Clandestine Whispers

>>>>>10 Fallen Dark Angel

Draco stood up, shakily stepping out of the luxurious carriage. He shook his head, blinking furiously, trying to ignore the stabs of pain that seemed to be coursing constantly from one side of his skull to the other. Grimly, yet in acceptance, he looked up to the familiar view of the gates of Malfoy mansion, looming over them like the entrance into hell. In a way, it was the entrance into hell, his own personal hell. A hell that was his home, his one and only sanctuary.

Noting his father's unspoken demand, Draco nodded in reply, letting a small smirk slip. Not, of course, a genuine sign of happiness. The Malfoy's gave such looks to each other and others all the time. Little smiles that meant nothing, only a hiding of the pain and darkness ebbing in their veins that linked their hearts together in an unbreakable chain of iron malevolence.

Stretching out his arm, Draco took a deep breath, steadied himself, and shoved back the rods of metal barring the way, hearing the clinking of machinery unlock inside. Finally, all bars slid aside, and Draco muttered the memorized weaving of spells to temporarily unlock the heavy blanket of dark curses smothered all over this entrance. With an explosion of flashing violet and silver lights, the spells were lifted, leaving the gates ready to be opened. Draco pushed at the black, iron gates, feeling the familiar coldness of it whisper to him in welcome. He momentarily kept his hand there, feeling the familiar grooves, formed from labor that had gone into building the mansion and it's gates decades ago.

Stepping through the gates, Draco quickly reached the bottom of the great stairway leading up to the gigantic door of the mansion. Standing at the top of the stairway, as if oblivious to the dark whispers and unspoken secrets that every animate -- and even some inanimate -- object knew, was Narcissa Malfoy. Trying to ignore the stinging feeling in his eyes, Draco slowly proceeded up the stairs, although, secretly, his impulse was to run to this shelter so nearby. However, he managed only to clasp her hand momentarily in his icy one before his father pulled him away, saying to Narcissa that it was urgent, and concerned Draco's health.

Dreading the pain and merciless berating to come, Draco thrust his chin forward, determined to take it in stride, and followed obediently after his father, only the timid, hissing clack of his boots against the marble tile floor reflecting his feelings hidden deep inside.

~~*~~

"Only a few more steps, master. Once the Death Eater has the boy trapped, by the time Potter and his little friends arrive, the transformation will have taken place. Then all of your enemies will fall to their doom."

"Correct, Wormtail. However, there is the possibility that the Anhelo-Creperum potion that keeps the curse of the sandstone dust alive does not function anymore. If this happens, and the boy is not controlled, then he could use the power on anyone. You, to be exact, because you will be the only one there truly aware of what is happening, and the only one there who, should it work out properly, should not be subjected to the power. So, in case this happens, you must meet with the others now, and you all must form a backup plan. Then, come back to me, Wormtail, and check and see if I approve of this backup plan before anything really starts happening. But if a good backup plan isn't formed soon enough, things will start happening, and you won't be able to have dominance over the situation anymore. If this happens, than I will have to come into the picture, which I would prefer not having to do, and if I did have to, you'd NOT LIKE THE CONSEQUENCES OF GETTING ME INVOLVED, you hear me??"

Wormtail shivered at the image of what these consequences would be, and gazing, fearfully, at the shadow that dampened all possible warmth of the fire currently crackling in the hearth, he said, "Yes, Master. I understand. I will do all I can to make sure everything happens the way you wish it to."

~~*~~

She pressed her lips together, hard. Repressing this scream was so tough, so excruciatingly painful. But knew that if she made a sound, He would find them. So she remained silent, bearing the pain, watching, as if in a daze, the blue and yellow trickles of poison that passed beneath her skin, through her veins.

She looked out from under the table at her ally, knowing he couldn't really see her, but that she could see him, and he knew she was there. All she could see was his profile, pale skin glowing an eerie light orange cast from the dancing fire crackling in the hearth.

Staring at his profile, she bit her lip, and asked, "How long will it take him to get here, so we can get this over with?" Although she already knew the answer.

