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An Ideal Death Eater by Sing to Angels
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An Ideal Death Eater

Sing to Angels

Author: A fool who, not content with having bored those who have lived with him, insists on tormenting generations to come.
~ Montesquieu

Authour's Notes: A nod goes out to Mynuet, Sarea, 714, and a multitude of others. Heads up to Stephanie, the girl who seems to be on a one-woman mission to rec AIDE to the world. Claire and Alexis, for loving me so much. (Remember Alexis: men are from musk, women are from vanilla) My personal Lizard and my Steve for being themselves. And the Lizard of slashiness for drawing some outstanding art for you all to enjoy in chapter 27. Go check out her stuff, she's really good. While you're at it, read The Prefect's Bathroom, located on her site. http://lizardcorner.topcities.com/

For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart. It was not my lips you kissed,but my soul.
~ Judy Garland

When Ron woke up, the room was completely dark. His body was dry now and he could feel Pansy's weight pressing on him. He was still naked; she had only her bra and knickers on; and it was freezing. He was hesitant to move for fear of waking her, not to mention it was warm where her body met his, so he decided to stay where he was and make himself a bit more comfortable.

Ron stretched his hand out toward his wand and was just able to grasp it in his fingers, sharply reminded of another time he had crawled for his wand on another cold floor. He summoned his cloak and covered their bodies with it, grinning all the while. The floor of the locker room was cold, but it would have to do. Ron didn't feel much like moving.

Pansy stirred in her sleep, tossing an arm over his chest and mumbling to herself. Ron smiled and pulled her closer to him, taking the chance to study her.

She wasn't a classic beauty, but pretty enough. Pansy's eyes were large, wide, and blue when she was awake, and they were somehow even lovelier because they contrasted with her nose and delicate, thin-lipped mouth. It was as if the imperfection of one feature made the others more attractive.

Her pale hair was cropped off just below the shoulder, and she usually had it set in stiff finger waves, but now it was mussed and slightly damp. Ron decided that he liked it better this way.

He closed his eyes so the sight of her wouldn't distract him anymore, and started wondering exactly what had happened. Ron thought that he would've been able to comprehend it better if they had just had a quick shag and went their separate ways. But neither of them wanted that, and both had been content to kiss, and murmur, and pet each other.

Ron didn't understand it at all.

One moment she was trying to kill him again, and the next they were snogging and clutching each other as if their very lives depended on it. The whole thing was just bloody confusing and Ron groaned softly. He wondered what, exactly, he'd gotten himself into.

He didn't love her. He couldn't love her; he barely even knew her. But there was something about Pansy that called to him, something urgent and desperate and right, and when they kissed, it exploded around them like fireworks.

Ron opened his eyes and looked at Pansy again. What was it about her that touched him inside? He pondered this some more, absentmindedly running his fingers over her upper arm. If Hermione were there, she would pick it all apart into neat, tidy categories and label everything precisely. Maybe that was a start.

Pansy is a Slytherin. She's arrogant, bossy, rude, and sneaky. She's quick with a wand and probably knows more curses than Snape. Pansy has the most annoying shoes that clatter when she walks and sound like a herd of stampeding hippogriffs coming down the hall. She has an ugly, pug-like nose that she likes to turn up when something annoys her or if she finds the person unworthy of her attention. She's slept with half of Slytherin house, including Draco Malfoy.

Pansy is a Slytherin.

That was the biggest hurdle to overcome. Slytherins and Gryffindors just did not get along. It was a Hogwarts tradition that stretched back over a thousand years to when Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin parted ways. It was just the way things were.

Ron nodded to himself and started playing with Pansy's hair, winding the soft golden strands around one finger. So was there any reason at all to make him feel the way he did about her? Whatever this was that he was feeling. Ron still wasn't quite sure on that point, so he furrowed his brow and forced himself to think of her good qualities in the hopes that it would become clear.

Pansy was tall. Even without her high heels on, she came closer to meeting his eye than any other girl he'd met aside from Millicent Bulstrode. Pansy had long, slender legs that seemed to go on forever, a slim waist, and small, pert breasts. She was clever, but not so clever that she was in another galaxy (with some other girls he knew, who would remain nameless). Pansy seemed genuinely devoted to the people she cared about, even if they didn't give a fig for her. She cared about her appearance and took great pains to put her best foot forward. Even if that foot sometimes wound up in someone's arse, namely, his.

Ron grinned ruefully and continued to twirl her hair. She could take care of herself for the most part and didn't have any qualms about hexing someone if they irritated her, or stomping their hand into crumbs. Pansy was a bit scary when angry and didn't stop herself from grabbing the nearest blunt object and making good use of it in the heat of the moment.

