Courage to Find Cowardice

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Courage to Find Cowardice

Chapter Five - Tell No Lies

***

"Would you care to explain the evening's earlier comments?" I demanded rather than asked as Blaise entered the seventh-year dormitory.

It seemed that he had been expecting my presence and his lack of surprise at my announcement disgruntled me.

"Are you sure you would care to hear my answer?" he retorted. His face remained a visor of calm contemplation, almost a mirror of my own.

Mine, however, was far more practiced with obvious less cracks. Blaise had yet to master the art of 'dead eyes'.

"Don't play games with me, Zabini," I growled, letting malice line my words while trying to repress a smirk as it worked to my satisfaction.

Blaise sighed and suddenly looked incredibly defeated. He moved towards the window and looked out over the dark land, smiling ironically at the half moon, still as bright and illuminating as ever.

"It's a long story," he told me, turning to look at me. "You might want to get comfortable if you want to hear all of it."

And then he told me everything.

***

'You will do what I tell you to, Draco,' Lucius snarled, his face twisted in a mask of vehemence. The shiny marks of several healed over scars glowed on his previously flawless skin. 'It is because of her that this happened to me!'

Looking about the dark and dankly lit alleyway Lucius was suddenly glad that he had cornered his son away from prying eyes, away from help.

Lifting his hand, he looked at it, all withered and frail as he held it before his eyes. It shook as he lowered it and looked at Draco, this time with a loathing that his son had never seen before.

'It was you, wasn't it? You did this to me!' Lucius stalked towards him, his face a visor of fury and abhorrence. 'You would have me live this way? A monster, Draco? For that is what I have become!'

'No!' Draco cried, shrinking back from his father's onslaught. 'I would never... You were a monster before! What difference do a few scars make, Father?'

'I can never appear in public again!' Lucius went on as if he hadn't heard what Draco had said, his voice becoming deadly quiet as he moved closer... and closer.

Regaining his confidence all of a sudden Draco stood taller, glaring at his father with reluctance. 'You have no idea what you're talking about, Lucius,' Draco spat, his eyes throwing sparks. 'Your head is muddled by the cacophony of spells that were thrown your way - it is not my fault that you don't know the appropriate counter-curses! You have become senile in your old age!'

'How dare you speak to me in this manner, Draco!' Lucius growled, taking a step back as he looked at his son. A newfound fear lined the scarred face as he looked into Draco's hate-filled, fiery eyes.

'No! How dare you speak to me in such a manner!' Draco pulled something out of his pocket, hiding it within the sleeves of his robes. 'I hate to end it like this, but there is no other way.'

Lucius cocked his head to the side, completely puzzled by what he intended to do. His eyes widened in surprise as Draco extended his arm, his 15 inch ebony wand aimed directly for his heart.

'Surely you would not harm your own blood?' he demanded, incredulous, "I am your Father!'

'That you are, Lucius, but you aren't the kind of father that I would lament the loss of.' Draco smirked at the stunned expression on his father's face. 'Come now, Lucius - in the end it was going to be either myself or you - we both knew we couldn't live in harmony, and so one of us must die.'

Lucius' gaze darted quickly to his own wand that was situated some thirty feet to his left and cursed. Surely not?

'I guess it's not going to be me then, is it?' the younger man inquired, laughing almost insanely as he muttered the killing curse.

And he continued laughing as he watched his father, his own flesh and blood, fall to the ground dead and cold.

It was as if he'd never changed, Draco thought to himself, turning and walking away from the corpse that lay on the ground in the dark, unlit alleyway off Knockturn Alley. The punters would find some use for his body, for he certainly hadn't one.

***

I woke up suddenly, sweat forming in beads upon my forehead and fear slithering snake-like through my gut.

"Draco?" came Blaise's quiet call from somewhere close. "Draco, are you awake?"

"Of course I'm awake, you plonker," I replied, opening my eyes and sitting up.

Blaise had lit a candle and it cast an eerie, iridescent light upon the rest of the room, illuminating the large silver snake tapestry that hung on the wall beside his bed.