"He will come when the twilight calls, and when all of my hopes are swallowed in darkness. The time of the peak of our vulnerability; as our enemy, he will take this opportunity."

He paused, letting the silence hang, like a wet cloth, smothering her breathing. Or maybe it was the poison that did that, not the silence. She didn't care to know.

"You know he will slaughter us. You kept hope only because of me. But I've known my fate for a long time, although your constant insisting that we try, try again never really let me accept it. But admit it now; we are going to be slaughtered, defeated, once and for all. You've known it all along, haven't you?"

She almost cried out in pain; the poison coursed through her blood quicker now. Would she die before he did, or vice versa?

Her so-called ally, the only one who had forever truly been on her side, but also the cause of all her misery, and the only real foe to both of them; he turned towards her.

She suddenly felt herself falling, body numb when it hit the floor. His lips moved, but she couldn't decipher what he said. Through his eyes shown only a few emotions, and those that did show were small. Regret, and sorrow. His eyes were brimmed with tears. But he quickly blinked them away, and suddenly became angry.

He glared at her, giving her a look so insidious that she almost melted, because his glare was like a dagger, a dagger that cut through her defenses, the walls she'd so carefully constructed against him, cut through them like a knife through butter. But deep down, she knew the feeling he felt most about her and their warped relationship was contrition. He regretted having subjected her to such debauchery. Facing her with this glaring, tight-lipped expression, he repeated his question, yelling, "You've known it all along, HAVEN'T YOU???"

As she stared, overwhelmed at the emotions that conflicted in such a usually dispassionate face, she realized who he really was...

Hermione sat up from bed as if shot from a cannon, her breathing heavy, her brow sweaty.

"Oh my god...it was...it was..."

She sat there, mind a whirl of thoughts, disbelieving that she could ever get so involved in a dream. But she had been. It had been so very real. She had felt like she'd been there, felt the pain of the poison coursing through her blood, and felt what a mild pain that poison gave her in contrast to the pain she had felt upon hearing the words of her ally, also her enemy.

And who, of all people, had he, in the end, been revealed to be?

"Oh, Draco. Why did you go home? What are you doing, right now?"

~~*~~

Draco lay down with a soft thump upon his gigantic bed, staring up at the domed maze of images on his ceiling without a care in the world. His father had once again beaten him in their fencing session, of course. He took note of new strategies used against him, and stored them away for adjusting and transfiguring into new moves, new techniques. No matter how many new ideas he had, though, Lucius Malfoy was always the last one standing in the end. But the more he was defeated, the more Draco took benefit from being the loser, and the more he learned to manipulate, to never underestimate, and to be ready for the unexpected.

Rolling over on his back, lying spread-eagled, a position he usually hated because of the way it left him open and made him feel vulnerable, he slowly lifted his hand to touch his lips. He closed his eyes, remembering the soft touch of Hermione's smooth fingertips against his mouth. When she had done that, the bridge that had crumbled beneath their feet was again repaired, and almost crossed. Almost! But she had left for her award before he'd been able to say good-bye, and everything had collapsed again.

Astounded at the sudden welling of tears in his eyes, Draco muttered a colorful string of curses into the air, and then turned on his side to lay, looking innocent and miserable as ever, curled up. Once again, just as in his dream, he felt like a dark angel fallen from heaven. But this time, he wasn't falling, wasn't screaming, wasn't spreading his wings, but was silently bearing the pain, and wishing that each black feather symbolizing the darkness of his angelhood would be shed from his back.

That was how he saw himself, a dark angel; it suit him so well, in his eyes, although he hated it, too.

Draco Malfoy, dark angel fallen from heaven, subjected to every whim of Satan in order to be one day transformed into the most hideous, malicious creature that ever rose up in flames upon the earth.

And indeed, he would rise, emblazoned by flames, upon the earth.

But not the same earth that was seen through other's eyes, but the earth as it was seen through his own eyes, the eyes of a doomed youth.