17. The Weasley lineage
January, 1999
Malfoy Manor, England.
"Even you, Mother, are involved in this rebellion against me?"
"Oh, come now, Draco, don't be so dramatic. A week in Paris will do her a lot of good. She needs the rest, and Merlin knows you're not giving her any."
"What do you-"
"Parties, receptions, inaugurations galore. Not to mention your evening pastimes."
"Mother…"
"Yes, well, regardless of how you two spend your nights, better one bird in hand than two in the bush, as they say, so if you could try to keep my future granddaughter alive before you try to conceive another-"
"Grandson."
"Whichever, dear, whichever. I really think you should let her-"
"Ginevra is not going to Paris alone, and that's final."
***
London, England.
"Ginevra will be spending next week in Paris," Draco gritted out. "I want her followed, and I want a report of her every single doing. Do you think you can take care of this, or would you rather delegate?"
Blaise sat across Malfoy's desk, playing idly with a paper cutter.
"Don't worry, I'm on it. If she meets a bloke or several there, you'll be the first to know."
He refrained from smirking when he saw the muscle that twitched in Draco's jaw. If looks could kill, Shehzin would have been one of the youngest widows in England.
***
Paris, France.
Ginny Apparated in front of the Fontaine Saint Michel. It was dark, but there were lights dancing everywhere. Startled, she looked around for the person that was supposed to show her to her apartment. Ginny wondered whether the jeans and blazer she had hastily matched up were earning her surprised looks from surrounding Muggles, but a little tap on her shoulder interrupted her thoughts. A woman in her midforties with striped yellow and purple robes stared at her from behind disk-shaped glasses.
"Lady Malfoy?" the woman said, the hint of an accent in her voice.
"Yes," Ginny acknowledged. "Hello."
"Isabelle Guerin, a votre service. The apartment Lord Malfoy obtained for you is five minutes away, but I figured you might want to see a little bit of the quartier Saint Michel."
"Certainly."
Isabelle Guerin made her way toward a rather populated avenue. People brushed past Ginny without a second look at her clothes, though several men cast her appreciative glances-a fact that didn't seem to exasperate the woman at their arm when there was one. She wondered if perhaps she should have put something under her blazer, though she couldn't recall her father mentioning anything about that.
"This is the Boulevard Saint Michel. There are many excellent Muggle stores with interesting clothing. Perhaps you'll want to bring some back to your friends. The stores with yellow windowpanes sell books, some of them for amazing prices. At night, students flock the stands and buy books for less than a euro each-that's about two Sickles. Many like to just hang about, or go at the Ile Saint Louis, which is further down the Seine."
Ginny nodded, observing with interest the wrought iron balconies and gray facades of the buildings. Window boxes filled with geraniums were a frequent view, and the washed-away green lamppost appeared somewhat archaic next to buses and cars. The precise and sharp consonances of French resounded everywhere.
"Here we are," Isabelle said, stopping right at the limit between two bookstores. "Six-cent soixante-six(1), Boulevard Saint Germain." A peach colored house, clad with the typical balcony and geranium, appeared. "Superstition keeps Muggles from asking," she observed connivingly.
Ginny merely nodded, pretending she had understood what Isabelle had just said, and committed the address to memory. Isabelle pushed open the wooden door, and they entered an inner courtyard paved with old stones. There was a red and blue banner of the "Paris Princes" with a Snitch hanging from one window, and from one balcony unfurled tentacles that looked very much like they belonged to a Flitterbloom.
"Most of the residents are on vacation," Isabelle went on, "but I told the remaining ones you were coming so you will not be disturbed. The Malfoy name commands respect far beyond England's borders."
"How comforting," Ginny said glumly.
They entered the house. The elder woman opened the first door on the left and stepped aside. A small corridor gave way to a large, well-lit living room. A rattan mat covered the floor, and the furniture was of a dark, red wood. Cactuses and palm trees bloomed in every corner. There were copper statuettes, vases, and chiseled plates scattered about the room.
"It's lovely," Ginny said primly, as befitted a Malfoy.
"The kitchen is over there, and the bedroom has its own bathroom, of course. I'll leave the keys here," Isabelle said, placing them on a coffee table. "If you need anything, there is Floo powder on the chimney. I hope you will enjoy Paris."
"Thank you. Goodbye."
"Au revoir."