Our room, though dark and forbidding, was the most brilliant room I had ever lived in in my life. The colours and sentiment of the area were exactly matched to mine. A temperament of gloom and hostility is what I had and my dorm room made me feel at ease.

From the rich, deep green rugs that decked the floor to the luxurious and lavish comforters upon the bed, the place screamed home to me in all aspects of the word. It was such a shame it was my last year in this place that was so tragically beautiful to me.

Each bed was richly carved from a heavy dark wood mauled to a typical aristocratic style, creating a sense of wealth and sumptuousness. Each of the beds' hangings were embroidered with menacing silver snakes and when caught in the light the emerald jewels flashed like real eyes.

Seeing all this in the ghostly light cast from the candle after waking from such an alarming dream was disconcerting to say the least. It was almost as if the dream had been real and this alternate reality the nightmare. And what made it more so, was the look of unease staining Blaise's face.

"You had another nightmare."

He sat up in bed to look at me sincerely, his eyes uncharacteristically of all mirth. "Are you sure you don't want to go to Madame Pomfrey for some sleeping tonic?"

His features remained marred with concern. The look of alarm upon his face did not suit him, I thought wryly, imagining the mischievous smile that so often took up residence on his humourous face.

"I'm fine, Blaise," I answered, scowling slightly. "I am not going to admit to anyone that I have trouble sleeping and neither are you." I punctuated my meaning with a menacing glare while signaling for Blaise to put the candle out.

It took a long time for me to fall asleep again after that, my mind a complete blank as I lay in silence with only the smell of the dead flame and candle wax to keep me company. I wasn't sure what the purpose of the dream had been, and I could only remember fragments. My father - scarred and horrible, his flawlessness was something that I had come to take for granted and to see him so... flawed, for lack of a better word, was unnerving.

I had always been good at Divination due to fathers' obsession over having me excel in every class I take, yet the prospect that the nightmare could be some sort of prediction befuddled me. I would never attack my father with such thoughtlessness or brutality. While I was mean I prided myself on not being brutal. Well, prediction was out of the question surely. That was almost all I could remember about the dream and even then it was being whisked away, like sand filtering through my fingers.

My face was beginning to hurt, as I continued to frown into the darkness at the large glass of water on the table beside my bed. It was bathed in drumming moonlight and I moved to place my hand in the glow. I stared in reverence at my hand for some time, captured by the quaint beauty of it. The manicured nails, perfect fingers, so seemingly white while being almost and not quite transparent. I don't know why it struck me so, it just did. The simplicity of its comeliness was something underfed to me, something that I had never seen before.

And then I realized why it was so striking to me. It was because it appeared beautiful yet... dead. I could see my father in that hand, so white and perfect that it was almost as if he was peering out at me and for a moment I was almost convinced he was.

His face was captured so perfectly in my hand and I moved quickly to crush it; to crush his facade, his status, and his indestructibility. The image was whisked away before I could really close my hand, really squeeze it so tight that he would have suffocated. He had escaped my grasp yet again.

And the idea of his face portrayed so absolutely within my hand, escaping my onslaught, dodging my loathing, brought me suddenly back to the dream. I could almost remember something that screamed of significance yet it continually danced beyond my comprehension, taunting me.

The harder I tried to hold on the harder it became. Finally, I gave up, my cupped hands slackened and let the sand fall. I wouldn't worry myself over it. It was a silly nightmare, the stuff you needed to experience to know what a dream was. But I was so sure there was something else... something important...

And I couldn't help but think wryly that I would never look at my hands in quite the same way again.

***

Awake, my love! The shades of night

Depart before the rising light;

The lovely sky, all dappled grey,

Gives welcome to the god of day;

Yet fair and brightly though he shine,

His radiance cannot equal thine!

Come forth, my love, the sky is blue:

Both blade and flower are gemmed with dew!

The rich unfolding rose appears

Blushing amid its pearly tears,

And with the lily would entwine,

As if to match that hue of thine!

Malia sat quietly to contemplate the poem she had just read... the poet's life she had just taken. She had not meant for it to happen; to do so willingly was to risk death, the death of her conscience along with her ability to determine between right and wrong. The death of something that she had sworn would never die when she became what she was, and the death of something that already died within so many others like her.

