The Curse of Charon

Chapter Four

For Kirsty

Four in the morning. Smacked out, yawning.

Random articles of clothing are strewn across the floor. Armies of empty gin bottles have invaded my carpet, and their contents are wreaking their havoc on the fortress of my mind. The gin has taken me prisoner, and like a Trojan horse I willingly let it in. Now it destroys me, from the inside out.

The piece of tinfoil gleams from a corner of the room, and makes my head ache. More so.

The toilet bowl is calling my name, and the can of paint thinner next to the sink is calling my nose.

*

"Are you all right, Blaise?" Professor Lupin asked. "You look very pale."

"Yes sir, fine sir, never felt better sir," she replied, a little too quickly.

"I'm still not sure. Maybe you should see Madam Pomfrey." Lupin looked genuinely concerned.

"I'm really fine, sir. It's nothing."

"Still, I want you to go and see her. Can you make it over to the hospital wing?"

"Of course I can, sir," she replied, slightly annoyed with Lupin's insistence. "I'm fine."

She got up from her desk very quickly and strode towards the door. There was a horrible crack against the stone as her head hit the floor.

"Oh dear," said Professor Lupin.

*

Roger Zabini unlocked his front door, opened it, and clutched briefly at the doorframe as another wave of pain rushed up his left arm. He steadied himself, straightened up, removed his heavy cloak and headed towards his study, a fairly large room just off the hall. Instead of the house being filled with the sounds of his wife and child, as he would have expected upon returning home, he was met with silence.

He pushed open the study door and saw a blond man in flowing black robes sitting on his sofa. He had a particularly nasty smile on his face, far worse than anything Roger had seen before.

"Lucius. What the hell are you doing here? Did Rose let you in?" Lucius' smile broadened, until it stretched mercilessly across his entire face.

"Oh no, I let myself in," he said, and sniggered slightly.

"I didn't know you had a key," Roger replied, unsure of what else to say.

"There are other ways to get into a house. Have you been associating with Muggles for too long? Forgotten the sweet word Alohomora?" Lucius laughed softly again.

"Of course not!" said Roger, blushing furiously. "It just slipped my mind for a second." He winced and clutched his arm, trying to hide his injury from Lucius.

Malfoy was too quick, and he grasped Roger by the wrist and thrust his sleeve up. Roger bit hard into his lip, desperate not to show any weakness. Lucius fingered the red, angry skin gently. Roger tasted blood in his mouth.

"My master did a good job on this," Lucius said softly, awestruck by the horrible, burnt limb. "Some day I hope to be as great as him." Roger laughed at this.

"It's never going to happen, Malfoy, because you're weak and spineless. You do your master's bidding, without caring how evil it is or how it wrecks the lives of others. You're too afraid of him to look him in the eyes and say 'no'. All you'll ever be is a sidekick, Malfoy. Accept it."

Lucius grew pale, more so than usual, and squeezed Roger's arm.

"You'd know all about evil, wouldn't you, Zabini?" he hissed. "Because your precious Dumbledore told you everything there is to know about it when he brainwashed you. I am fighting for what I believe in, you are fighting for an old man wearing a brightly coloured bed sheet! All this trash about good and evil. There is only power, and those who are too weak to seek it. My power has already begun to come to me. I have risen highly among the ranks of my lord, and I have a future, a future that is mine and mine alone."

"How can it be your future only if your 'lord', as you insist on calling that excuse for a sorcerer, almost owns you? And more to the point, have you seen Rose? Or Blaise?"

Lucius' scowl disappeared at the mention of Roger's wife and daughter, and his nasty smile returned.

"They're gone now, Roger. Far, far away. And it's my unhappy task to help you join them. Avada Kedavra!"

Lucius picked himself up off the sofa and stepped over the gently smoking corpse of one of his oldest friends, complete with surprised expression and slightly twisted corpse. Lucius bounced slightly from the buzz that bloodlust had given him.

*

The night drifted away slowly, the darkness abated slightly, and when a ray of potent sunlight lazily made it's way through the window of a dungeon room, Draco Malfoy woke.