Isabelle left Ginny to her newfound pied-a-terre. Ginny quickly went to the window and opened it wide, seeing below her the noisy Boulevard Saint Germain and beyond, the Seine and Notre Dame. For a second she contemplated going out and mingling with the crowd, but a burst of fatigue decided her against it. She found the bedroom to be welcoming, all in shades of white and apple-green with wrought iron furniture. The bed, in particular, looked like a large, square-shaped cloud, on which she was very satisfied to fall once she had taken a quick shower. There came a low, rumbling sound from outside, and once in a while, flashes of light crossed the walls. It took a while for Ginny to fall asleep, for she missed being held by Draco and, for the first time in months, she felt extremely vulnerable.
The following morning, the sunlight reverberated on the white walls and sheets woke Ginny up. She turned to the pillow next to hers but found neither Draco, nor the hollow usually left by his head on the pillow, nor a flower or note he sometimes left. The feeling of emptiness that tugged at her made her angry with herself.
Get a grip, you fool. You've been indulging yourself too much lately. Stop caring for him. Be prepared to ditch the baby.
The harshness of her thoughts made her wince.
Ditch the baby? Surely there has to be some other way.
She pulled out the black, turtleneck dress, thick tights and boots she had ordered-secretly, of course-from a Muggle agency. The knee-length coat and hat she chose to wear with them, yellow like marigolds, made her smile when she slipped them on. She looked like a bee, but people were less likely to stare than if she wore turquoise robes. Once Ginny was outside, she let the crisp and cool air slap her, smelling of unshed rain and river lapping old stone. She walked along the banks, peering at the postcards and posters of French cancan, black cats, and Josephine Baker. At last she reached the Musee d'Orsay and assaulted it, sketchpad and charcoal in hand.
From the Musee d'Orsay, she moved on to the Louvre, of which she only had the time to visit the sculpture galleries before it closed. Dinner along the Champs Elysees left her with several choices: to Apparate back to the apartment, to try and take a bus or taxi, or to walk. She cast an additional warming charm on her clothing, buried her hands in her coat pockets, and ambled down the Avenue des Champs Elysees. Cars whizzed by, constantly surprising her, but the noise and commotion filled her amazed ears and eyes. Along the Rue Rivoli, the flow of passersby dwindled and she found herself walking along the street's empty arcades. More than once she got the fleeting impression of hearing steps behind her, but mostly the sources of commotion were random nightclubs and late-night restaurants.
When she reached the Ile Saint Louis, she found its banks to be colonized by groups of teenagers, wine bottle in one hand and guitar in the other. They didn't do as much as glance at her, but she got the distinct impression of being watched again. She was tired of turning around and finding no eyes on her, however, so she walked on, keeping her eyes on the oily, black surface of the Seine.
Ginny was stepping below a bridge when a hand closed around her arm. Though she winced, she had to admit she wasn't surprised. She turned to face her assailant. His face was red and granular from extensive alcohol consumption, and his clothing appeared dirty.
"Eh bien, ma jolie, on se promene, seule, dans la nuit?" (2)
She looked at him oddly and didn't reply, figuring that, regardless of the language used, she didn't feel like answering someone who stopped her so rudely.
"T'es pas très polie, dis donc. A moins que tu ne sois stupide?" (3)
Ginny recognized the sound of "stupide" as being similar to its English translation, and anger flashed across her features. She tried to shake her arm from his grip.
"Let go of me," she ordered.
"Oho, mademoiselle eez Anglish? Je vais te montrer, moi, ce qu'on leur fait, aux Rosbifs, (4)" he snarled, upon which he pulled her to him and tried to grab her bum.
Making good use of her years of education by her brothers, she revolved to face him and slammed her knee in his groin. The man doubled over, groaning, "Putain de femelle," but didn't release his hold on her. Angrily, he slammed her against the wall, though his movements were still unsteady from the pain she had caused. She barely had time to curl her fingers into a ball and smash it under his chin, in a move that Charlie had promised would knock out any opponent. The man fell back to the ground. Ginny gave his slumped form a disgusted look and hurried away.
That's it, I'm going to see Hermione tomorrow. I'm not in the mood for Paris, alone.
Behind her, a dark figure reached her attacker's crumpled form. Blaise, wand still in hand, distastefully nudged the man with his foot. The Frenchman moaned. Blaise gave him a good kick in the stomach, muttering, "You filthy pig. I wish I could finish you off right now…" But, as he had to follow Ginny and make sure she didn't get herself into additional trouble, he quickly followed her, wondering whether he should tell Draco about this event and risk being decapitated in the ensuing second.