But he had seemed so ripe! So vibrant with life! She hadn't meant to lose her temper, to become so lost within herself that she hadn't the mind to bother with what she was doing. Hadn't the mind to care if she were to kill him or not. She just wished to show him what it was like, to let him experience her hatred for all things mortal, all things that the day could touch, all things dark. He did not understand what it was to be like her, to feel the loathing for the stroke of life that could never again caress her.

Sitting upon the rock on which the poet himself had sat but minutes before, she looked over his dead body; his body heat slowly decreasing in the saddening way mortal bodies did. Her heart bled to know that she had broken the promise she had made to herself and yet at the same time she pitied herself. And the poet.

He had almost finished his poem, she realized, looking again at the blood spattered parchment; arterial spray from her onslaught. He had been murmuring the poem aloud, she remembered, murmuring about the day, the sun, and the blue sky. Things she would never be able to see again. Never for herself. And it had hurt.

It had hurt like nothing had ever hurt before. It was a feeling that Malia had thought was dead within herself - to be what she was, she had been forced to accept that certain mortal traits would die and thought physical pain had not been one such trait, emotional pain supposedly was.

But when the poet had held those beautiful words about that luminous and brilliant world in which he had created, where he had been living at that exact moment, she was excluded. She was excluded from his life, his love, his world and that hurt more than any wound to her physical self could. And she had wanted to hurt him back, pain him as he pained her - make him bleed as she was inside - make his heart cry tears of blood.

And she had.

Now, almost two hundred years later, Malia still had the parchment with the splotches of the poet's blood now brown with age. She almost smirked as she remembered her innocence back then, her maudlin attitude towards mortality and all the things she had lost in becoming the reverse of everything mortals stood for. But people seldom ever remembered what they had gained while they mourned over things that were no longer available instead letting the new opportunities wither and die like everything else.

Malia smirked while holding the old, battered parchment over the flicker fire to allow the flames to curl at the edges.

She could be rid of this memory if she so wished it - the memory of her pain, her realization that nothing could ever be the same, that she could never go back. The memory of taking that young mans life, so optimistic and promising.

The end of an era, Malia thought as she lowered it so that a corner caught on fire. Watching as the flame opened up to spread towards the writing. Realizing what she was doing she snatched the paper from the fire and blew out the flame that threatened to devour her one and only link to her old human form. The one and only gift that her brother had ever given to her. And still his last words rung in her ears.

"You will never be like us, Malia. Forget us, forget our family for we shalt not forgive what you have done."

Folding it up carefully and almost lovingly, she put it back into her pocket where it belonged and smiled wryly. Maybe next time, she thought to herself as she walked over to the gilt lined mirror above the mantel, admiring the dark, empty eyes that stared back at her. The one and only likeness that she had shared with her brother and the one thing that had been truly different about them.

Hers - so dead and vacant - while his, so alive and pulsating. Her brother had been her only link to her human self and she was fairly sure that it had died with him that night. She would never get it back.

Malia shook her head and almost laughed at herself. Such morbid thoughts could drive one insane, dead or not. She forced herself out of her reverie and instead focused on the voices of others like her, the incessant murmuring of immortal voices forever singing a melancholic song of death.

She stirred her gaze away from the mirror and out over the rest of the room, for once taking in stock the amount of vampires that had gathered whilst she had remained in thought. It wasn't that she particularly cared for the other vampires in the room, nor that she wished to seek any out; it was just that she couldn't bear to look upon herself any longer.

Her face within the mirror seemed blasphemous, and had she believed in blasphemy in any way or form, she might have been convinced that she needed to go and pay her penance. The idea that something so dead and completely superfluous could be caught, as if in a picture, with everything else mortal and good was original sin within itself. Her, the walking contradiction to everything that any normal society stood for.

And yet, in a way it made a tragic kind of sense. Made in the image of human, given the gifts of immortality and made to live off the life of another. She could pass for a human easily and it seemed almost ironic that a being such as her could be captured within a picture frame, brought to life within the image, whereas in reality she was as departed as a common corpse.

