Clandestine Whispers

>>>>>15 The Plan: Part B?

Darkel was furious. This was not at all part of the plan; Draco Malfoy was not supposed to find out their plans for him and everyone else involved. But it was too late. The interrogation had just ended, and Darkel now lay on the ground, recovering from the pain of the truth spell.

Meanwhile, Draco was pacing back and forth, every once in a while brushing back loose strands of his slick gelled hair back. He knew it would be a bad idea to go down into the room below and confront his father; that always had been a losing situation for him. He knew all of their plan, anyway. Wormtail was bringing Potter, Hermione, and most likely Weasley into the Forbidden Forest, and the very same well where Draco had dropped his ring in and then later retrieved. The ring had been given to him by his father years ago before he entered Hogwarts, and had the Malfoy crest on it. At the bottom of this same well happened to be an underground route to the cellar of Polly's Putrid Pot, a restaurant and bar that was located in the village--Crossbury Filtston--at the foot of the hill upon which Malfoy mansion sat. The well was an old well that stood in the midst of a destroyed fortress in the middle of the Forbidden Forest. Once Wormtail was sure that Potter, Weasley, and Hermione were on their way to Crossbury Filtston, he would abandon them in the tunnels and apparate to Malfoy mansion. However, instead of letting things go as planned, Draco would intercept Wormtail from notifiying his father that Part A of The Plan had succeeded, and would dash all hopes of The Plan continuing.

The only problem was, he had to figure out how to counter the potion running through his blood, or else it would eventually take over his mind, and he would be rendered useless. Draco kept the thought running through his head that this was all for Hermione, that he did it for her. He knew that if The Plan went its way, she would be the one in most danger, and if anything happened to Potter or Weasley, would get in the way and surely get herself killed. This, Draco, told himself, was the reason why he was stopping the Dark Lord's plan.

Deep down, however, he knew that it was his Inner Goodness, the angel part in the "dark angel" that he was, the angel that repressed his dark training. He insisted on not giving up. Even if it meant reaching for impossible goals and destroying chances for an easily attainable destiny.

~~*~~

A tall, lithe figure moved, circling; booted feet tapping quickly as if in a dance, yet managing somehow to be graceful. Every move was precise; as if a finely cut unbaked cookie, perfectly shaped by the cookie cutter. Eyes dark as a tunnel and raging like a tsunami glowed, silver daggers, in the night.

Lucius Malfoy stopped, standing still, muttering the last words of the spell under his breath, the grit of the sand and dust making no noise underneath his finely polished boots. Giving a malicious grin to the formation he'd drawn in the sand, he whispered into the air, "This plan will work, my Lord. I am sure of it."

He walked away, disapparating to faithfully attend a Death Eater's meeting before Part B of the Plan began it's process.

~~*~~

"Hermione! Why are we following this rat?"

Breathing heavily in an attempt to keep up with the desperate Hermione and speed-unchallenged Gryffindor Seeker, Ron, his footsteps falling heavy upon the pathless ground, protested. He knew there was a reason they were following Wormtail, knew it was probably another evil trap for Harry. Of course it was. It always involved Harry, didn't it? He secretly resented Harry for always involving them in these situations; not that he didn't enjoy having a break from predictable Hogwarts school life, but sometimes it got unbearable. All three of them should have learned their lessons by now and given up on these escapades.

But yet another part of him enjoyed it, loved the excitement, the unpredictability, the knowledge of knowing that where there was a will, there was a way; Harry always had within him that spark of will to fight against evil, fight for justice. He truly was a Gryffindor at heart, Ron knew it even before their second year and the Godric Gryffindor sword incident.

Hermione's voice sliced into his thoughts suddenly, as she said, "We're doing this because Wormtail is up to something, it involves the Dark Lord, and we can't just let it happen! Besides, if I hadn't taken the initiative and run after him, Harry would have, and it would have been useless for us to try and stop--where's Wormtail gotten to?"

Ron stopped, almost bumping into Harry, as all three stood still. Moving to stand beside Harry, Ron looked to see that Hermione was standing amidst two crumbling walls of stone, the ground unusually blank of grass, and an eerie well a few feet in front of her. Ron was about to step into the clearing when Harry's arm shot out in front of him, barring his way.

"Stop, Ron. Don't step into the clearing, don't. It's evil, Ron. I can feel it. There's an eerie nastiness about it. I can't really explain, I just know it's there. A foreboding sense of just knowing that something bad is nearby."

"Whatabout Hermione?"

Turning around, Hermione's face was blank and emotionless, her hands gripping the edge of the well calmly; yet her eyes said otherwise. Ron was shocked at the great sense of vulnerability that surrounded her, and for a moment, her chestnut curls standing out against the black of her robes, the creamy skin of her face like a beacon of innocence, she looked like a princess, bewildered at the dangerous world before her. But her eyes spoke of daring; desire and desperation to get to the end of whatever evilness that stood against them flashing in her gaze. Ron knew then and there that he would be the only one with an ounce of reluctance in this adventure. However dangerous, however difficult, Harry had never backed down ever in all situations involving the enemy. He had, of course, felt many things, surely. And perhaps he had been afraid, desperate. But it had never shown, not an ounce of anything except bravery, defiance, and wisdom had been in his eyes during all face-offs against You-Know-Who. And Hermione had always believed in Harry; no matter what happened, she had given all help possible to give, and yearned for all that Harry could achieve by defeating evil in the most hopeful way.

