Twisted

Chapter Ten: The Devil’s Luck

[Several hours before Anita’s meeting with Edward]

Harry’s fingers ran over the rough splintered wood standing before him. He recognized the table…the one from the kitchen in Grimauld Place. Yes, there was the mark from Fred and George’s knife. He blinked dimly, and looked around the blurry room.

“Sirius?” Harry whispered as he spotted his godfather. He was laughing while Mrs. Weasley scolded him. Harry couldn’t hear what they were saying, it was muffled…but no one could mistake the look on the plump woman’s face.

Harry stood, to get closer, and fell back down into the chair immediately. He felt so heavy.

“It’s no use really,” an all too familiar voice intoned; the one that plagued his nightmares.

But he was so tired; he couldn’t even turn his head to look.

“You don’t belong here, you know. It’s just a dream.”

Harry wanted to say that he knew, but his mouth wouldn’t work.

Hot breath burned into his ear as fiery lips brushed his flesh, “You gave all that up, didn’t you? You’ll never be one of them again…because of what you did.”

Harry felt something even hotter building up in his throat, like a great painful lump.

“I killed Him,” Harry forced out, shaking his head. He had to justify it. “He was evil.”

Sharp laughter filled the room, the oblivious occupants moving around, unaware of their audience. Harry cried out as fingers gripped his shoulders, digging into his neck like talons.

“Don’t you ever use that thick head, or was that old bugger talking to a brick?”

Harry shook his head again, trying to clear the muddled thoughts, even though his chest was filled with pain, some trapped emotion was trying to force its way out.

“No, no,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut tight. If he didn’t see it, acknowledge it, it wasn’t real.

“That’s right,” the voice hissed, hot mouth pressing into the tender flesh below his earlobe. Harry felt teeth scrape his vulnerable skin. “You know the truth don’t you…in here.”

One of the sharp-fingered hands slid over his shoulder to his chest and stopped over his rapidly, painfully beating heart.

“…’Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives’.” The fingers dug painfully into Harry’s skin, forcing the words in with them. The room was beginning to shake, echoing the tremors that shook his conflicted body. His head was trapped in a vice, that agonizing pressure building up around his scar. “We are the last Horcrux, Harry James Potter.” The other hand slid under his chin, turning his head to face his assailant.

As Harry stared, the room began to fall apart, stones crashing, plates falling, dust flying about the room. He gawked at eyes that did not belong to that face…

“Voldermort?” he whispered, only half a breath. His eyes began to water, the torture unbearable.

Harry squinted at what could have been his twin, except that he was sure that Lily Potter could never have born that. The wizard leaned forward; about to impart a grave secret, and the whole room seemed to hold its breath, as if for a split second time had halted. Then the floor began to shake as the other him opened his mouth.

“Wrong.”

The world exploded with an earth-shattering roar.

……………………….

The pale wizard stumbled into the warming sunlight and sucked in a huge breath. His body weighed a ton; it was all he could do to put one step in front of the other so that he could lean on the Circus’s strong walls.

Draco glanced haphazardly around the vacant parking lot, already hazy with the morning’s traffic from the highway. Now that he had his limbs back to their solid state, every bit of them screamed in agony. That was definitely a spell that was not to be performed for long periods of time.

He didn’t know how Scarhead did it. Being the hero might have been Potter’s forte, but it definitely wasn’t Draco’s. His heart must have stopped half-dozen times, sure he was caught and all he wanted now was a good house-elf and a nice hot bath. And breakfast, his appallingly empty stomach reminded him with a disgruntled gurgle.

“Golden Boy must have the Devil’s luck,” Draco hissed, standing up stiffly and wincing as his joints creaked.

A low rumble was coming from somewhere.

For a second Draco stared blankly, confused. It was too sunny to be thunder, too loud to be his stomach…not high enough for a car…

The ground was shaking.

Draco took a confused step. The ground was not meant to shake.

It took another second for his befuddled mind to catch on, all the while the roaring growing louder. An Earthquake!?

The wall beside him began to buckle. He didn’t loose another second in finding somewhere to hide. For what seemed like an eternity, the entire world came crashing down. Draco’s ears were bombarded with something too loud to be called noise while dirt and debris tried to shove their way up his nose and down his throat. He kept his eyes screwed firmly shut as he cowered under the wheels of the inappropriately gargantuan American car.

Draco’s ears were ringing so loudly that he did not realize that all the commotion had stopped. He opened his eyes and blinked rapidly, trying to cough the dirt out of his lungs. It was no use. More just filtered in and clogged them up.

Where was the light? Was there light? Was he blind? He scrabbled around under the car, which was now pressing firmly on his back. His hands encountered numerous pieces of rubble and sharp fragments, but some of it, on his left, moved.

Draco clawed that way, coughing and gagging. Was he going to suffocate before he could dig himself out? No, there, a cooling breeze. Like a diver without oxygen, he struggled to the hazy light. He was caught on something, it tugged painfully on the skin of his back, but he didn’t care.

Clean, open air was there. Light was there. He had to get to it.

With a scream Draco pulled himself out, loosing a good bit of flesh on the way. He struggled and flopped like a fish out of water until he was all the way out before he collapsed and choked in the unsoiled air.

He didn’t know how long it took him before he stood up.

The SUV was crushed under the edge of a mountain of rubble. It looked like someone had exploded the Circus from the bottom. Now that Draco saw it, he could hear screams and shouting. In the distance there was an alarm sounding…sirens getting closer.

Draco spun around, circling around the building toward the more derelict district. He stumbled his way around and out of the debris, as blood from the wound on his back soaked his shirt and down his ripped pants. He didn’t stop his mad pace. He couldn’t afford to be found by any muggle police or any surviving monsters. He raced on.

Trip. Stumble. Slip…fall.

“Merlin’s balls!” Draco cried, hissing as he inspected his bloodied hands. He was a Malfoy. A Malfoy did not go scrabbling around in the dirt like a rat. They paid other people to do it for them.

Draco furiously kicked the offending obstacle and was rewarded with a pained moan. The wizard froze before he looked down. Under his foot was a very dirty, very unconscious someone. His heart thumped awfully in his chest before he nudged the someone over.

There were no words.

Scarhead. Alive. Unconcious. Alone. Without a bloody scratch on him.

“It’s not bloody fucking fair,” Draco seethed.