He had been lying on his bed for hours, favouring it over his usual nocturnal hideout. Having his father so friendly with Severus Snape did have its advantages, if it meant a room of one's own.

The restless turmoil of the early night, in the Gryffindor dormitory, had ebbed away as the hours washed over him, and he felt increasingly drained and even more frustrated as the night wore on. He still hadn't found an answer to the questions he had posed in his self-interrogation of three hours ago, and worse; he was beginning to forget the questions themselves. It was almost ten o'clock, he was already late for class, but he couldn't get up.

I suppose there comes a time in every man's life where getting out of bed in the morning no longer seems a plausible option, he thought. I just hadn't expected it at sixteen.

There was only one course of action as far as he could see. His only lesson was double Potions in the morning that he was already late for, the rest of the day he had free, and Professor Snape rarely cared if he missed a class or two.

And to justify it, I will spend today getting so drunk I'm bound to throw up once or twice.

Why not? He had done it before, a few times, although not like he intended to today. This would be the binge to end all binges.

He slowly lifted himself from his bed, pulled a few bottles from one of the cupboards dotted around the room. He took a long swig from the first one, a bottle of cherry brandy that his father had magically 'enhanced' over the summer, and lay back down.

Lucky I have an en suite bathroom, really.

*

"How is she?" Lupin asked of Madam Pomfrey in a corner of the hospital wing.

"She should be ok. The damage she caused by hitting her head isn't too bad, and we know why she fainted. We just don't know what brought it on."

"Why did she faint?" he asked, keeping his voice low out of respect for the few students who were sleeping behind the curtains that sectioned the wing off.

"She didn't just faint, Remus, she almost died. She just stopped breathing, and her heart slowed right down. It was cracking her head against the floor that jerked it back into working again." Remus looked agonised.

"If only I had noticed earlier. I sent her to see you when I noticed she didn't look well, I'd have made her go earlier if I'd known."

"There was no way you could have known, Remus, not even that fantastic nose of yours could have smelled this out. She's a rare one, and I have a feeling this is deeply linked to her Gold Centre. How did she end up in Slytherin?"

"I've been wondering that myself," he said, stroking his chin gently.

"There's nothing else you can do here, Remus. I'll tell her you came when she wakes up. Go back to your quarters and rest. You're not looking so well yourself. Nearly time for the full moon?"

Remus smiled wearily and nodded.

"Next weekend."

"Well you just go back to your room and lie down. Can I give you anything? A sleeping draught, perhaps?" she asked. He shook his head.

"I'll be fine."

"That's what Blaise said," she called after him as he left the room. He smiled slightly and shut the door quietly.

Blaise was stirring, and Madam Pomfrey slipped between the curtains that were pulled around her bed.

"I don't feel like me any more," she said, and tried to sit up. Madam Pomfrey stopped her.

"Don't sit up. The bleeding has just stopped."

"Bleeding?" asked Blaise, worried.

"You passed out in Defence Against the Dark Arts, after Professor Lupin asked you to come and see me when you looked ill. Lucky he did, really. For a minute, you died." Blaise became pale.

"Died?" she asked quietly, her voice trembling.

"Died. Your heart slowed right down and you stopped breathing."

"Why?" Blaise asked, shaking a little.

"We're not entirely sure yet," said Madam Pomfrey, over aware of the lie she had told. "We took some of your blood, and Professor Snape is going to test it for us."

Blaise nodded and sank back into her pillows.

"Now tell me if you feel any different," Madam Pomfrey said as she closed the curtains of the cubicle. Blaise did feel different. She felt as though nothing that had happened before mattered any more, like it made no difference to anything anymore. Like everything that had been playing on her mind for the last few weeks had just gone. It was scary.

She heard a rustling and looked up. The curtains parted once again and the tall, skinny form of Harry Potter entered her cubicle. He smiled brightly and gave her a card, which was hand-made and obviously done in a hurry.

"How are you?" he asked, sitting down by her bed.

"I'm feeling better," she replied, not knowing what to say.

"You gave us all a shock in Defence Against the Dark Arts, especially poor Professor Lupin!"