***
Saint Daunes, France.
Ginny nearly Apparated on top of a mailbox she supposed had been recently installed. It was red and shiny as if it had just been waxed and stood out against the bright yellow of the sunflower covered hills. To her left, the house bathed in the limited shadows offered by a few trees. The air was rather warm, so Ginny took off her coat and immediately felt more at ease. She walked toward the old farm, eager to see Hermione for the first time in nearly a year, and found her friend seated on the stone front porch. The bushy-haired witch didn't notice her approaching, for she was bent over a bundle in her lap that monopolized all her attention.
"Oh-my-" Ginny muttered, completely floored.
Hermione was holding and feeding a little baby.
She lifted her eyes, and when she saw Ginny, a warm smile illuminated her face. She walked over to her friend and, without bothering to tuck in her breast or tear the baby from it, she introduced them to each other.
"Ginny, this is Harry Arthur Weasley. Harry, this is the Aunt Ginny I've been telling you so much about."
Ginny stood there, staring at the little creature's contented features and its tiny hand flattened against Hermione's skin, at its unruly, orange hair and freckled face, and felt warm tears dribbling down her cheeks. In a few, shaky steps she was next to Hermione, tenderly caressing her nephew's soft hair.
"He's… he's…" Ginny began, but she was at a loss for words. "Ron's?"
Hermione threw her an outraged look.
"Of course he is! As if I could ever-with anyone else-oh, dear," she exclaimed, and Ginny couldn't say whether it was to ward off the fresh tears in her eyes or regarding the baby's sudden gurgling noises.
Hermione pulled her little boy from her breast and placed him face down on her shoulder, then patted his back until he burped. Beaming more than she had upon learning that she was made Prefect, she motioned to Ginny to sit down.
"Blonde is, ah-an interesting color for you."
"Don't remind me…" Ginny muttered.
Hermione reached for her wand and cast a spell at Ginny, which made her hair red and wavy again. She stared fondly at her best friend's leonine mane as she placed her son in a crib by the bench. The two women sat in silence
"Hermione, why didn't you tell me?" Ginny asked at last.
Hermione, for the first time since Ron had proposed to her, was unsure of what to say. She twisted her hands, meaning to make a stab at words, but couldn't find an explanation that would justify the sadness in Ginny's voice.
"All this time I've had a nephew and I didn't know? I can't believe you would do such a thing to me when you know you're all the family I have left!"
The moment she uttered these words, Ginny knew there was something wrong with them. Her feelings were as she had meant them, part betrayed trust and part loneliness, but she grudgingly admitted to herself that in Narcissa and Draco, especially, she had found the closest thing she could have to a family.
"I was afraid someone might find out," Hermione blurted out at last, her cheeks pink with embarrassment.
"Yes, because I would have easily come up with `And then my nephew, who is Ron Weasley and a Mudblood's son…' in a conversation!"
Hermione winced.
"Some of them are skilled Legilimens, you know," she snapped back as tears pooled in her eyes. "And I just didn't know what to do! When I found out, at first, it was like a little bit of Ron had been given back to me. But then my baby was born, and all I could think of was how they would find us and take him away from me, or kill him! I panicked, and I'm sorry, but I was so afraid-I couldn't think anymore."
The tears trickled down her face as they had on Ginny's cheeks moments earlier, and Ginny felt Hermione's irrational fear and loneliness so strongly, when faced with such a possibility, that she took the other witch into her arms. Soon they were both crying and hugging each other, in a way somewhat similar to when they had learned about the Burrow's destruction, though they came to find that their tears were of relief to be alive and have each other rather than sorrow.
"I'm pregnant, too," Ginny croaked out.
"Oh, God," was all Hermione could murmur before she pressed Ginny harder against her, and together they wept as if wracking sobs were a second language .
When they had shed their long reprieved tears and felt blissfully purged, Hermione threw a tender look at Harry Arthur. Ginny couldn't help but hope that she could some day look at her child like this.
Oh wait, she reminded herself. I'm not having any child.
"So, how long has it been?" Hermione asked.
"About two months."
"Did you use-"
"I did, `Mione, I used it every-single-time, and believe me when I say I used it."
Hermione blushed at the implication.
"Did Malfoy know about it?"
"Draco?" Ginny corrected her absent-mindedly. "No, I don't think so. At least, he never told me about it."