Ah, but that is the magic of the wizards, she thought to herself, almost uninterested. The things they were able to do with their little sticks these days was something to amaze even the oldest of the Damned - the ones who had witnessed so much in their lifetimes of loneliness and despair that very little would remove their jaded masks anymore. Very little indeed.

Her thoughts were interrupted yet again by the entrance of more vampires into the small room. The head of this particular group a gnarled, seemingly grotesque old figure whom instantly sought her out in the small crowd.

"Have you contacted the Malfoy boy yet?" Androganus asked, his voice gruff and screaming of old age as he stood now in front of her.

"I planned on doing it tonight," Malia snapped, pacing up to the old, tubby man. They were almost identical in height, him being but an infinitesimal bit taller than her, but she was still able to peer straight into his cobalt blue eyes, still as sharp and alert as ever. One of her favourite companions, Androganus was much older than herself, and much more important.

She would never let him know he was her favourite, of course. To be sentimental was to be weak. And one of only a few vampires to be born and not bitten, Androganus was as powerful as he was tubby.

The only difference perhaps being that he aged much like a mortal, only slower.

"You need to get on with it," he said curtly, his gaze stern and full of warning. "Malum will not be pleased if he were to learn that you had messed this up for him."

"Of course, Andro," she retorted with a smirk. He hated being called that but refrained from saying anything. Malia rolled her eyes, stepping away and looking about at the small collection of vampires gathered in the room.

They were one of the only covens left that had not somehow been interspersed with humans or other forms of 'magical creatures' as the Ministry liked to put it. The Remoras Coven was one of the most established and respected.

The furnishings littered about the room were extravagant and very 17th Century, the era in which Malum himself was from. One of the eldest vampires, he had been elected as coven leader after the resignation of Ignatius who had put himself to sleep and was not to be woken under threat of beheading.

Malia almost laughed remembering Ignatius' malicious glint as he made his announcement. She was most tempted to think that he wanted someone to wake him up just so that he could behead a fellow vampire without fear of prosecution.

Everything in the room screamed old, yet it was a magnificent old. Treated wood furniture, ornaments, antiquities, and the likes that would have brought in millions of galleons if Malum ever had the mind to sell them. But the furniture, she supposed, was part of what made up the character of the place. However, the carpet that covered the floor was new. One thing Malum had insisted upon when his new reign had come about was the carpet. Malia was almost inclined to smirk.

Spotting Maranella, Malia's usual consort, she made to leave Andro's presence only to find his thick fingers clenched around her upper arm.

"The Malfoy boy!" he growled, the clouded look of menace filling his eyes. He suddenly seemed much more than a tubby old man, his height increasing yet not becoming anymore than in reality. A low guttural growl came from his throat and Malia knew that she would do as he said.

Giving Andro a contemptuous glare, she turned away from Maranella who was watching the transaction with a perked eyebrow and snatched her coat from his grasp. Without another word she stalked through the double doors at the other end of the room and walked out of the house.

If he wants to throw his weight around then so be it, she thought to herself, scowling vigorously. 'Tis only a matter of time before he will learn what it's like to be told what to do.

***

Meet me tomorrow night, in the clearing.

M.

I knew it would happen. I suppose you could say I was waiting.

Malia was going to haunt me. Being so close to death as she was I assumed she was capable of haunting. Yet she was also the furthest away from death as any other being I've known making her capable of haunting as a human; that in itself was considerably more dangerous. With a ghost, you had the knowledge that they were destructible and no longer alive.

With Malia, you had the knowledge that she was alive and dead, therefore practically incapable of yet another fatality. And saying that, you couldn't help but realize that with her inability to die came her aptitude to bring death to others.

I wondered what it was like, being dead and undead all at the same time. Her body obviously didn't decompose and that probably had something to do with the fact that she still had blood flowing through her veins - what kind of blood however...

I shook my head vigorously and glared at the bright orange owl that was waiting patiently upon my bed. Picking up my quill and not even bothering to grab a new piece of parchment, I scribbled something that resembled agreement onto the back and folded it messily. I gave it back to the owl who took it and disappeared momentarily underneath the sill before re-emerging, quickly becoming but a shadow in the ever-lifting darkness.