He liked that, even if it meant that it was usually Ron who had incurred her wrath. That part of Pansy reminded Ron of someone, but he couldn't remember who it was for the life of him.

Pansy stirred in the circle of his arms and he looked down to see her staring at him. He mentally added the fact that she had remarkable eyes to the good side of his list.

"Hullo," Ron said cheerfully. "Did you have a good rest?"

She scowled at him and scrunched her small nose. Ron found this terribly appealing for some reason and moved that part of her anatomy into the 'undecided' category. "What on earth am I doing on the floor lying next to you?"

Ron raised his eyebrows. Well, that was a mood breaker. The nose was definitely going back to the 'bad' side. "Um, I gave you a bath and we sort of-um, well, there was snogging involved, and then we decided to fall asleep in the locker room somewhere along the line."

Pansy pushed his arms away and sat up. She was still half asleep and seemed to have a difficult time remembering what had happened. Pansy pushed her hair back and rubbed her swollen eyes before directing a hazy, heavy-lidded glare at Ron.

"Did I shag you?" she asked, her voice still rough with sleep.

"No shagging," he assured her.

She sighed in relief and laid back down on the floor, appeased for the moment. "I'm still confused."

Ron nodded. "Me, too."

Pansy turned over to look at him. "Why did you kiss me?"

He wrinkled his forehead in thought, but he couldn't think of a reason. "It seemed like the thing to do?"

"Mmmn." Pansy drummed her fingers on his chest absently before glancing at him from the corner of her eye. "You know I still have to kill you, right?"

Ron groaned and put a hand over his face. "I thought you gave that up finally."

She shook her head and licked her lips as if she were trying to decide how much she should say. "You don't understand. I'm supposed to kill you. I can't now because of the debt, obviously, and I've failed. That night in the dungeons was my last chance."

"Last chance? But you've had loads of chances since then! You're not making any sen-"

"Someone told me to kill you, you thick sot!" Pansy screeched in exasperation, her voice echoing off the tiles.

Ron sat up and grabbed her by the upper arms, finally understanding. "Who? Who told you to do it?"

Pansy's eyes darted away. "I can't tell you, he'd kill me. It's not as if I wasn't eager enough to do it anyway. I wanted to avenge my father and - everything else. But I suppose if your father burst into my house and tried to kill my family, I would have sent him to Azkaban, too."

"I didn't send him there myself, you know. And why'd you use a knife? Couldn't you have just hexed me, or poisoned me, or something? Why did it have to be a knife?" Ron asked. He could feel the blood on his hands, late at night when he was trying to sleep. If he touched his face, he could almost still feel the hot, sticky spatter of Lucius Malfoy on his cheek.

"I don't know. He just gave me the knife and said to kill you that way, that it was appropriate. I thought I could do it. I thought I was strong enough to plunge it right in your heart, but I couldn't." Pansy glanced at her hands, then at his face.

"Who is it though? And why do they want me dead?"

Pansy sighed. "I can't tell you who it was. You'd look at him the wrong way and he'd know that I told you. You Gryffindors wear your hearts on your sleeve and your suspicions in your wand." Her eyes narrowed for just a moment. "You have no subtly, whereas he is the master of it, Weasley. He probably knows that I'm here with you now. The only thing I remember him saying was that you 'upset the balance and threw off the game'."

"Game?" Ron asked incredulously. "What game? The only thing I can think of is that he was talking about Voldemort, and that was no game. He was going to kill my entire bloody family! He wanted to kill Harry." Ron put his head in his hands and shuddered. "I did it with a knife. Can you imagine? Voldemort crumpled on the floor like a sack of potatoes when I stabbed him with some Muggle knife my father brought home years ago."

Ron paused and looked down at his hands. It wouldn't be too hard to imagine that the tiny brown spots were actually bloodstains. Every freckle on his hands seemed to burn all at once, consuming his flesh, imprinting it with the miniscule tattoos that proclaimed him a murderer.

"Do you know what it's like, Parkinson?" Ron asked suddenly. "Do you have any idea how it feels to stab someone?" Her eyes widened, but he pressed on. "Do you know what blood feels like when it gushes over your hands? Or the smell of it? The smell is so thick that you can almost taste it in the air, sort of zingy and coppery."

Ron pressed his fingers to his mouth, almost expecting it to be there again. "I don't think that you have it in you to kill someone like that, Pansy," he said softly, letting her given name roll off his tongue again in the most intimate way. "I didn't plan it out, I didn't think. It just happened, and everything was over before anyone could breathe a word to stop me. The Death Eaters couldn't see anything for the smoke, and when it cleared, Voldemort was dead. I mean, everyone was bloody gobsmacked and I wonder why no one did it before if it was just that easy. There are only a few people who know how he died other than my family, so whoever this guy is, he must be one of them and I'm going to find out with or without your help."

