Stronger Chapter Seven

Stronger

By: Provocative Envy

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Author’s Note: I literally had five whole pages written of this chapter when I decided I hated it. Draco was coming off clinically depressed rather than frustrated, and Hermione was being far too nice considering recent events. So I changed things around and made this the pivotal chapter: a rash decision made at the end will be the spark that ignites the whole romantic sequence of this. A good sign that I’ll maintain inspiration is that I’ve thought of an ending; unfortunately, it’s bittersweet.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

I was holding open the door of the Three Broomsticks for Pansy when the first screams were heard. They were all piercing and shrill, pure terror mingling with abject desperation; shortly after, a melee of frightened students and shopkeepers was stampeding down the street.

Figures draped in black cloth and hidden behind white masks were brandishing wands and hurling deadly curses at the mass of huddled civilians. Pansy was clutching my hand, her gasp of surprise quickly replaced by a grin of satisfaction. I remained expressionless, detached from the world and all its inescapable horror.

Even as I stood there, unsure of whether I was to flee from the town or join my comrades in their senseless desecration, I knew that I wouldn’t move. I would watch, powerless to stop it and unwilling to participate; I would stay on the sidelines, too weak to fight and too disinclined to help.

I remembered how barely any time had really passed since I’d craved the Mark and its homicidal corollaries; I remembered how much I’d wanted it and its license to kill.

Pansy had already left me, her cloak whipping around her ankles and a white mask tossed in her direction by a faceless man who was blowing up every building in sight.

I wanted to sprint as fast as I could away from the destruction, wanted to curl up in a defenseless little ball and sob out my imperfection.

Instead, I took a tentative step forward, allowing myself to be swept up in the rush of the wailing crowd. I saw Potter and Weasley, wands drawn, attempting to ward off the rush of Death Eaters; Granger was nowhere to be seen.

I took an elbow in the ribs from a fifth year Hufflepuff and flew several feet to the left, landing in a dejected heap in a dark alley. I resolved to wait out the attack in there, certain that I’d be protected from everything and everyone. I stumbled backwards, hoping I’d reach the back wall and collapse.

My foot collided with a body, causing me to trip and hit the pavement with a crunch.

“Oh, hell,” I moaned, cradling my bruised head.

“Who’s there?” a man’s voice, gruff and alert, responded to my groan of distress.

“Bother that. Who are you?” I asked suspiciously, gripping my wand.

“Name’s Timothy Davison,” the stranger told me. “You aren’t one of them, are you?”

“That depends entirely on who you refer to as ‘them’,” I replied tartly.

“The madmen in masks, of course.”

“No,” I said slowly, deliberately. “No, I’m not one of them.”

“Good. I’d have had to kill you if you were, you know.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment.”

Several minutes of silence went by, a headache of preposterous magnitude blurring my thoughts; the only sound that could be heard was the sickening combination of unearthly shrieks and boisterous laughter.

“Isn’t it horrible?” Davison asked me.

“What d’you mean?”

“It’s mutiny, pure and simple. They’re obsessed with blood, torture the people they’ve already murdered just for the sake of watching ‘em writhe on the floor. Bet it’s even better for ‘em when they do it to the living; can’t be as much fun if all the fight’s gone out,” he answered, scratching his chin.

“They’re still all human, you know. They believe in their cause just as much as you…we believe in ours,” I retorted heatedly, angry with the man’s hostile insinuation.

“It ain’t a cause, boy.”

“Oh? Then what do you propose it is?”

“It’s fear. They’re revolting against change because it’s scary. They want to sink us all back into the Dark Ages, where bloodlines were synonymous with power and the two worlds were divided by the strictest and thickest lines imaginable. They’re reacting the only way people that foul can: violence.”

“So, what, you’re saying it’s some kind of bloodthirsty cult?” I inquired, incredulous.

“In some ways, yes, I suppose. They call him ‘Master’, you know. As if complete acquiescence to all his gristly requests will somehow keep whatever’s left of their conscience unaware of what’s going on. As if they can sit there and pretend they’re being hypnotized, or brainwashed. As if anything half-decent could possibly have an effect on them.”

“Then why are you hiding back here when you could be out there trying to wipe them all out?”

“And how would I do that, boy? I’m a Squib,” Davison explained, sighing.

“A Squib! So, what, you’re jealous of all that power those ‘madmen in masks’ have over other people? That’s why you hate them so much, isn’t it?”

“No. I hate them because they’d choose me, a pureblooded Squib, over the most magically gifted muggle-born there is. I hate them because they’re biased to the point of single-minded solidarity. I hate them because they hide behind masks and refuse to show their faces.”

“What does hiding their identity have to do with anything?”

“It has everything to do with it, boy. How could you possibly respect a man who’s ashamed of himself?”

My throat went dry.

“How could you possibly respect a man who can’t make up his bloody mind about what he wants?”

My jaw went slack.

“How could you possibly respect a man who couldn’t define the word honor if he had a bloody dictionary in his hand?”

I stumbled to my feet, backing into the wall and spluttering with confusion. He barely noticed my retreat, his eyes wide and fixed on a shadow standing just outside my reach.

“Crucio,” a menacing voice whispered, aiming his wand and emitting a small chuckle of contentment as Davison twitched on the ground. The Death Eater turned his attention to me, beginning to open his mouth to speak the deadly curse again.

“No! Wait! I’m one of you!” I shouted, my heart close to bursting through my chest.

“Prove it,” he hissed, wand still pointed at my head.

I slid back the sleeve of my robe and showed him my forearm; immediately, he clapped me on the shoulder and produced a mask.

“Here, you’ll need this.”

“What about…what about this one?” I asked breathlessly, placing the thin white plastic over my face and nodding towards Davison.

“You can have him, if you want. He’s a Squib; practically useless. Not even worth killing. But go ahead, have your fun. We’re nowhere near done out there, anyway.”

I stared, aghast. As soon as I’d blinked, the man was gone.

“Hey, are you—”

“I don’t want your help,” he snarled, shoving me away as he winced.

“Listen, that was all for--”

“I said that I don’t want your help.”

I abruptly pressed my lips together.

“Fine. Sit here and rot for all I care.”

I was starting my walk out to the street when Davison’s eerie giggling stopped me.

“What’s so funny?” I demanded, an ominous chill creeping up my spine. “What’s so bloody funny?”

“Just go on and walk away, boy. Go on and join your sorry friends. I’ll die here in this alley, hurting and alone; but, to tell you the truth, I’ll be happy.”

“You’re going to die…and you’re happy. I knew you were crazy.”

“Maybe I am. But at least I’m not you.”

“You mean alive?”

“No. I mean frightened. I mean frightened and humiliated and indecisive. I mean weak and pathetic and sad.”

I was already running away from him though, his poignant, haunting words echoing through my head. His raucous bellowing followed me all the way back to the now empty street, a trail of dead bodies leading up to the corner.

I was still wearing the mask as I made my way to the gruesome festival of green light and lasting sound.

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