I noted that she was cutting it a bit fine as the first red slithers of sunrise began to creep over the Scottish hills, lightening the horizon slightly. Or maybe she knew I'd say yes, I thought to myself, noting wryly that that was probably the case.

Grabbing my thick, black silk lined robes I prepared myself for a cold morning. Though Christmas was over and done with, winter was not. I could tell from the watery look that hung on the horizon that it was going to be shockingly cold today and I hated appearing that I cared. I could do it, nevertheless, but it did help to be warm whilst appearing not to care about the cold. It made life just a little easier.

***

"Draco, come here," Snape ordered as he hovered around Potter's desk, tutting at what an atrocious mess the Head Boy was making of it. Potter, to his credit, was shooting particularly loathsome looks towards the Potions Master and my own head of house, not even bothering to acknowledge my existence whilst stirring his violent fuchsia potion that was in fact supposed to be a dark, murky brown. That suited me brilliantly however.

Ushering me towards his desk, Snape lowered his voice so as to keep the straining ears of Prying Potter out of hearing. I tried my best to ignore the large vials and jars of indiscernible icky things that littered his table whilst listening and keeping an eye on the creature within the third jar to my left that was moving violently. Instead, opting for I suppose the coward's option, I took a step back and put myself safely out of range of anything in the jars that might have a mind of its own.

Not even noticing my concern, Snape continued. "You've been doing rather well in Potions lately. The Headmaster has suggested that you opt for tutoring lessons."

"But you just said I was doing well, Professor!" I protested, horrified at the prospect of being tutored. My father would have a fit!

"Not for yourself, boy," Snape snapped, raising a few heads from their pewter cauldrons. "I mean tutoring other students who may not be doing so well in the Potions department."

The Potions master continued to look distracted for a moment as that niggle-brained idiot, Longbottom, disappeared in a black puff of smoke.

Then he looked back at me arrogantly.

"You would not be tutoring anyone in Seventh Year, of course. Some people are beyond help." He emphasized that last bit while glaring pointedly at Longbottom as he emerged from the black cloud that hung about the back of the classroom looking sheepish.

"I'll do it," I told Snape.

He almost smiled. Or at least I think he did. I've never actually seen Snape smile and so the idea that it was possible was almost mad. But he moved his mouth and did something unusual in any matter.

"We will discuss this further tomorrow," he said, even more distractedly as he watched Neville clumsily trying to chop up some bright orange Hydrengia roots.

"Longbottom, be careful!" Snape cried wincingly. "Those roots are highly reactive and if cut the wrong way they will- "

It took me three hours to remove the orange Hydrengia splatter from my robes. And that was using the powerful cleaning spells.

***

"You're late!" Malia hissed as I crept into the clearing my father had shown me later that night.

The moon illuminated my path as I walked silently, not even the snow crunching beneath my feet. I could feel a change in the air. This place was so different now than it had been the last time I had ventured here.

Back then it was a place united with me, somewhere I could be relaxed and in a way relate to the forest. But now... now it screamed with hostility and alarm, as if it were trying to drive me away.

I was instantly set on guard by the drastic change in atmosphere that had occurred yet with Malia's voice, so delightfully not human and making me feel almost wanton, I relaxed slightly.

"I wasn't aware I was given a specific time," I drawled, glaring into the darkness where she had hidden herself.

"I expect you to be on time next time I summon you," she snapped. I heard the sound of something metallic being unsheathed and instantly became uneasy.

"What is going on here, Malia? What do you want?"

"I'm sorry, Draco," Malia whispered as she stepped where I could see her, her eyes not dead and lifeless for once but a beautiful sea of sympathy and glimmering reluctance. "It has to be done."

Then everything went black.

***

"Malfoy?!"

I groaned, and as I stirred in the snow, my skull felt as if it had been split in two.

"Malfoy! Is that you?"

"Of course it's bloody me!" I snapped, louder than I intended. I attempted to open my eyes but they simply fluttered and refused to move at all. They were all but glued.

"And who the hell are you?"

"I should have known you'd be less than gratified at my finding you alone and unconscious in the middle of the Forbidden Forest," the person angrily replied.

