the party.

As she watched the indecipherable lady Malfoy disappear into the crowd, Pansy met Draco's eyes. They smirked in unison, with years of practice.

No regrets, she thought, as he linked his arm with hers to lead her to the dance floor for the traditional waltz.

They swayed and glided across the polished floors, eyes locked, her skin warm where it touched his robes.

*

Pansy had always liked Draco Malfoy. She liked the fact that he was imperious, and ironic, and unforgiving. He was also funny, which was appreciated a great deal more when you were not on the sharp end of his remarks. She liked the fact that he expected everything to be delivered to him, and he didn't mind cheating and lying in the slightest if it meant he could get his way.

He was the perfect Slytherin.

Over the past year, his jokes had stopped being a common sound in the Slytherin common room. His presence was rarely noted, and when he was there, his thoughts were obviously somewhere else. In the end, the only person he actually had conversations with was Pansy, and although he never revealed anything about the possible failure of his plans, Pansy knew from the tension in his shoulders and jaws that he was not successful.

She wanted him to succeed desperately.

When he did not, she almost resigned herself to his upcoming death. He somehow managed to survive, and hope started nagging at her mind. What if he was still in the Dark Lord's good graces? Could she still marry him next year, as they had planned?

Then the crushing news came, after only a week, that he was on the run. That hope that had nagged at her mind stubbornly refused to be crushed by sense. If he's alive, maybe there's still a chance...

And now this. His only protector, Professor Snape, had done the Slytherin thing and saved his own skin. She couldn't blame him in the slightest. The man had already done enough, killing Dumbledore for his protégé, and risking his neck for his safety. It was about time he came into his senses.

Pansy had received her fiancé's letter with dread. She had no choice but to shun him. He was hunted by both sides, and to house him would be suicidal. Her deal with Narcissa Malfoy clearly stated that she would do everything she could to help him; this was beyond her power. So she had done the Slytherin thing too, just like her former Head of House.

She had killed him without the slightest bit of hesitance. She knew he'd understand.

Her only regret was that she wouldn't be able to visit his grave to say goodbye.

There was never much left to bury these days.

*

Pansy got systematically drunk over the remainder of the week, sometimes to the point where she passed out and had to be carried to her bed. She had taken up a diet that consisted mainly of alcohol, especially the all-time favourite of wizardkind, Ogden's Olde Firewhiskey.

She would have three-quarters of a bottle for lunch, having slept through breakfast, a couple of shots every other hour -presumably snacks-, half a bottle for tea and the other half for dinner. Then there were more hourly snacks and the third and most important meal of the day, which stretched from midnight until the small hours of the morning.

While on this liquid diet, especially at meal times, Pansy stood in a chair in front of the fireplace and glared at the ashes. She occasionally burst out and lit the fire, threw something in it, watched it burn with savage eyes, then extinguished the fire and resumed her drinking where she had left it.

Ivy was getting worried. On this particular afternoon, the ashes seemed to have done something unbelievably offensive to her inebriated sister, because the death glare she pinned them down with could've melted the ice caps. When the cat walked in front of her, breaking her eye-contact with the obnoxious charred wood, Pansy had thrown her slipper at it with a yell.

Ivy decided it was time to step in and stop the madness.

She waited patiently behind the door for her sister to finish the bottle; then, as if she hadn't planned anything, she walked in bearing a bottle of Ogden's. She offered it to her sister, after she pretended to take a swig from it.

"What is it?" Pansy asked suspiciously. Ivy would've been offended and unprepared had she not been a Slytherin, but it was not the case.

"Alcohol. I decided to join you in your silent suicide attempt. Sisterly unity and all that."

Pansy seemed unconvinced, but as she couldn't summon the energy to take another bottle from her closet and she couldn't Accio it for fear it might break, she settled for taking a few gulps from the bottle her sister had given her.

She immediately recognised the taste, and it was not alcohol. She spat a mouthful on the expensive carpet and looked at her sister with murder in her eyes.

"Sobering Potion! How dare you!"

Ivy had had enough.

