A Moon for the Misbegotten

A MOON FOR THE MISBEGOTTEN

Part I- Initiation

Every school has its secrets. Some have hidden rooms, concealed passageways, or mysterious ghosts. Some secrets are darker.

The three quarts of bat’s blood were gone in a splash and a whisp of steam. He knew better than to be stingy when working on a Dark Magic charm. A handful of groundup bone and musty dirt, dug from some ancient murderer’s grave, was next. The haze above the small bowl went from white to black in the dim beams of dusty light and took on the whiff of rotted flesh. He inhaled deeply and the room went slightly blurry for a moment. No, it wasn’t ready yet. He’d have to use it, after all. He’d hoped to save the precious rarity for himself, with no one the wiser, but it couldn’t be helped.

The heat from the boiling charm was driving him mad and swiftly drenching his body. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to rid them of smoke and salty sweat, but his sight refused to clear. He wiped his sticky palms on his pants and reached into the school bag at his side, his eyes still fixed on the roiling mess in the bowl. Hands trembled slightly, he grasped at the sticky mess in the bag and rapidly blinked, trying again to clear his eyes and gasping slightly in the stifled air. An unpleasant plopping noise filled the air as he dropped the bloody entrails into the bowl and the viscous liquid enveloped them, slurping in a most disconcerting manner.

He stared eagerly at the glop as it writhed and bubbled, but no change was apparent. Damn. Tiger’s guts were hard to come by, and he’d hate to think he’d just gone and wasted them in such a careless manner. Perhaps if he waited another moment... But no. The still-liquid charm gurgled at him sullenly and the heat from the bowl retreated slightly. He cursed and groped frantically in his school bag, searching for something, anything, to save all his hard work from failure. His roving fingers met nothing but rough canvas and the stickiness of half-dried tiger’s blood. Nothing.

As the steam swiftly dissipated, a mad idea sprung into his mind. Maybe... maybe. It was worth a try. Working swiftly now, he unclasped the top of his robes, regardless of the smears of blood which his hands left on the heavy fabric, then tore at the buttons of his shirt with one hand, the other scrabbling on the ground for his knife. Quickly, quickly now, before the charm had fully congealed, with no time to hesitate or feel squeamish, he sliced the already filthy blade shallowly across his chest, leaning over the bowl to let the blood drip down the cut and trickle into the rapidly cooling charm. As the first drop skittered across the glistening surface like water on a hot griddle, he felt the heat rise up again, followed by a rush of silver sparks and steam. It dentreched his face and filled him with a wild sense relief and triumph. As his blood continued to pool around it, the charm abruptly seized up and solidified into a tiny shimmering droplet in the bottom of the iron bowl. He almost let out a yell of exultation and pain, but restrained it as he recalled where he was.

A current of freezing air scored across his back like another knife slice, and he spun around in shock, sprawling on the floor and only narrowly avoiding knocking over his hard-won charm.

For one split second, he stared directly into the wide eyes of a small girl who stood framed in the open door. The moonlight spilling in from the corridor behind her turned her hair into a blond halo and threw her face into shadow. But then she spun with a gasp and ran away as though her life depended on it, leaving him half-naked and bleeding on the stone floor.

So it was that Blaise Zabini first made the acquaintance of Natalie McDonald.

It was never meant to be.

ooooooooooo

Blaise allowed himself a single moment to assess the situation. The girl was an unknown quantity, a risk. She might do anything. She had to be contained. Sparing a mere glance to reassure himself that the charm was safe, Blaise clambered up with a clumsiness born of haste and fear, and ran for the door. The girl had just spun around the corner at the end of the corridor, but she was so small. He smirked. She didn’t stand a chance.

Before Tally knew what was happening, a hand reached out and grabbed her roughly by the back of her robes, whirling her around and pinning her against the wall. Rough stone bit into her back as she stared up at the older boy, his eyes glinting madly down at her. She could see the sweat glistening on his face, feel the heat still coming off of him. She gulped and closed her eyes.

“Don’t look away now,” he whispered, softly mocking. “After all, you hardly stayed a moment. Shouldn’t we get to know each other... better?” His voice hardened into a snarl on the last word and his hand fisted around the fabric as he leaned down, almost face to face with her.