Hermione nodded but didn't look convinced. Seeing as the only way to counter the contraception spell's effect was to cast another spell, she had a hard time imagining Malfoy was entirely unaware of his wife's doings. A pang of anxiety shot through her as she wondered if he knew anything else of their plans, but she figured Ginny would have warned her had that been the case.
"I don't know what happened, then," Hermione said.
"What I'm more concerned about is what do I do now?"
"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, surprised.
"Do I keep it? I can't have Draco's baby and keep plotting his downfall, and I can't not have it and keep plotting his downfall. I feel as though I didn't get pregnant for the right reasons-I mean, I'm not even married to a man I love, as it's supposed to happen!-and yet the thought of getting rid of it is as painful as the thought of losing you!"
Hermione listened to Ginny's outburst patiently, understanding her feelings of incertitude and frustration.
"Leave him, then," she offered calmly, in a subtle attempt to find out if there were things about her own feelings that Ginny didn't know about.
"What? Leave Draco?" She quickly pondered the thought. "I can't. The baby-"
"Leave him and have the baby. It isn't easy, but it certainly is well worth the hassle. You could easily find a job anywhere you want to live."
Ginny eyed her uncertainly, clearly unhappy with her suggestion. This confirmed Hermione's suspicion that her friend was growing attached to Malfoy, a being she found repulsive and monstrous beyond belief, though time increasingly pushed her to move away and forget his crimes. Unfortunately, Ginny now appeared to be entangled in their plot to make him pay for his deeds, and Hermione couldn't help but feel terribly guilty for the toll events might take on the younger woman.
"If I have his baby, I can never leave him, can I?" Ginny asked in a very small voice.
A knot formed in Hermione's throat.
"I don't think so. I… I am so sorry," she breathed out. "This whole thing was my idea, and I shouldn't have gotten you involved in it! And now you're pregnant and I feel so, so bad," she whispered.
"Don't," Ginny said, her voice low but calm. "I agreed to help you. Now I just have to figure out what to do. I can't let you keep making decisions for me now, can I?" she asked, smiling sadly. "Look, I'll find what I have to do. In the meantime, though, I'm supposed to have a break and take care of myself-Narcissa's own words, mind you-and what better way to do that than to take care of my newly discovered nephew?"
Hermione, noticeably relieved by Ginny's handling of the situation, laughed and hugged her one last time before heading over to the cradle, from which arose the little boy's incomprehensible babble. Ginny was at his side in a second, cooing and purring about Harry Arthur's tiny fists, chocolate eyes, and adorable freckles. Hermione's son was the center of both women's worlds in the days that followed. Ginny made up for her entire family's absence by not leaving the baby's side for so much than an instant, delighted by his curious glances and a prattle that she deemed expressive and bright, despite her being unable to understand any of it. There wasn't a thing about her nephew that didn't fascinate her, and she would have told the world about him had she been able to. Hermione fed him but was strongly encouraged to leave the rest to Ginny in a way that was quite reminiscent of Molly Weasley's capacity to take over, unilaterally.
When Harry Arthur was asleep or occupied with his stuffed hippogriff, Hermione and Ginny took walks by the lake behind the house. They put together a vegetable garden, which Hermione assured would please the owners of the house who, coincidentally, happened to be her boss's family. They shared stories from Hogwarts and of their new lives, realizing how little their notes had conveyed what was going on. Ginny would hurry back to check on her nephew. They marveled at Neville's coming-of-age and newfound self-assurance; they laughed about his obvious infatuation with Luna. They spoke of Wood's carrier as a Quidditch player, of Padma Patil's as Minister of Magic, of Dean Thomas's as painter, of friends forced to live as Muggles or emigrate, of others abiding by the rules and becoming part of the pure-blood society.
The night before Ginny had planned to return to Paris, the witches had dinner and put Harry Arthur to bed, as was customary. They sat at the long, coarse, wooden table, sipping tisane and listening to the wind outside. The shutters occasionally beat against the walls, giving rhythm to the evening with sharp knocks. Wavering flames danced in the domes of the oil lamps.
"So what are you going to do?" Hermione asked.
"I don't know," Ginny said softly, looking at her fingers. Her wedding band glistened. "I think I… I… I need more time…"
Though Hermione had no idea time for what exactly, she got up and walked to the closest cabinet. From one of its drawers she pulled out a small sachet, then headed back for the table and placed it before Ginny.
