Resurgence of Evil

CHAPTER 18:

Two months passed, relatively quietly. It was now early November, and bitterly cold. London was not known for its fog and rain for no reason. For some reason, the frigid weather seemed much worse in the city than at the Burrow.

I'd been making trips there every two weeks or so, because it seemed that there was a way past the wards on the Burrow. It took about thirteen days, but within this time a cell phone was Portkeyed into the Burrow, onto the kitchen counter. Each one identical to its predecessor. All would eventually ring, heralding another conversation and often, the activation of the Mark. The first time, I hadn't been at the Burrow for the call. The results were horrible - for the first time, I realized that the "activation" didn't have to take place in one short, awful burst, but could be extended. The three days I spent lying on the couch, continually re-inserting IV's into the Mark to drain the fluid, had been pure, unadulterated hell.

As a result, every thirteen days I'd go to the Burrow and stay overnight until he called. Fortunately - or unfortunately, I hadn't yet decided which - my father was excruciatingly punctual.

I opened the door to the Burrow and then locked it behind me. The house was almost silent. I walked into the kitchen and sat at the table, wand out. I glanced at the clock, which could be prevailed upon to tell the right time, and looked back at the counter. Any moment now, the phone would simply appear next to the toaster. Two hours later, it would ring. I'd been waiting for a chance to observe the phone's actual arrival, to see if there was any way to modify the wards on the Burrow. So far, my new apartment remained undetected - and I wanted to keep it impenetrable, as well.

I waited ten minutes, and frowned. It was late. This was unusual, but not unexpected. Harry ushered Ginny through the door, both bundled against the cold. Well into the beginning of her third trimester, travel by the Floo Network was too dangerous for both the baby and Ginny. They'd been Apparating jointly for weeks now.

"Hi," I said, standing up and offering Ginny my chair. "How are you feeling?"

"Round," Ginny managed, unwinding her scarf. Harry chuckled dryly, pulling his gloves off and tossing them to the tabletop. As he did he glanced at the counter, then at me.

"He's late." I shrugged.

Harry frowned. "That's odd."

I rubbed my head and ran my fingers through my newly-shorn hair. "It's a little worrying, and I'm not sure what to make of it."

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," said Ginny, promptly standing and searching through the breadbox. Pulling out a loaf of bread, she located a knife and began to slice the loaf into thick slices.

"What's going on in the Ministry?" I asked, turning my attention to Harry.

He sighed, pulling out a chair and sitting tensely on the edge. "The murders haven't stopped. I have the Aurors checking regularly for Dark Marks, and half come up positive. I don't understand it. Your father seems to be killing off as many of his followers as he is innocents. The numbers are almost eerily similar - and a lot of the facts match up disturbingly."

"How so?" I asked. It had taken time, but sadly there were now enough deaths for patterns to be rigidly established.

"For every Death Eater that dies, one person who isn't a Death Eater, but is a close match for the murdered in gender, age, and general body type, is killed." Harry shook his head. "It's a tentative link," he murmured.

"Better than nothing," Ginny commented. Smelling a salty tang on the air, I turned my head to see what she was doing and covered my mouth immediately, feeling nauseous.

"What are you eating?" I managed.

"Pickle and liverwurst sandwich," she said, around a mouthful.

"Urg," was all I could get out.

Harry smiled slightly at Ginny, his face soft with emotion.

"'Scuze me," I muttered, and heaved myself to my feet. I managed to get a grip on my stomach, but didn't venture back into the kitchen - some things were just too disgusting to be tolerated.

Ron walked in, talking quietly with Hermione. "Hey, Draco," he broke off, greeting me.

"Hey," I said. "Don't go in there - your sister's eating habits have taken a turn for the utterly disgusting."

Hermione laughed, her cheeks pink from the air, and walked right past me. "Don't say I didn't warn you," I murmured to Ron as he passed me.

"Is it here?" he asked quickly, stopping for a moment in the doorway.

I shook my head in the negative, and he frowned. "Don't worry too much about it," I said simply. "He loves mind games."

Ron nodded once and proceeded into the kitchen. Less than willing to follow, I took two steps and entered the living room. I crossed the worn carpet and avoided an old pair of Ron's mother's knitting needles that had been unearthed under one of the couches, and were still twitching spastically.

Sitting on a faded brick-red sofa, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the shabby red box, looking worse for the wear. Still unsure of the properties of the leaves, I'd taken to carrying the box on me, in case I came across anything or anyone that might prove useful.