"No, how dare you! How dare you break down and leave me alone? How dare you get drunk while I have to take responsibility for both of us? How dare you do that to me? To yourself? To our father?" she drawled venomously and deliberately.

By this point they were standing three feet away from each other, wands at the ready. Pansy's eyes were narrowed to slits and she was taking large, calming breaths. After a few seconds she seemed to collapse in on herself. With a shuddering breath, she slid ungracefully to the floor, a tear rolling down her left cheek and many more welling in her eyes.

Ivy kneeled next to her, completely at a loss. She could handle angry Pansy, even violent Pansy; blank Pansy; but nothing like this. Ivy couldn't recall this ever happening before.

She put an arm awkwardly around her shoulders and produced a handkerchief from her pocket, with which she dabbed away a few tears from Pansy's face.

"I can't do it anymore," whispered Pansy in a pained voice. "I can't be strong anymore. I don't think I ever was--"

"Then someone must've Polyjuiced themselves into you all summer, because you sure as hell seemed strong to me. You came up with a plan to keep us safe, and you did the right thing, turning Draco down."

"I-I dream about him every night. How he must be a-alone and scared, and cut off from the world. He was never very brave." Her voice broke and she only managed to regain control over her throat with great effort. "I think he'll do himself in if he isn't killed soon," she croaked miserably, and leaned her forehead against the curve of Ivy's neck, sobbing silently.

Ivy stroked her hair. "Shhh, shhh, don't cry. It's not your fault. It's just the way things are. Drinking yourself into a stupor won't change anything. And I don't think he would approve of your rather lank, dirty hair, either." She felt Pansy smiling against her collarbone.

"He wouldn't, would he?" she said a little more steadily.

Ivy lifted her face by the chin and dabbed the fresh tears away. "Let's get you cleaned up." She lifted Pansy bodily off the floor, which wasn't hard since they were almost the same height, and started walking carefully towards the bathroom, while trying to keep her sister upright.

When they finally entered the bathroom, she sat Pansy down on the edge of the bathtub and quietly filled it with foamy water. Pansy sedately got undressed (Ivy had turned her back politely) and settled herself amongst the perfumed bubbles.

Ivy got herself a chair, and while she was outside, she got an elf to clean up the room. She then placed the chair next to a steamy, pink wall and almost immediately dozed off.

When she was just barely awake, Pansy whispered her name.

"Mmmyeah?" she answered sleepily.

"Thank you."

"No problem." She smiled, and within a few seconds she was dreaming about riding hippogriffs.

Pansy smiled too, and for the first time in five days, she didn't feel the need to drink. She wouldn't miss this moment for the world.

*

Another owl attempted to fly through her window that week. On her second day of soberness, a repeated thumping against the glass aroused her from deep relaxation. The message was concise:

I have completed training. I'll be visiting you later today.

Blaise

It was not a request; he was simply stating the fact. It wasn't uncommon for him to send a note with an owl a few hours before visiting her. However, he was not normally branded with the Dark Lord's mark.

She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself down. He was still her friend. Her ally, at the worst. She would simply wait for him to set the tone of their conversation.

After she checked with her godfather that Blaise Zabini wouldn't be bent on murder, she started to get truly worried. Something important must be happening if he decided to make a house call not two days upon becoming a Death Eater.

*

Tippy the house elf knocked at her door at quarter past five.

"Mr Zabini here to visit you, Miss," it announced in an annoyingly high-pitched voice.

"Let him in and" - she checked the clock on the wall - "bring us some tea."

Blaise walked in, looking quite cheerful considering where he was coming from. He flashed his very white smile at her, and she beckoned for him to sit down. He did so, and then accepted a cup of tea.

"How have you been?" he asked pleasantly.

"Fine, fine. Holding up." She took a sip of tea from the cup she nursed between her hands and watched the steam billowing from its surface. "Draco contacted me."

He visibly tensed. "What did you tell him?" he asked in a low voice.

"I told him that, speaking in the name of all Slytherins, he can sod off. Or something along those lines."