But she didn’t move. Blaise was suddenly aware of how fast her breath was coming and of the frantic flickering movement of her eyes beneath the closed lids. Like a little animal. Trapped prey. He straightened up, staring at her curiously, as if she was some sort of scientific specimen. So different, with her tangled blond hair, her smooth, frightened white face, her tiny heaving lungs. So fragile.

As if she sensed the sudden detachment of her captor, Tally’s eyes blinked open and then stared upwards in shock.

“Is that... blood?” she breathed in wonder. Even her voice was different. Innocent. Her fingers began to reach out to touch it as she stared, hypnotized. Realizing what she was about to do, she snatched them back and stared up at him, fearful, as though expecting a punishment.

Slowly, he took her tiny fingers in his other hand and brought them up to brush against his bare chest, slowly dipping into the cut and smearing the blood across his skin. She stared with wide eyes, first at the smears, then at her own fingers, and finally, with awe and confusion, into his hard face. Her breath escaped in something resembling a gasp, as though she had been holding it out of fear or reverence.

“It’s... warm.” She stared at the wetness on her fingers, then slowly rubbed them together, marveling as though she held fairy dust on her trembling hand.

“Well, they only call us cold-blooded snakes,” retorted Blaise, half-amused. “It’s not an anatomical fact.”

She looked up and met his eyes suddenly, her wonder lost in an abrupt resurgence of fear. Slytherin. His words had brought her back to earth and her gaze was wary, but she didn’t move a muscle. Just froze and watched him. He was losing her. Any moment, that frozen fear might explode into panicked escape.

He knelt down swiftly, using his body to effectively trap her against the wall; she shrunk as far away from him as she could, trying to escape the brush of his warm breath against her cheek.

“What... what are you doing?” she whispered softly. His eyes widened slightly in surprise. This little girl had struck him as being far too intimidated to question him. But Blaise was not adverse to surprises. Slowly, slowly, making sure that her wide blue eyes were following his every movement, he reached into his belt, studying her face for a reaction as he drew forth the blood-encrusted knife. Here was another surprise, especially when found in such a small girl. Fear quickly filled her eyes, yes, but not before they widened with an unmistakable flicker of... could that have been excitement? Strange. Very strange. The whisper of air beside his face belied her quickened breathing.

Perhaps she was not quite so different, after all.

The hand with the knife whipped out and slashed at her face. She recoiled backwards in silent shock, banging her head hard against the rock wall behind her. After a long moment, she raised her head and realized that he hadn’t touched her. The blade rested against her cheek, icy and threatening, but her skin was still unbroken; he had stopped his violent thrust mere millimeters away from gouging her face open.

She still hadn’t screamed.

Still studying her face as though it was a particularly difficult puzzle, Blaise reached down with one hand and grasped her arm, his fingers hard against her skin, even through her sleeve. He turned her slightly and pinned her arm against the wall. She met his eyes for a moment, but his polished-agate glare revealed nothing. He dragged the knife across the skin of her face, hard enough that he could hear the scrape of the metal edge and see the red flush it raised on her cheek. She flinched away, but only succeeded in pushing the blade closer to drawing blood.

Blaise lifted the knife from her face and placed the point of it against the palm of her trembling hand. Softly, slowly, almost gently, he ran the blade over her skin, leaving a shallow slice, no deeper than a paper cut. A small gasp, more of surprise than pain, escaped her mouth. He held the flat of the blade against the dripping cut until it was wet and glistening with her blood, drying slowly over his. Then he grasped her bleeding hand in his and turned the blade so it cut him as he drew it out from the sheath of their joined fingers. Staring at their clasped and bloodied hands as though hypnotized, he whispered:

“Secrets bound, by blood and fear
Answer when called to, shed no tear
Power and weakness, strength and lies
Endure until the spirit dies.”

Then he crushed her hand in a grip so tight that she squirmed, feeling her fingerbones crush tendons and flesh between them with the pressure. Their mixed blood ran slowly down her wrist, leaving a snail-like trail behind it. Without warning, Blaise flung her away from him, the force causing her to crack her head painfully on the wall again.

