Blood Red Roses

Blood Red Roses

"Now, when you get into the fire, say where you're going — "

"And keep your elbows tucked in," Ron advised.

"And your eyes shut," said Mrs. Weasley. "The soot — "

"Don't fidget," said Ron. "Or you might well fall out of the wrong fireplace — "

"But don't panic or get out too early; wait until you see Fred or George."

Trying to bear all this in mind, Harry took a pinch of Floo powder and walked to the edge of the fire. He took a deep breath, scattered the powder into the flames and stepped forward; the fire felt like a warm breeze; he opened his mouth and immediately swallowed a lot of hot ash.

"D-Dia-gon Alley," he coughed.

It felt as if he were being sucked down a giant drain. He seemed to be spinning very fast — the roaring in his ears was deafening — he tried to keep his eyes open but the whirl of green flames made him sick — something hard knocked his elbow and he tucked it in tightly, still spinning and spinning — now it felt as though cold hands were slapping his face — squinting through his glasses he saw a blurred stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the rooms beyond — his bacon sandwiches were churning inside him — he closed his eyes again wishing it would stop, and then —

He fell, face forward, onto cold stone and felt the bridges of his glasses snap.

Dizzy and bruised, covered in soot, he got gingerly to his feet, holding his broken glasses up to his eyes. He was quite alone, but where he was he had no idea. All he could tell was that he was standing in the stone fireplace of what looked like a large, dimly lit wizard's shop — but nothing in here was ever likely to be on be on a Hogwarts school list.

Books with morbid and unthinkable titles filled two large bookcases to his right. Colorful vials and glass bottles occupied a table to his left, some of its liquid contents bubbling and sizzling. In front of him were stacks of crate boxes which reeked of something awful. A dark box that looked suspiciously like a coffin was propped up on one of the walls while a wooden case beside it held various swords and weapons. Hanging from the ceiling was an old and rusty chandelier, where his only source of light came from. There were no windows and only one door found on top of a three-layered step — definitely not a wizard's shop.

The knob of the door he'd been staring at turned and the deep voice of a man filled the room.

"Have him wait for me in the Library," the man said, before opening the door fully and stepping in.

Harry quickly ducked into the fireplace, slightly obscured from view by the crate boxes. He watched as the man descended down the steps to count the number of glass bottles on the table, a parchment and quill in hand. The man looked too familiar for comfort — the same pale, pointed face and white-blond hair that Harry had grown to despise.

After the man was finished counting, he scribbled something down on the parchment, rolled it up and left. Harry waited a few moments before climbing out of the his hiding place. He dusted himself off as best as he could before following after the man, taking extra precautions not to turn the knob too loudly or noticeably. He peeked through the little space he made with the door, relieved to see no one around.

The room he was in now was a complete turnaround from the room he had just been in. Highly polished marble floors met his feet, covering every inch of the room while the walls looked to be made of some old, precious stone. Antiques donned the walls and tables, with expensive linen decoratively thrown over the chairs and couches. Sunlight filtered in from a glass door that may as well have been the entire wall, and through it he could see a fraction of a lush garden. It was nothing short of magnificent.

Again, there was only one door exactly opposite from where he stood. He tip-toed towards it, almost afraid of ruining the beauty of the room with his soot-covered sneakers. He paused just as his hand made contact with the knob. There were voices coming from the other side, growing closer and closer. Panicked, Harry made a wild dash to the glass door which had been closer to reach than the one he came from.

There was a small gazebo-like greenhouse that Harry quickly ran into, crouching beneath one of the work tables so that he could still see the garden, yet hidden from view. He spotted the owners of the voice through the glass doors and groaned upon recognizing them. Draco Malfoy stood with one hand on the door's handle, speaking softly to a boy Harry knew to be in his year and a Slytherin.

It wasn't long before Malfoy opened the door and the two boys walked into the garden, much to Harry's chagrin. They walked along the row of rosebushes, stopping when they were only a few feet away from the greenhouse Harry had hidden in. They spoke clearly, giving Harry no trouble listening in — though he was hardly interested in doing so.

"It's a pity," said the boy whose name Harry couldn't remember. "I was hoping he would have been sacked by now."

"I had hoped it since first year," said Malfoy. He sounded odd, possibly because Harry wasn't used to hearing him say something without sarcasm or snide.

"I suppose it'll only be a matter of time," the boy continued. "Soon enough everyone will realize what a crackpot Dumbledore is."

Harry felt the pit of his stomach surge in hot anger. His dislike for the boy was steadily growing with each word he spoke.

"But once he's gone, that old bat will only be put in his place," Malfoy pointed out. "What then, Nott?"