"I'm sorry," she said, unsure of where to take the conversation. After a few remarks about the weather and Quidditch, Harry got to the point.

"I suppose you're wondering why I'm here," he said. She nodded. "Firstly, I don't want you to get the impression that I visit the sick in my spare time. I'm not the saint that everyone makes me out to be. Its just I always felt you were something more than the rest of Slytherin, and I've been thinking for a while now how I'd like to get to know you, and now seems to be a good time, don't you think?" Blaise was speechless.

"That would be...nice."

"Great," he said, and asked her what had happened. She told him everything she knew, and he was shocked to learn she had died, even momentarily.

"What was it...like?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know," she replied. "I had no idea what was happening."

After talking for about half an hour, Harry said his goodbyes and left, wondering if Draco knew.

*

Back in his dungeon room, Draco had been having a whale of a time so far. He reached over to his cupboard to get another bottle. Indiscriminately he plucked out half a bottle of a coffee flavoured liqueur, typical of his father's expensive tastes. He was still able to stand, even though he had been drinking on and off for about five hours, propped up by the alcohol that he knew would soon floor him. He wanted a stronger drug really, but the only way he could do that was by travelling to Muggle London, a journey he was unprepared to make.

Of the five or so hours since his drinking binge had begun, he had snoozed through two of them, and spent the rest either drinking or lying on his bed. He had tried reading a book but the words jumped around on the page and he had to give it up.

There was a knock at the door. Draco pulled himself to his feet with the aid of the chest of drawers next to his bed, drained the bottle and walked towards the door. Halfway there, his legs finally gave way, and he lurched towards the handle.

It was Harry, the last person Draco wanted to see. The only person he knew who would have a problem with the debauchery of his day.

"Hello Draco," he said, with a less than pretty look on his face. "Why do you smell of cheap spirits?"

"They weren't fucking cheap!" Draco slurred, and stumbled towards the bathroom. Harry looked away, but heard more than he needed to. Draco pulled himself up from the toilet bowl and stuck his head under the tap, trying to lap at some of the water that drenched his head.

Harry sat down on the bed and picked up a bottle of what seemed to be a Muggle mix of fruit and vodka, dyed a shade of green not known to nature. He sighed.

"Is this what you've been doing all day? Getting pissed on tacky Muggle crap?"

"Enhanced Muggle crap," Draco replied, smiling at the bottle in Harry's hand. Harry sighed again, more deeply this time.

"Did you know Blaise nearly died this afternoon in Defence Against the Dark Arts and is now in the hospital wing?" he asked, although he already knew the answer.

"No," Draco replied, pulling an old and battered acoustic guitar out of one of his cupboards. "Do I know someone called Blaise?"

Harry was beginning to get angry.

"She's only your ex-girlfriend! That is, if you've even bothered to break up with her yet." He stood up and began to pace the ground. Draco hadn't been listening; he was now sat on the end of the bed, the guitar cradled in his lap, strumming some vaguely familiar chords.

"How many roads must a man walk down?" he began to sing. Harry was livid.

"Since when do you have a guitar? And how the hell do you know that song?"

"Found it along with a 'Teach Yourself' guide in a thrift shop in Muggle London on... an excursion." He had been about to say 'pot run,' but realised that Harry would not have been too impressed with that.

"I can't stand you like this. I'll come back later when you're sober. I'm very disappointed in you." Harry looked stern, yet somehow ridiculous at the same time, and Draco was about to laugh at him when, for some reason, he came crashing down from the former high. He lay face down on his bed and waited for the sound of the door slamming before he began to cry, for the boy who had slammed the door, for the prick he had been.

*

Neville took the scissors in his hands, chopping sharply at the Daily Prophet. Tiny pieces fell to the floor, confetti of letters. A word or two here, a sentence there. The cutting motion was soothing to his fractured mind and his shattered illusions.

*

"Good morning Mr Malfoy," Madam Pomfrey said cheerily, and sniffing slightly. He reeked of stale drink. She took a small vial from her cupboard.

"Drink this. You'll feel much better." Draco drank it, and his hangover abated somewhat, although it did not disappear entirely.