“But... but what does it mean?” she stammered, caught between shock, horror, and confusion.

Blaise smiled with mocking sweetness as he wiped the blade of his knife clean on his trousers.

“It means you’re mine now. Blood-bound and spell-sworn.”

He finally stepped away from her into the middle of the moonlit corridor, leaving her cold and shaking against the wall.

“Meet me here tomorrow night,” he commanded softly. “Don’t be late.”

And then he was gone, loping back down the hall toward the empty classroom, his echoing footsteps fading into the night.

ooooooooooo

Tally was scared. Fear had kept her quiet and docile under the boy’s domination. Yes, fear, that’s what it was. It was fear that kept her breath coming in gasps and her heart pounding wildly as she murmured the first healing spell that came to her mind, turning her shaking wand on her dripping hand. Fear kept her slumped against the cold stone wall where the boy had flung her, like a broken toy. Fear made her voice shake as she finally muttered a cleaning spell on her robes and the floor.

But was it fear that made her feel filled with fire as she recalled the boy’s wild eyes and the feral look on his face as he met her gaze from his sprawl on the floor? She had seen that hungry, triumphant look on a person’s face once before. Another blush crept across her cheeks as she recalled precisely where: the face of a woman in a dark corner of a pub as a dark-haired man pressed against her and made her writhe against the wall. Her brother had gone there with his friends one night when he was supposed to be watching Tally. Unwilling to miss out on the fun, Andrew had taken her along and told her to stay out of trouble. Later that night, he had disappeared into one of the back rooms with a woman working at the bar and Tally had walked home alone.

Six years later, the memory of the same expression on the boy’s face left her breathless and shaking again. She thought of him, back in the empty classroom by now, cleaning her blood from the knife blade, and using his shirt to wipe the blood from his chest, holding it against him to stop the flow, then slipping his robes on over bare skin that would sting and burn from the roughness...

No. This wouldn’t do. She could tell from the muted clamor and flickering lights coming up the stairway at the end of the hall that the feast was still in full swing. If she slipped back in quietly enough, perhaps no one would notice her impromptu absence, because no one had seen her go; after all, who gave a rat’s ass about stupid little Natalie McDonald, anyway?

Tally grimaced and ran down the corridor toward the light and laughing voices.

ooooooooooo

Bellatrix had a slight smile on her lips as she paced slowly around him, examining the tiny crystal vial. Without warning, she shook it violently, watching as the quicksilver liquid inside writhed and wriggled as though it had a mind of its own.

“Well done.” Her smile widened, almost imperceptibly. “I was not entirely sure that you had it in you to complete the ritual. But you have surpassed even my highest expectations. Last night was quite a step for you, to complete such a difficult task alone.”

Blaise looked up from where he was kneeling on the icy flagstones, and met her level gaze.

“I wasn’t aware it was a test.”

Bella slowed her circling walk until she stood directly in front of him. Then, with a simple flutter of her ragged sleeves, the vial disappeared.

“Zabini, everything is a test.” Her eyes glinted in the dim light.

From his half-crouch at her feet, Blaise could suddenly feel his heartbeat, feel the blood throbbing through his veins.

“Everything?” Thank sweet Circe his voice hadn’t broken on that one word. He couldn’t stand it when she laughed at him.

Bellatrix did not laugh, but her tiny smile became as predatory as a cat’s.

“Everything.”

He gasped as her hand whipped out and slapped him, hard, across the face. Then, with as little warning, she yanked his head back by his hair and kissed him savagely, biting at his mouth. Blaise let out a muffled moan as pain and heat flooded through him, battling and merging under her cruel fingers.

She released her grasp on him, and stepped back, amusement plain on her narrow, starved face. Blaise flushed and would not meet her gaze. He wanted to kill her. He wanted to fuck her. She knew about both, and would let him do neither.

But there were other things she would let him do.

Bellatrix reached down and dragged a long, thin finger along his skin, right above the neckline of his robes. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on breathing evenly.

“Show me,” she commanded, her voice calm and cool, but allowing for no argument. He started to unfasten his robes, his eyes still shut tightly.