All I could establish was that this person, who ever they may be, was a female. And a snappy one at that.

In the forest? I attempted to open my eyes again, if only to see if this statement were, in fact, true. This time it worked. Looking around me with a dazed expression, I realized the person was right.

For some peculiar reason I was laying spread-eagled in the snow in the middle of the Forbidden Forest.

And the girl?

I looked up at her and was almost blinded by the light of the moon directly behind her head. I could barely see anything except that her hair was a deep, rich red and her amber brown eyes glared down at me with disgust.

"Weasley," I groaned with condescension.

"Well, if that's how you're going to be, I'll just leave you here." She turned and began walking away, her shoes crunching in the freshly fallen snow.

Good riddance, I thought to myself as her little red head bobbed across the clearing, disappearing behind a large bush. I don't accept help from a Weasley. Hell, I don't accept help from anyone.

I tried to push myself up from the laying position that I had apparently fallen into and came to the conclusion, rather quickly at that, that my limbs were icy and hard to manipulate.

With some difficulty I managed to lift my torso up into a sitting position. I took the time to look around the clearing for something I might use to my advantage.

During all of this, I noted sardonically, the forest was being particularly quiet. Even now the feeling of hostility had disappeared and was replaced with some strange kind of calmed urgency. Like someone telling you that you must hurry but be thorough about it.

The trees swayed and creaked in unison and it sounded like a chorus of cries to my ears. Creepy screeches of warning and remembrance of past warnings. The leaves rustled in the treetops; laughing at me, telling me I told you so... I warned you...

It took me a long time to realize that I had sat there longer than I should have. My legs were like icicles and I seriously doubted that I might get out of here without some form of help. Wondering why in Merlin's name I had not thought of it earlier, I hastily checked and rechecked my pockets for my wand, dismayed to find it missing. Of all the luck.

I started when I saw the bush to my right jerk violently, astounded as the red head propelled herself through it and turned to look at me, her cheeks ruddy and breath coming short with exertion.

"Weasley, what are you doing?" I demanded, managing to control myself enough not to shiver with the cold.

She looked at her feet for a moment, perhaps going pinker, before looking me directly in the eye almost defiantly.

"I didn't see you come back to the castle. I was worried," she admitted to me, though her eyes showed no sign of affection. This was strange to me. Acting with such benevolence towards someone that she loathed as much as I. I would never understand girls.

"You were worried for me?" I solicited, unbelieving. "What on earth were you worried about me, a Malfoy, for?"

"Listen, if you're going to be an arrogant pratt and think there was something other than concern behind my motives for being here, then I might just leave you here up shit creek without a paddle."

"What makes you think I have no means of paddling?" I demanded, incensed. She thinks I can't help myself!

"The fact that you've barely moved at all since I found you," she informed me, a smug look plastered across her face. Red headed little know it all, I thought with displeasure.

"Well, I don't need your help so you can bloody well shove it!" I snapped. There was no way a Weasley was going to help me. I couldn't stand the taunting it would bring in its wake.

"Can you stand?" she asked self-righteously, knowing full well that I couldn't. I didn't give her the satisfaction of my answer.

"No, I thought not," she chuckled and walked over. All of a sudden I became slightly dizzy and I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to recover my stomach from where it had twisted and flopped to. Before I knew what was happening, however, the Weasley was hauling me to my feet and I stumbled heavily as my arctic legs threatened to give way.

"Merlin!" the red head cried as she gripped my bare arm. "You're positively freezing!"

"Arctic," I replied, uncharacteristically scatterbrained. "I believe a better term would be arctic." Than I laughed, almost giggle like. What in Merlin's name was happening to me?

The girl looked at me, her big amber eyes suddenly etched with something that wasn't disdain. It almost looked like genuine concern, heaven forbid.

I was struggling half in vain to keep my teeth from chattering with the cold and I was feeling increasingly dizzy. It only took me a moment to register that I was going to black out but unfortunately I never got the chance to voice my concerns to the Weaselette who was clinging to my arm like a life raft. For the second time that night everything faded out, leaving myself with only the soul searing darkness to keep me company.

***