"I don't want to be the one giving you every single mean to not have a child," she said. "First `Contraceptio', and now this… I just want you to have as many options as possible, because in dragging you into this plan, I forced you to take a path I could not have taken myself. I'm just trying to make up for what I've done. Regardless of what you choose to do, however, I hope it will be for the best, and I'm sure you are big enough to make your own decisions wisely."
Ginny gave her a sad, weary smile and pocketed the sachet.
"Will it look natural?"
Hermione nodded. The old clock by the chimney struck eleven, the coppery sound resonating throughout the room with each blow. The two women felt at peace.
"Hermione?"
"Yes."
"You never told me about the last battle. I know what they said in the newspapers wasn't true, but…"
It was Hermione's turn to appear enthralled with her hands. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded slowly.
"After all," she said, finishing her thoughts out loud, "you deserve to know… Just remember that people won't believe you. They are much more comfortable with the version of events that the provisional government at the time gave them."
Ginny nodded.
"We had found and destroyed all Horcruxes thanks to Regulus Black's indications. I don't know why Voldemort-" Hermione said his name without hesitation, her voice hard and cutting like steel, "-let us do it, but he may have felt this was the only way Harry would ever dare approach him. He was wrong, of course-Harry, unlike him, would have never been foolish enough to attack him at the height of his power, without so much as a toothpick in hand."
"That's Harry," Ginny said affectionately.
"Yes, that's Harry. Either way, we knew that with Dumbledore dead, there was no way we could kill Voldemort. But with Sirius' help, we tricked him."
"Sirius? But he-"
"Died? In a way, he didn't. Harry still couldn't deal with his godfather's disappearance, so I did some research on the archway in the Department of Mysteries. It was actually Bill who gave me the most important hint regarding the provenance of this arch that is, as you have probably guessed, a passage to the Otherworld. He saw a drawing I had made and said that many of the tombs he had visited in Egypt bore similar depictions of doors. He even got me some very ancient scrolls."
Ginny, though intrigued by these revelations from which she had been kept away, wondered how this was relevant. Trust Hermione to blame Voldemort's death on scrolls my brother got her.
"Anubis' Gates is what Sirius fell through. As you know, the dead have a tremendous power-in a way they have to account for living wizards' energy-and the Gates are one of the several, difficult ways to harness part of that power."
"Please don't tell me you had the time to plot Voldemort's downfall and crack the mystery of Anubis' gates, which I suppose the Unspeakables have been working on for hundreds of years," Ginny said more aggressively than she would have wanted, though Hermione's didactic voice was getting on her nerves.
"I didn't, but the Unspeakables did. It was a very timely discovery, I must say-one that Marla Meadows, one of the Order's most secretive recruits and part of the team that worked on the Gates, was only too eager to disclose. She's the one who, putting her entire career at stake, stole that black, flapping curtain-do you remember it?"
"Of course I remember it. Why did she steal it?"
"Because that was what made Anubis' Gates the receptacle of the power. Supposedly, the cloth is made of Nephthys' hair-she's an Egyptian goddess-which was thought to shroud the bodies of the dead. Well, regardless of the mythology behind it all, the veil itself is like death made object. Imagine the power this involves!"
"So, did you come up with a weapon? Strangle Voldemort with the veil?" Ginny asked darkly.
Hermione was stunned by the harshness of her words, though perhaps she would have understood it had she thought how much Ginny would have wanted to be a part of this, of the research, of the fact, of her family and her loved ones' last instants.
"No, we tricked him with it."
"What?"
Night has fallen early. The fortress of Azkaban is swiftly enshrouded in black clouds that coil around it like a salamander. The sea crashes in explosions of salty water against the stone, seeping between the dark rocks, then withdrawing to prepare a second assault. Hermione casts several charms to light up the different fires scattered on the towers, walls, and in the central courtyard. Shadows of wizards walk about, wand in hand, while Remus Lupin reinforces the wards around the castle.
Suddenly, a blue lightning tears the sky. Azkaban trembles in its wake as the protective dome around it shatters.
"They're here," Lupin calls, nonplussed by the abrupt breaking apart of his wards.
A shrill, female scream rings through the night, shortly followed by a flash of green. From the walls come a few screams, punctuated by colored lights and explosions. Hermione throws herself in Harry's arms and hugs him, her eyes filling with tears.
"I'm scared," she says.
"Just promise me you'll do it."
"Harry…"
"Promise me. For Ron. For the Weasleys. For Dumb-"
"Harry…"
"Promise me. Now, Hermione. They're coming."