He chuckled and relaxed again. "Never the sentimental type, are you, Pansy?"

She smiled sweetly. "Not unless I'm terribly angry. At that point the subject of my annoyance would better get out of the way." She took another sip and smiled around the brim of the cup. Blaise smiled back.

"Have you heard anything about him? I mean, is he still alive?" She managed to get the question to sound casual. She was beyond caring about Draco. At this point, she wouldn't spit on him if he was on fire. He was a disappointment.

"I don't know. No-one boasted about having killed him, though." He shrugged and waved the subject away. "But I'm not here to talk about Draco." Pansy raised an eyebrow questioningly. "I'm here to make you a business proposition."

"I'm listening," she replied smoothly.

"My mother has moved to Italy with her new husband. I am of age, and can therefore claim the inheritance my father left me. It wasn't much originally, but the stocks are now worth approximately one hundred and fifty times more than when he died." She nodded, and waited for him to continue. "It's a truth universally acknowledged, that a young man in possession of a fortune, should find a suitable wife."

At this point she shifted uncomfortably in her chair. The air was suddenly too warm, and wasn't the room a little larger than this?...

"Pansy, I've known you since we were children. You're attractive, and we get along well. You come from a good family, that is, you have money and you're pure-blooded. After some careful deliberation, I have concluded that you would be the most suitable wife for me."

She gulped and set the cup on the coffee table. "Blaise..."

"You're going to die before the end of the summer. Your sister and father, too." Her face became ashen. "If you agree to marry me, your sister would be spared." His eyes bore holes into hers. "I don't mind being the second choice... as long as I'm chosen."

"Only my sister?" she whispered.

He nodded slowly. "I have already risked my neck to get this much. Your father is persona non grata for the Dark Lord. He has screwed things up too much for himself."

She was studying the carpet underneath their feet as he said this. "I see," she sighed. "I'm very grateful for the offer, Blaise."

"Does that mean?..."

She slowly lifted her eyes to his, and his gaze was so intense, so expectant, that she immediately made up her mind. "I'll take it."

He got up from his chair and strode to hers. They shook hands, and the contractual magic flowed between them. She could smell him, musk and honey and danger, intoxicating as ever. He had chosen to save her. He had chosen to try again.

"Thank you," she mouthed to him.

He shrugged. She needn't mention it. The pleasure was all his.

*

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him that I'll marry him." Pansy was smiling slightly, then she remembered the first part of the bargain and the smile slid right off her face.

"What?"

"He says that father is as good as dead."

Ivy rubbed her eyes vigorously with cold fingers and sighed mightily. "I always suspected he would screw things up," she said tonelessly. "Our plans were made practically around him, because we knew we couldn't save him."

"I know. But that doesn't make it alright for us to have to sit by, waiting for our father to be tortured and killed."

"Does it make me a truly horrible person if I say that I don't care anymore? I'm done caring. He was never a good father, and we were always good daughters. It's cosmic justice."

"Possibly," Pansy conceded. "And since when do you care if you're a horrible person?"

"I don't. I have no conscience, in any case." Which reminded Pansy...

"Ivy, what exactly happened to Madame Clotilde?"

Ivy raised an eyebrow at her sister. "This morbid curiosity of yours is tiring sometimes." She sighed and decided it was about time she came clean. "I raised the corner of the carpet at the top of the stairs in hope she'd trip and break her leg, and thus leave me alone for a couple of weeks while she rested and recovered. As it happened, it was her spine that was broken." She shrugged.

"Didn't matter to me then, doesn't matter to me now. Another week and I would've probably smothered her in her sleep, anyway. She had taken to hexing me when I was disobedient, and I have to tell you, I still have some of the nastier scars. I just hid them underneath my clothes after she died and refused to get rid of them. They reminded me that revenge is possible even against the cruellest of tyrants."

Pansy looked at Ivy, feeling as though it was the first time she saw her. Her little sister had killed when she was ten. Her little sister had scars from where she had been hurt as a child.

All she could say was, "I'm sorry I couldn't see it. And I'm sorry I didn't kill her for you."

*