"But I can't help you," Pansy gasped, her breath quickening. "Don't you see? He knows everything that happens here at Hogwarts and he'll know that I'm the one who told you. There's just no way." Pansy shook her head. "I don't even know why I'm talking to you about this. I'm not sure if I hate you or if- well, whatever that other thing is." Her eyes welled up and she wiped them hastily with the heel of her hand. "I'm so sodding confused!"

Ron snorted. "You think I'm not? I mean, you were trying to kill me a few hours ago and now I'm cuddling with you in the Gryffindor locker room. What's worse is that I like it! Supreme confusion, this."

Pansy nodded and rested her forehead on his chest. "And we didn't even shag. It's the oddest thing I've ever done."

Ron ran his hand up and down her back, basking in the shiver of pleasure that tingled his nerves. He felt that it was probably the most beautiful thing he'd ever live to experience. "Tell me about it."

*~*~*~*~*~*

10th October, 1997

I've discovered the secret that Percy Weasley thinks that he hides so well. I informed My Lord and he was pleased. Although I had blackmail in mind, he thought of something much crueller and more likely to win the boy to our side. Unfortunately, this means that I must use myself as bait. The boy seems to have developed an attachment to me and it won't be difficult to seduce the little sycophant.

I am Lucius Malfoy. I succeed where others fail, and I am positive that I can win both his trust and his heart. My Lord is eager to see this done well before Christmas, so I have little time.

Research and observation has told me that the boy is a bookworm and dedicated only to his work and his family. Apparently he had a falling out with his parents a couple of years ago, so he's been especially attentive to them since then. He strikes me as a perfectionist and is one of those bourgeois, lower-class nothings who like to pretend that they're higher in station than they really are. Before I destroy him, I'll take pleasure in telling him just where he stands in the world and where he always will be.

Narcissa is 'sick' again and I've grown tired of her histrionics. If it weren't for the Rosier blood flowing through her veins, I would have rid myself of her years ago. At least she's become intelligent enough not to cross me, and she leaves me to the whores and mistresses that warm my bed at night.

Her blood is too precious to be wasted though, and she is most certainly still of childbearing years. Perhaps I will have another child if My Lord decides that Draco is not what he wanted after all.

I'm still unsure of how My Lord managed to go through time and space to arrange marriages between families before he was even born, though I admire his power. Perhaps if I especially please him, he will share his secrets with me. His current body is weak and Draco's will be much better. I've shown him the more recent pictures of the boy and My Lord seems pleased with his growth and development. The curse has kept Draco compliant and healthy, and my insistence has insured that he is well respected, if not liked, by his housemates and they will follow where he leads.

My Lord has said that he will perform the ritual after Christmas. He wants Harry Potter in my Chamber before he takes his new body, so that means I must keep Percy Weasley happy and occupied until then. But once he has helped us pass the barriers and into his parent's home, he is of no more use to us.

I'm only thankful that I do not have to seduce the boy who drives the Knight Bus, as well. Fortunately, MacNair is taking care of that situation. He's always been arrogant about his Charms knowledge, so I suppose he is the best candidate for crashing the gaudy thing. At least he doesn't have to kiss the spotty driver, lucky bastard.

My luck has dwindled even lower it seems. Avery has such an abrasive personality that I shouldn't have to accompany him to America to take care of the white willow bark negotiations. But he'll likely bungle even that if I'm not there to steer him in the proper direction. If he vexes me, then he'll surely vex the Americans, so I don't see the point in going myself since that is our aim.

Draco closed his father's journal with a thump and buried it under his pillow again. The silk of his duvet was hot and made him sweaty so he threw it off.

He didn't know why he kept reading the journal; it only irritated him. Draco wanted to know what the curse was and if it was completely gone, but there was little to explain it aside from the fact that it seemed to make him easier to control and kept him healthy. The last part at least was true. He'd never been sick until that day at the Burrow when the snow sprite cursed him.

Draco shoved his hand under his pillow so he could feel the leather grain of his father's journal, but he encountered something knobbly instead and pulled it out. Draco frowned at the sock in his hand. It was one of the ones Ginny had made for him. How did those damn things keep getting under his pillow, anyway?

It seemed as if he was always being cursed.