“Look at me.” Restraining another sound, which he suspected would have been embarrassingly close to a whimper, Blaise opened his eyes and met her savage gaze just before the black cloth fell away and revealed the raw cut across his chest. Bella let out her breath on a soft sigh, an almost a gentle sound.

“How beautiful,” she breathed. A sudden hungry look crossed her face. “Would you like to have another one?”

His eyes flickered shut again.

“Please.” Whimper was the only word for it.

She reached into the bag at his side and drew forth the battered and stained knife. Then, holding it as delicately in her hand as an artist with a brush, she lashed out with vicious precision and slashed a thin cut across the old one. Blaise cried out and dropped to the ground as the whiplash of pain shot through his tired, strained body.

But as he fell to the ground and blackness rushed up to meet him, it was not the painful stare of Bella’s dark eyes that filled his mind. It was a frightened glance from bright blue eyes, flickering and tentative, like the brush of her fingers...

She looked down at the prostate body of her teenage protégé, the hungry, intense young man with curly hair and a smile that refused to be anything less than wily. Too clever for his own good, really. She smiled. It was just the way she liked them. They were so much more valuable when they refused to be controlled. Kneeling down and drawing her ragged robes around her rail-thin body, Bella took Blaise’s head into her lap and caressed his face, then ran her fingers through his hair. Quickly, before he began to stir, she pressed her hands almost viciously to his temples and closed her eyes, delving slowly into his mind like a diver into murky water.

Those who wouldn’t be controlled had to be manipulated, and there was nothing like mental observation for manipulation. Blaise moaned slightly under the pressure of her touch, but Bella silenced him with a well-placed brush of her fingers.

“Hush, little boy,” she murmured. “Nothing can hurt you when you are the monster in the dark.” And she lost herself in the shadowy twists and turns of the young Death Eater’s mind.

ooooooooooo

When he came to, Blaise was aware of two things: his pounding head and the darkness in the room. Bellatrix was gone.

He swore and stumbled to his feet, staggering slightly as the throbbing in his brain turned to a sharp and stabbing agony. Gasping for breath, he pressed his forehead against the cool stone of the wall. As the pain subsided, he slowly opened his eyes and looked out the window: the moon was high in a cloudless sky.

“Damn!”

As he pelted down the shadowy corridor, he mentally griped against his mentor. Not that she could have known he had somewhere to be tonight, but sometimes the thought of her rummaging through his mind like it was a junk sale was a touch... disconcerting.

Anyway, the girl had looked like such a little mouse. Surely she wouldn't have gathered up enough courage to come. He’d have to track her down himself, and who knew what that might lead to. Blaise felt anger boiling up at the little mouse girl, as well. Bloody, cowardly people. Not a speck of backbone. She was probably a Mudblood as well, and then he’d have to silence her, just on the general principle.

Practically skidding around the last corner, Blaise slipped into the empty classroom from the night before and slammed the door behind him, leaning on it for a moment and struggling to regain his breath.

“What did you do to me?”

Shocked, he spun around, heart pounding wildly. Delvings always made him twitchy. There she stood, the little mouse, her hair disheveled and her eyes sunken in. She looked as though someone had been at her with a bat.

Blaise had seen horrible things, but the viciousness of the little girl’s wounds took him by surprise. He tried to step away from her, but his back was pressed firmly against the closed door.

She stretched out her hands to him, the pleading, accusing look on her face as heart-rending as that of the unjustly dead. Her palms were gashed deeply, blood just beginning to blacken around the edges.

Blaise looked down into her eyes, those icy blue eyes. There were no tears, but they were alight with pain. He suddenly remembered himself, as a child, being told an ancient story by his nurse. “True witches,” she had said, in her mad, creaky old voice, “never cry. Even in their death-throes, screams are the only thing to escape them. Long ago, the most powerful substance one could use against a witch or wizard was their soul blood- their tears. No witch would allow such power to be flaunted over her because of a moment of weakness.”

Reaching down, he took the girl’s tiny, mutilated hands and pressed them together between his. He knelt down, closed his eyes, and pulled her against him, his mouth almost against her cheek and his breath brushing against her like a caress.

“I’ll make you cry.”

It was a promise. Blaise made it a point to never break his promises.

ooooooooooo