Ron, too, had supported the Boy-Who-Lived. But in a different way. He had had doubts, had gotten uneasy; but he had valued his friendship with Harry so much that he would willingly stay by Harry's side, encouraging him and admiring him, putting down all possibilities of defeat by outright inability to question victory.

And now here they were, once again in a difficult and surely dangerous situation. Harry was now being cautious; perhaps hoping for an easier way to do this, or a way out. But Ron knew that once Harry got involved, there was no stopping him from continuing to follow the same path. Once Harry found the right road to follow, there was no stopping him from walking on it forever until it ended somewhere. No matter where that somewhere was, he'd reach it, no matter what it took. As long as he believed in a cause.

Ron glanced over at Harry; were they going to do this, or not? His eyes searched for Harry's answer in that emerald gaze. Standing up straight, slowly drawing his arm away from keeping Ron back, Harry, his face grim with determination, turned to Ron, and gave him a look that said that yes, they were going to pursue this new situation.

~~*~~

Draco had not said a word since the end of his raging, and now sat, his knees curled up against him, arms resting on them and pillowing his head, silent. Suddenly, he felt a pair of eyes on him, and lifted up his shiny silvery head, hair sparking out slightly with static. He only had time to blink at Darkel before the man Disapparated with a small pop sound.

Making sure the man was gone and wouldn't come back, Draco sat up, and reached toward his boot. As he pulled back the dragonhide surface, his grin was one of victory, and he reached for the glittering hilt, sliding the weapon from his boot, feeling the icy cold metal against his leg before gripping it tightly in his hand. He looked down at the dagger he held, cold gaze seeming to measure whether it was trustworthy or not. After all, it had betrayed him to near death. He remembered that day clearly as if he saw it before him...

Wendy, one of the Malfoy family ghosts that usually inhabited the cellar, had come into his room. Desiring privacy and becoming irritated at her whining, that, unlike most times when it made him feel a bit fortunate in comparison to her, had made him angry. He had wanted to badly to yell, screaming in furious rage at her incompetency to see how he felt and leave him alone. He had thrown the dagger at her, although knowing it do no good. The crackle of the mirror that shattered when the dagger hit it had felt like the breaking of his tolerance, his patience, the opening of all his emotions. About to repair the mirror with a spell, cursing himself for a possible seven years of bad luck, Draco had not seen the furious ghost creep up behind him. That was her problem; she got angry very easily, and considered almost everything an insult. He had stilled in slight surprise when he felt the icy chill of her body pressed against him, not enough to go through him yet enough for him to be aware of it. The last thing he had seen before she raised the dagger and plunged it deep through her and into him was the reflection of the startled expression on his face.

Draco heaved a deep sigh, thinking, Why am I remembering that? I'm letting myself accept the fact that...I'm falling apart. It's all being chipped away from me piece by piece. My control...my mask...my patience and tolerance of what I have to go through day by day...Why am I letting it get to me?! This was never supposed to happen! I'm slipping...

He absentmindedly clinked the dagger against the iron of the chains that held his right wrist. Staring at his own face in the reflection, he remembered all the nightmares and strange unexplainable dreams he'd had recently...

Suddenly, he once again saw himself, sitting on the gigantic armchair in front of the flickering fire, calmly gazing at the flames that were an illusion of cheeriness. Then, the Draco he saw turned towards the table, and began to speak. Unlike his dream-self, Draco saw the person underneath the table clearly. Her chocolate eyes wide and emotional, eyelashes framing them like the windowsill of a window. And indeed, that gaze was the opening of two windows. Her heart, although not bared to the open in all of her self, shone in her eyes like the fury of an ever burning flame.

Draco winced as the dream-remembrance faded away to invite, instead, the awareness of deepening pain, now pulsing steadily in his head. The potion was getting to him. Now, if only he could find a clue of what to do to stop it and to get free of these chains. Grabbing the book his father had given to him, which was now the only possibility of hope, he quickly skimmed through it.

Suddenly, an image leaped out at him: A person, their hand holding a dagger dripping with blood, a small triangular patch of red at the base of the back of their neck. Inside the triangular almost fleshless mark on the person's neck was a backwards s. And from the other person's hand hung a long chain, from which hung a brightly shining turquoise tear-shaped jewel. Beside this image was another image, a closeup of the tear-shaped jewel hanging on the chain; inside the jewel, half an inch long and sparkling like a star, was a golden feather.