He flung it across the room and fell face down into his pillow, hoping that it would muffle his screams of exasperation. Draco didn't want to be reminded of Ginny. It was a neat little package he'd already thrown into the bin, and he wanted it to stay there. Rubbish didn't just jump out and attack you every time you threw it in the bin, did it? No, it stayed where it belonged.

Rubbish didn't make you feel guilty.

"Aaaaah," Draco moaned into his pillow. He flipped onto his back and jammed the pouf over his face. So he admitted it. He felt guilty. It wasn't the end of the world, even if it was something relatively new. At least he could identify the feeling this time. Most of the things that were floating around in his mind were impossible to label.

Draco could admit that he'd been callous in pawning Ginny off on someone else outside the Great Hall. He didn't want to deal with her anymore! It wasn't as if she were his bloody responsibility or anything. Ginny was a big girl and she could take care of herself. And if she couldn't, well, that's what her poncy little friend was for.

He nodded in affirmation of this logic and rolled over to get some sleep. Draco was still for a while, his eyes tightly shut, waiting for the bliss of unconsciousness to come. After half an hour, he was twiddling his fingers in frustration and forcing himself not to think of Ginny and her pleading.

The way her brown eyes had watered did not make him feel guilty. Her hair, once so full of life and vitality, did not make him upset when he saw how dull it was now. It didn't bother him in the slightest.

"Bugger!" Draco shouted. He burrowed his head under the pillow, holding it over his ears as if it would protect him from his own mind. Someone muttered something off colour and tossed a shoe in his general direction. Draco lifted the pillow to watch as it bounced off the bedpost and onto the floor.

He twisted and squirmed in his bed, willing the sleep to come. Draco finally sighed and gave in to what he wanted. He cast a warming charm on the material and allowed himself to pretend that the pillow was really Ginny. Draco imagined that the silken covering was her soft belly skin, and if he moved his arm under it just right, it was her breathing.

Draco fell asleep soon after that.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Harry glanced at his map again. It confirmed that Snape was in his private chambers and no one was in or near his office. Harry motioned for Hermione to release the spell that held the Silence Sphere around them so they could pass the wards into Snape's office.

Hermione cleared her throat and whispered the password that Harry had managed to get earlier that day. "Wits sharp."

The door to Snape's office creaked open and Harry nodded to Hermione. The plan was simple: she would go into the office, find the box, open the box, and make the switch. Harry would guard the door and keep an eye on the Marauder's map to make sure that Snape didn't come and find them.

Hermione had practiced chanting her spells as quietly as possible all that afternoon. She had finally arrived at the point where Harry couldn't hear her speak the words even from right next to her, but the spell would work anyway because she had pronounced it properly.

So even if the walls did have ears, they wouldn't hear much.

Harry looked down at the map. He concentrated solely on where it showed Snape walking a circuit of his bedroom. Round and round, back and forth, likely pacing. Did the man never sleep?

A quick peek around the office door revealed Hermione hard at work, casting various charms on an old, iron-banded wooden box that sat on Snape's desk. That had to be it; there were no other boxes. She blew out a breath in frustration and poked her wand into the brass keyhole, mouthing a spell that turned the end of it into a key. Hermione gave a small squeak of delight when the lock clicked and quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, shooting an apologetic glance at Harry. He shook his head and mouthed the word: 'hurry'.

Hermione nodded and carefully opened the box, gazing at the contents with puzzlement. Harry took this opportunity to glance at his map again and almost cried out. Snape was coming!

He waved to get Hermione's attention and pointed at the map. She beetled her brows and reached into her pocket for the quill she had brought with her in order to have something to transfigure. Hermione whispered a few words and Harry looked back at the map. Just as he was about to pull her bodily out of Snape's office, Hermione rushed up to him. Harry threw the cloak over her and closed the door as Hermione waved her wand over them, casting the Silence Sphere.

"Did you get it?" he asked finally. His heart was in his throat and he knew that Snape was going to open the door to the Potions classroom any moment.

"Yes. Although I'm starting to think that this is someone's idea of a joke. I mean, hones-"

"Hermione, we need to leave now. We can study whatever it is when we get back to Gryffindor. Snape is just outside of the room."

She sighed and put her wand away. "Well, where is he? It doesn't take this long to walk from his chambers, they're only three doors down."

Harry frowned and looked back at his map. Snape had stopped directly outside of the door and he didn't seem to be moving one-way or the other. "Um, Snape's just standing there; it's like he's waiting for something."

Hermione threw her hands up in frustration. "Perfect. Knowing Professor Snape, he'll stay out there all night just to spite us."

"At least we have the Silence Sphere and the cloak. We can sit down over here until he goes away."