"Will you be visiting Miss Zabini or our dear Professor?" she asked, taking the vial from him. Draco looked puzzled, and wandered over to Blaise's bed. He sat down next to it and realised what Madam Pomfrey had been talking about when he scanned the room. Professor Snape was in a bed opposite Blaise, heavily bandaged.

"Hello Draco," Blaise said, sounding vacant.

"Hello Blaise," he replied in a low moan, his voice cracking. Blaise ran her fingers down the slight stubble on his face.

"You need to shave," she said, matter-of-factly.

"I do," he replied. It was the most awkward conversation he had had in a long time.

"Why don't you go and talk to Professor Snape," she said, having run out of other conversational topics. Draco did so.

"Hello Professor Snape," he said, with a feeling that this conversation was going to be like the last on he had had.

"Fuck off Malfoy, and if you tell anyone you saw me here I'll eviscerate you."

"Third years?" Draco asked, suddenly interested in something other than the thumping of his own head.

"No. Fucking Longbottom yesterday. If you'd turned up you would have seen."

"Well sorry, Sir, but I was ill," Draco said, lying with ease. He knew that Snape was either very angry, in a lot of pain or both, because the man seldom swore.

"I'm sure you were ill. After you drank enough to kill a small horse." Draco looked surprised.

"Oh I don't care," Snape said, seeing the look on Draco's face. "I skipped class to get pissed often enough when I was your age. The problem is, Professor McGonagall, who covered the lesson after that ape Longbottom incapacitated me, does care. She wants to see you in her office after lunch today."

"Thanks for the tip, Sir. Get well soon!" Snape muttered to himself as Draco left.

*

Ron sat in a corner of the Gryffindor boys' dormitory, scribbling at something that could have been a love note or an essay. It was hard to tell with Ron, everything he wrote was written on a scrappy piece of parchment that looked as though it could have been through the school laundry. Neville was sitting on his bed, lost in thought. A very twitchy kind of thought as well, his shoulders jerked sharply every so often. Seamus and Dean were both pretending to read, and making a very poor job of concealing their scandalous flirting. Harry lay on his bed, reading a magazine and trying to ignore the pain in his rear end. All his other trousers were either dirty or in the wash, and he was very aware of the tightness of his last remaining pair. His hair was longer than it had been for a long time, and had begun to wave at the tips. Hermione thought it was cute. Harry found it irritating, but didn't want to have a haircut because, although they had broken up over the summer and she was with Ron now, he still cared a lot about what she thought.

Neville rolled over until he was facing Harry, a look in his eyes that very few people had seen before. He looked like he was spoiling for a fight. He was. He yawned loudly.

"Those trousers are rather homoerotic, aren't they?" he asked, his voice dripping with the sort of venom that was normally only expectable from a Slytherin. Harry looked down at the trousers. They were too tight, but not particularly suggestive in any way.

"I didn't think so," he replied, not wanting to have another incident with Neville.

Neville laughed nastily.

"Oh come off it, Potter. We all know you just want to show your tight arse off to your boyfriend!"

"Now listen, mate," interjected Dean. "That's out of order."

"You two are just as bad," said Neville. "Why don't you just go to a gay bar? I hear there's a nice one down in Hogsmeade."

"I suppose you have it listed in your address book, then," said Ron, looking up from his writing. Neville turned to face him.

"What are you implying?" he asked hoarsely, his voice having risen by several octaves.

"I'm implying that you should shut up if you know what's good for you."

"I'm leaving. I can't stand all the unresolved sexual tension in here," said Neville, fanning his face as he left the room.

"What was his problem?" asked Seamus after the door had slammed shut.

"I don't have a clue," Ron replied. "But I get the feeling this is only the tip of a nasty iceberg."

*

"Gold Centre - Noun - Magical core found occasionally in wizards and witches of great importance to the welfare of the wizarding world. Prevents the possessor from ever being overtaken by the forces of evil, by choice or by force. May tarnish after witnessing certain deeds."

Remus sighed. The dictionary entry was useful, but far too vague. What kind of deeds?