Underneath these images was a title, in Latin: 'Auctorita illis creperum. Ante creperum quae exsisto dolar.' Draco blinked. His father has often said 'auctorita illis creperum;' it meant 'power is darkness'. But the rest he did not know what it meant. Something more about darkness, and about existing. He stared at the picture some more, and then, slowly, his gaze lit on the dagger in his hand. Shrugging, he picked up the dagger, and looking closely at the image in the book, began to peel away a triangular piece of skin from the base of his neck. He cringed, yelling out, as it tore off. Ignoring the blood on his fingers and the blood running down his back, he closed his eyes, and slowly carved a backwards s over the spot. He didn't know why he was doing this; why? Because power was darkness, and this seemed to be dark. He wanted power. If he had power, nothing would ever feel wrong or confusing again and he wouldn't have to worry about anything anymore.

He was just putting down the dagger, when suddenly, Wormtail Apparated in front of him.

Frowning at the short, ugly man, he barked, "What do you want? Scum!" Wormtail turned to look at him, giving him stare for stare. Draco didn't feel an ounce of anything at the man's gaze meeting his. Unblinkingly he gazed back at Wormtail, keeping his face neutral, staying silent. After only a matter of seconds, Wormtail looked away, wrenching his head back as if his sense of motion had been sucked up by Draco's gaze.

Looking at the blood that drenched Draco's fingers and dripped on the floor, and seeing the dagger, Wormtail hissed, "What are you doing?" before running in and attempting to snatch the book away from the boy's lap.

With a quick snapping movement achieved from over practicing the Wingardium Leviosa years ago, and speed acquired from being a Seeker, Draco grabbed the man's wrist, and bending it slightly back, he snarled, whispering menacingly, "It's none of your business what I do. Rather, what are YOU doing; guarding me, the criminal?" The Malfoy boy laughed; it was the usual cold, fake laugh, bereft of humor and any real feeling. Glaring at the boy's light colored hair, refusing to look him in the eye, Wormtail grabbed the book with his silver hand, and glanced at the page Draco had been reading.

Howling, Wormtail twisted out of Draco's grip fiercely, pulling away to stand at a distance. Throwing the book down to the floor, he said, "That spell is much too powerful for you, boy! Don't tell me you've begun it. You are already cursed! You've broken a mirror, you can't control your mind, and you are destroying the plan of your father and the Dark Lord!"

"I have begun the spell. All I need now is the jewel, and the feather. I want power. And I would much rather gain all power by doing this and destroying their plans, thus getting the power they wanted to gain from this plan."

Wormtail stared in horror at Draco for a moment, and then said, "Fine than. Try. But you will never succeed; the enemy is already on his way here, along with company."

"The enemy? With this damn potion in me, my only enemy is myself."

Wormtail laughed, saying, "You do not sound at all like your father, boy! He would not be proud of you if he heard you. Luckily, Potter will come and you will dispatch you and him both before your father has a chance to take action."

Draco's voice did not portray his curiousity; he would reveal nothing from now on, would not slip in public. "Potter?"

"Potter, and his two little friends, the redhead, and the girl."

Draco felt his throat close up, and he felt his left hand twitch towards his waist, as it always did when he was nervous. Where was his sword? "What are you planning to do with her? Don't involve the girl, no, not Hermione, you want Potter! ONLY POTTER!" Draco was screaming now, standing up, the dagger gripped in his hand, his eyes sparking and hair static to resemble the furious flames of his anger.

Wormtail stared at the boy; suddenly calming down, Draco smiled at Wormtail. It was a smile that sent a shudder down Wormtail's spine; he felt the coldness of it. Then, lifting the dagger high into the air, Draco held out his other arm to make the chain go taught, and then brought the sharp steel slicing down through the air with a swish. Wormtail gaped as the chain split in half. Then, lunging out, Draco grabbed Wormtail by his robes before he could Disapparate. Biting back a yell at the pain in his shoulder, Draco let the arm that had so furiously shot out to grab Wormtail relax, and pinned the man down instead with the gleaming dagger poised, ready, at his throat.

Hissing, his voice dripping with threat, Draco asked, "Tell me...what do you know about this spell I'm doing? Where is the jewel? And the feather?"

Gulping nervously, Wormtail stuttered, "please! D-D-don't kill me!"

"Tell. Me. Now." Draco pressed the dagger down hard enough on Wormtail's throat so that he bled, slightly.

"The jewel isn't actually a jewel. It's just a particular type of stone. Argonite. The walls of this chamber are made of it. A-And as for the feather...a particular type of bird, called a Hlikorpin, sheds these feathers, which turn gold when they come in contact with blood."

Draco sat there, wondering how he was supposed to carve a tear shaped chunk out of the wall--not damaging his dagger--while also holding down Wormtail; and all with a dislocated shoulder, rendering one of his arms useless.

Meanwhile, Harry, Ron, and Hermione gratefully rushed out of the dank, dark, slimy tunnel, only to barge into the stuffy, dank, suffocating atmosphere of the cellar of Polly's Putrid Pot.