He walked over to a bench and pulled her into his lap. Hermione squealed and laughed when he started tickling her outer thigh. Harry found himself suddenly hoping that Snape would stay outside the door for a while.

"Harry! You're impossible. Professor Snape is only a few feet away and you're getting randy with me?"

Harry grinned and kissed the flushed skin on the back of her neck. "It is a bit naughty, isn't it? Knowing we could be caught any moment."

Hermione shivered under the pressure of his lips. "I suppose it is."

She relaxed against him for a moment before bolting upright again. "Wait a moment, Harry. I wanted to show you just what we came here for."

Harry sighed and rolled his eyes. If he'd had any doubts about Hermione acting oddly before, she had just confirmed that she was, indeed, normal again.

"What is it?" he asked huskily.

Hermione wiggled around so she could face him and pulled something from a pocket in her robes. The squirming of her backside on his lap made him bite his lip, but he tried to give her his full mental attention.

"This is all that was in that box. It doesn't look particularly auspicious to me, but then again, this is the wizarding world. It could very possibly be a Portkey."

Harry frowned and lifted the object from Hermione's hands. It was dark inside the cloak, but he could see that it was a small, embossed metal box with a hinge lid. The texture of the metal told him that it was a bit rusty and the peeling paint on the cover spelled out: Schub-rt's Scru-tious Sherbets. The box looked incredibly old.

"I really hope this is more than a box of sherbets or I'll be severely disappointed."

Hermione smacked him lightly on the arm. "Harry, be serious for a moment. I hope that we've only discovered that Snape has a secret liking for Muggle sweets. I don't care how much effort we've put into finding out, it's better than any alternative I can imagine!"

Harry curled his fingers over the lid but Hermione slammed her hand down over his. Some rust flakes fell on his trouser leg from the impact, but he didn't bother with brushing them away.

"Are you mad?" she hissed. "If it is a Portkey, opening it up could activate it and take us to God only knows where! We're not prepared. We need to do some more research and-"

Harry shook her hand away and ripped open the top, bracing himself for the behind-the-navel pull of a Portkey activation, but was relieved when he didn't feel it.

"Nothing happened. It really is just a box of sherbet lem-"

"Hello? Is someone there?" a small, tinny voice called out, cutting Harry off.

"Did you hear that, Hermione?"

Hermione nodded and pointed at his hand. The voice was coming from there and suddenly a little ball of white light rose from the shallow box and hovered just in front of them.

"Who are you?" the orb asked.

Harry glanced at Hermione, but she only shrugged. "I'm, uh, I'm Harry Potter." He raised his eyebrows and squinted his eyes against the sudden brightness. "Who are you?"

The ball of light seemed to flicker, as if considering the question before answering. "My name is Albus Dumbledore," it said in a creaky, pompous boom. "I'm the Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Harry blinked rapidly and rubbed at his eyes. The little ball of light was still there and he could have sworn that it said-

"Um, you're who?"

The orb flickered in annoyance. "I said that my name is Albus Dumbledore. Are you hard of hearing, boy?"

"N-no, sir." Harry stuttered. "It's just that, well, you can't be Professor Dumbledore."

"I agree," Hermione said.

She studied the empty box now that she had light to see it. Harry took the opportunity to peruse the Marauder's Map. His eyes passed briefly over Snape, who was still pacing outside of the Potions classroom. But then Harry flicked his gaze to the Headmaster's bedchambers in the far corner. There was a small dot labelled 'Albus Dumbledore' with a little bubble hovering over it that said: 'Zzzzzzz'.

"Ha!" Harry crowed, triumphant. He tapped the map with his finger and shoved it closer to the little ball of light. "You see that? It says that Dumbledore is in his quarters, so you can't possibly be him."

Hermione nodded academically. "Not to mention that you're little more than an animated candle flame; no offence intended, of course. Certainly not a professor."

The 'animated candle flame' flitted closer to the map, peering down as if it were nearsighted. It gave a startled yelp and jumped back.

"But-but, I'm Albus Dumbledore!"

Harry shook his head and gritted his teeth to keep from screaming. "No, you're not." He pointed at the Headmaster's chambers again. "The Marauder's Map says that Albus Dumbledore is asleep. And if you look over here to where we are, it says-" Harry froze. "It says-"

"What?" Hermione squinted down at the map. Harry trailed his finger reluctantly over the map to show her, searching for the little dots that said: 'Harry Potter' and 'Hermione Granger'. But when the pad of his finger grazed over the Potions classroom, there was another dot. One that hadn't been there when he checked to see if anyone was inside of Snape's office earlier.

It was labelled, in impossibly tiny letters: 'Essence of Albus Dumbledore'.