Musing over the contents once more, I opened the lid and looked at the three perfectly preserved leaves. All were nearly identical, fat at the base and tapering into a thin point at the tip, only varying in size. They were also quite thick, and I believed them to be full of some sort of photosynthetic juice that enabled them to survive. But the spell preserving them was a localized temporal freeze - they'd been suspended at the moment in time at which they'd been plucked from the original plant.

I'd really wanted to test them, but that would require breaking through the temporal freeze spell. That wasn't really an insurmountable problem, though it would require a good amount of power unless I was willing to expend several years unraveling the spell. Temporal freezes were tricky.

The real reason I didn't want to start experimenting, however, was more basic and a little silly, if I wanted to admit it. The number three was a powerful symbol in both the muggle and magical worlds. Shakespeare, Socrates, Newton and Da Vinci were some famous Muggles who had understood that concept. It figured greatly in the muggle world in many ways which people were unaware. In the three major religions, the number three was eerily repetitive, especially within Christianity. Outside of those three, it was a prominent number in many mythologies of ancient cultures, tying into the wizarding world. Literature, art, natural philosophy, and mathematics were loaded with the number three as either a symbol or a manifest quantity. And in the magical world - the examples were too numerous to try to count, but history was littered with all sorts of odd trinities and triplets.

Pulling my thoughts away from the box, I closed the lid and slipped it into my pocket, turning my mind to the murders and my father's unexpected lateness. A thought wiggled its way through my consciousness and I snorted. Some parents used long-distance guilt to control the actions of their children. My father used long-distance cursing. Ever since he'd revealed that, through the Mark and something as innocuous as a phone connection, he could cast two of the Unforgiveables, I'd been wary of any other discoveries. But nothing had surfaced.

The calm would have been unnerving if I wasn't accustomed to the way my father liked to toy with victims. I was wary, alert, expecting both something and nothing. There was no other way to exist without either dropping my guard or going into a frenzy of anxiety.

Mrs. Weasley's needles gave an energetic twitch, startling me. I jerked upright and went for my wand, barely able to stop myself in mid-reach. Maybe I wasn't as calm as I thought I was. I clenched my teeth in frustration. This sudden lack of communication was more irritating than my father's regular calls. And there was no explanation - unless he was planning something new.

I forced myself to take a deep breath, to relax slowly. This made sense, and was even more troubling. My mother had told me not to worry as long as I could hear the enemy signaling each another, for there was the chance that I could decipher the messages and prepare. Utter silence meant, however, that somewhere just beyond my sight and hearing, the enemy was doing something.

I stood with that realization, and came to a snap decision. I was going home - there was nothing more I could do here. Whatever was preparing to meet me, I wanted to be ready for it. I walked through to the kitchen to pick up my jacket, trying to ignore Ginny's second sandwich - a combination of pasta salad, leftover chicken, and tomato.

"What's up?" asked Ron, seeing me headed for the coat rack. I picked up the sword, which I'd brought for obvious reasons, after pulling my sweatshirt.

"Looks like today's a no-show," I said. "I'm heading home."

"What happens if it shows up later tonight?" asked Hermione.

"I'm through dancing to his tune," I said, maybe a little more harshly than I'd intended. I rubbed my head, which was aching again, and said, "Sorry. I'm a little tired. I'll be back tomorrow."

After a chorus of subdued 'Goodnight' 's, I walked out and strode slowly down the hill, getting out of range of the anti-Apparition fields that surrounded the Burrow.

A few minutes later, a tingle ran over my skin and I knew I was clear of the fields. I pulled out my wand, turned towards the house, and paused. The wind was loud, but through it’s freezing gusts, I could hear the noise of someone shouting. I frowned, and squinted as light from a glowing wand cut through the darkness.

Hermione, her wand alight, was just behind Ron. Harry followed, Ginny right on his heels. Ron held out the phone, a frightened look in his eyes. "He knows," he said, the words spilling from his mouth.

I glanced at the cell phone, a cold knot in my stomach. "What does he know?" I asked, my voice too calm as I reached for the phone.

Muffled static scratched from the receiver, and I felt myself snatched up, suddenly - dematerializing, disappearing. Disapparating.

I Apparated into a field. I looked at my wand, shocked, still unable to figure out what had happened. Noise caught my ear, and I turned.

"Hello, son."