She's crying in earnest now, but the resolve and hollowness in his voice fill her with an artificial sense of peace.
"I promise," she gurgles, and he crushes her against her.
She can barely hear him murmur, "Thanks", when the same female voice that marked the beginning of the attack roars, "They're all dummies!" Remus runs toward Harry and Hermione, his hand closed like a maw around his wand.
"They're here," he says out of breath, knowing full well the pointlessness of such an announcement. "Do you have it?"
Harry nods. Six of the eight fires in the courtyard die out as a chill wind sweeps across the paved floor. From the darkness advances Voldemort, robes billowing like smoke around him, his Death Eater pawns assembled in a semi-circle of which he is the epicenter. Hermione, her mind frozen with fear, doesn't have the sense to find futile Voldemort's taste for dramatic entries.
"A trap, Harry Potter?" he asks silkily. "I must admit, I would have expected better from you."
"Baby Harry thinks he has a chance?" Bellatrix Lestrange cooes, coming up at the Dark Lord's right side.
"Bellatrix," Voldemort barks, lifting his arm in warning. She snaps her mouth shut. "This should be interesting. So, you think you're ready to fight me-again? Do you think, perhaps, you have a chance this time?"
The Death Eaters snicker. Remus is nowhere to be seen. A shadow has slipped behind Hermione, who stands to the side and somewhat behind Harry. The bespectacled man pushes the hair out of his eyes and, as if awakened by his gesture, Voldemort's red eyes bore into Harry's. His slit-like nostrils flare and he closes his eyes, sniffing around, his hands lightly feeling the air around him.
"Aha, Potter… It appears you aren't as helpless as you once were. I-sense-power."
Harry merely stares at him, wand in hand.
"Well? What did you do? How did this-"Voldemort interrupts himself to breath in deeply again. "-otherworldly power come to rest on your frail, little shoulders?"
"Answer him, boy!" Bellatrix shrieks, before cowering when she sees her Lord's hand close into a menacing fist. Rodolphus Lestrange throws her a bitter look.
"Ah!" screams Hermione.
Harry wheels around to see Severus Snape holding the young witch, pinning her arm behind her back. His eyes widen in horror.
"So, Potter," Voldemort hisses. "I ask you again. How did you become so powerful?"
Hermione shakes her head violently, her eyes begging Harry not to disclose the information the Unspeakables have worked so hard to come up with. Snape, a vicious grin curling his lips, pulls her elbow further up and she cries out as her knees buckle. A look of indecision crosses Harry's eyes, but he says nothing, looking alternately at Hermione and Voldemort. Snape coldly slaps the young woman, who falls hard on the floor, sobbing.
"Nothing like Muggles' methods to deal with Mudbloods," he says, smirking.
"Anub-" begins Harry.
"Harry, don't!" Hermione calls, but Snape's foot crashes into her stomach and a groan of pain bursts from her mouth.
"Anubis' Gates," Harry says firmly. "The Unspeakables found a way to harness their power, and I have become the receptacle for said power."
A delighted fire dances in Voldemort's eyes, barely quelled by a hint of suspicion. He nods pleasantly to Snape, who pulls Hermione back on her feet but leaves it at that.
"Is that so?" Voldemort murmurs pensively, an eager smile creeping on his lipless mouth. "I don't believe you," he says in a sing-song voice which is possibly creepier than his usual hiss.
Did Harry not wrap the veil around him? Hermione's mind, numbed by the pain, wonders frantically. But he can feel the power, so why-
In a flash Voldemort has disappeared, and Harry is screaming at the top of his lungs, screaming, screaming loud enough to shatter stone. He falls to his knees, holding his head in his hands, while the scar on his forehead rips open and keeps tearing down. Snape has let go of Hermione and pulled out his wand. She whips hers out as well. Remus walks up to them, wand pointed at Harry's bellowing form, and stands next to Snape, a grim look on his face. Harry's face is nothing but a bloody mess as he writhes on the floor, fighting Voldemort's occupation of his mind and body. Tears gush out of Hermione's eyes, blurring her vision, and Remus' face is twisted in despair.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Six hundred and sixty six. The number of the Devil, according to some beliefs.
"Well, well, my pretty… What are you doing outside alone at night?"
"You sure aren't very polite. Unless maybe you're just stupid?"
"I'll show you what we do to Roast-beefs" Much like Frenchies are called "frogs" by the rest of the world, they call the English "Roast-beefs" because of their supposedly red faces.
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