The name had registered in Harry's brain and the connection was made. He immediately recognized the boy as Theodore Nott, but he hardly hung around with Malfoy. Harry wondered what business he had with Malfoy; it sounded like they were plotting to take over the school — which isn't so far off, now that Harry thought about it.

"McGonagall is slightly better than Dumbledore," Nott reasoned, and Malfoy could only nod.

It was odd listening to the two Slytherins. Harry wasn't used to seeing Malfoy play second fiddle to anybody, and from the way Malfoy constantly played with his fingers, he supposed Malfoy wasn't either. Harry had known Nott to be this sort of quiet loner, so hearing him speak with such authority was slightly unnerving.

"Although she would have to go as well," Nott continued. Again, Malfoy only nodded.

Odd odd odd…

"Then once she's gone, Snape could be Headmaster."

Fat chance, Harry snorted.

"Then we'd finally see some fairness in that school," Malfoy agreed, and Harry rolled his eyes.

"Indeed," muttered Nott, a slow but evil smile creeping onto his face. "And that blasted Potter would finally get what he deserves."

Harry huffed, turning slightly so he could get better hearing. He was definitely interested now.

"No more breaking the school rules without punishment," grinned Malfoy. "Slytherin'll surely get the House Cup then."

"Not just that," said Nott, whose smile was starting to look feral. "He'd truly get what he deserves."

Both Malfoy and Harry looked at him. "What do you mean?" Malfoy asked slowly.

"I mean," Nott drawled, "with Dumbledore gone, whose to save the prat from the Dark Lord?"

Harry stared. There was something terribly wrong when twelve-year-olds spoke freely of Voldemort. Although with Slytherins — especially these Slytherins — he supposed he shouldn't be so surprised.

Still…

"No one, I guess," said Malfoy. He looked kind of put off with Nott's blunt attitude.

"Exactly. We'd finally be rid of him." He was looking proud before Malfoy spoke up.

"You're saying that like it's so easy," he chided. "Potter got the Dark Lord once, didn't he? I doubt hacking him off is as easy as it sounds."

"Please," Nott scoffed. "He survived because his mother saved him. He's nothing special."

"I heard differently," said Malfoy. He was playing with his fingers again. "Father said there's something weird about him… something different."

Again, Nott scoffed. "The only difference he has with us in power is blood. He won't stand a chance."

A long silence followed his statement, disturbed only by the gravel Malfoy was kicking around. The position Harry had put himself in was increasingly getting uncomfortable. He was massaging the strain in his neck when Malfoy spoke again.

"But even your father admitted that not all seemed right with Potter. There must be something about him that makes him such a threat that the Dark Lord himself wants him gone."

Nott thought about it before answering. "I suppose there is something about him…" He paused, something catching his eye. "Perhaps it is his blood that makes him so special…" He reached out and plucked a single red rose from one of the bushes, looking at it thoughtfully.

"But he's a half-blood," Malfoy said incredulously. "How is that…" Then it dawned on him. He turned to Nott, who was busy examining the rose in his hand. "But it doesn't make sense," said Malfoy. "You'd think with the way he regards Muggles and Mud bloods, that he'd think lowly of Potter instead of be afraid of him."

Nott held the rose firmly in his hand and crushed the stem as he gave Malfoy a cold look. "The Dark Lord isn't afraid of him," he said with conviction. "He wouldn't go out of his way to kill Potter if he didn't have his reasons."

Harry watched as Malfoy frowned deeply, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. Nott was smiling wickedly at him, the grip he hand on the rose never faltering.

"You aren't giving the Dark Lord enough credit, Draco," sneered Nott. He held out the hand that held the rose and squeezed. Harry watched in gross horror as Nott let his own blood dribble down from the rose's thorns to the ground.

Suddenly the glass door opened, revealing the man Harry had seen earlier, whom he supposed was Malfoy's father, and another man that he assumed was Nott's.

"Our guests are leaving now," barked Mr. Malfoy.

Nott gave Malfoy one last smirk before turning towards the door, throwing the crumpled rose over his shoulder. Slowly after, Malfoy followed, his knuckles white from suppressed anger. Harry stayed where he was til he could no longer see anyone through the glass room.

When he was sure it was safe, he ran back to the dark room without sparing a look back. He spotted a small vase on the fireplace's mantle, nearly jumping for joy when he saw it held Floo powder. He took a bit less than he did before, sprinkled it in, and said, as clearly as he could, "Diagon Alley!"

The journey did not seem as long or sickening as the last one, but that was probably because he wasn't really paying attention. Before he knew it, he was back on his stomach, coughing madly as the soot flew up to his face. He cleaned off his glasses, taking in the dingy alleyway of shops that seemed devoted entirely to the Dark Arts — shops that were definitely not of Diagon Alley.

Harry let out a sound that could only be called a whimper.

Not again...

Fin.