Disclaimer: Not mine. Belonged to a certain Rowling lady. A RICH Rowling lady.

 

Necromancer

ÔŅĹHave you come here for forgiveness?
Have you come to raise the dead?
Have you come here to play Jesus
To the lepers in your head?ÔŅĹ

ÔŅĹ One, U2

The world is empty since he left. Empty and silent.

Oh, there are people around me. Of course there are. ItÔŅĹs not like IÔŅĹm the only person alive in this blasted world, though IÔŅĹd prefer it. Everyone says itÔŅĹs better to get on with life, just keep on doing what IÔŅĹve always done. Life will be easier then, they tell me, but itÔŅĹs not. Being surrounded by people is the last thing I want or need. They annoy me, their voices loud gibberish, their faces blank and unrecognisable.

They act like they knew him. They pretend that they loved him. They say heÔŅĹd want this, heÔŅĹd want that. Liars. ItÔŅĹs amusing to see the shock, the guilt and the shame spread over their faces when I turn and coldly tell them theyÔŅĹre wrong. The shame is the best; they canÔŅĹt believe they fell into the trap of their own delusions. Pathetic fools.

Even Granger and Weasley went all superior on me, Weasley in particular. At least Granger remembered that I knew him as well as they did, perhaps even better. I knew parts of him they couldnÔŅĹt even imagine.

Weasley, however... Weasley I could strangle if I had the chance. As if she sensed this, Granger ensured we were kept apart. No one can claim that she doesnÔŅĹt put that mind of hers to good use, even if she insists on letting it be all people know her by.

It was most laughable when Weasley tried to kick me out of the funeral preparations. Even more when his entire family rallied around his suggestion, their expressions all furious as they glared at me, this bastard who somehow wormed his way into their prized heroÔŅĹs life, and stayed there. Except Weatherby ÔŅĹ no, Percy. Have to stop using that particular name. Brings back too many memories of... him. That name always could make him smile and laugh, even if it made Percy cringe. Idiot.

Thankfully, no one else agreed with that dratted family. Though I was tempted to see how far I could go in getting them kicked out. IÔŅĹm never one to miss an opportunity. Usually.

The funeral was a sentimental affair that made me wish I hadnÔŅĹt come. Unfortunately, I was there and I had to stay until it was over. I didnÔŅĹt pay any attention of course, not until they lowered him into the ground. I watched, still and silent. If anyone wanted hysterical sobbing fits from me, they didnÔŅĹt get their wish.

I wanted to spend some time alone after it was all over, but Black was there with that bloody werewolf, and neither looked like they were going to move anytime soon. So I left, ignoring GrangerÔŅĹs offer of a drink and meal, instead returning home and staring at a wall for five hours.

Home. Why do I even still call it that? Malfoy Manor is not a home, not even in the lightest sense. ItÔŅĹs a rather large house, with many windows and rooms, and neat well-tended gardens around it (numerous traps included), but it is not a home. No amount of wishing will change that, not that I ever have the intention of wasting a wish on that sorry grey mass.

This is the first time IÔŅĹve visited his resting place. Who the hell came up with that kind of name, but I suppose itÔŅĹs fitting. HeÔŅĹs definitely at rest, now; no more Voldemort to worry about, or uncomfortable partners (yours truly) or the equally-uncomfortable situations that came with the relationship. Yes, definitely at rest. Lucky bastard.

Why didnÔŅĹt I perform the good duty of the grieving lover and visit earlier? Simple: I didnÔŅĹt really want to. And every time I did come, people were always there. IÔŅĹll be damned if my visit includes curious bystanders waiting for some kind of breakdown. After all, as his lover IÔŅĹm practically as famous as he is. An ironic sick joke, that.

So here am I, standing by his grave, weeks after his death. Buried next to Dumbledore, the old coot. A fitting tribute. I resist the urge to do something that will most certainly damn me to hell. Rather an entertaining prospect... driving Satan insane is something IÔŅĹd doubt IÔŅĹd enjoy. IÔŅĹm practically bonkers as it is.

I stare down at the disturbed earth, absently thinking itÔŅĹll be a long time before itÔŅĹs green again. IÔŅĹve brought no flowers; he told me again and again never to even consider the idea of bringing flowers, until I could recite it in my sleep. Besides, thereÔŅĹs more than enough here for the entire countryÔŅĹs population. TheyÔŅĹd be kept with flowers for the next five years. I curl my lips in disgust. HeÔŅĹs not going to give a damn what kind of flowers he has: heÔŅĹs dead.

The anger boils inside me, hot and burning and alive, the only part of me thatÔŅĹs felt truly alive since he left me. They pretend to weep and wail, even now, when inside theyÔŅĹre glad heÔŅĹs dead. He rid them of the Dark Lord, ensuring they could lead normal lives again, until the next Big Evil erupts. If a man barely into his prime had to die, well, that was just too bad, wasnÔŅĹt it?

I want to kill them all. I want to let the fury explode into something that will hurt them as much as IÔŅĹve been hurting these past few weeks. I want to destroy.

I can do that. Not literally, but I can do something just as much. Something that wonÔŅĹt hurt them physically, but will disturb the passiveness their lives have settled into. Upset the docile tranquillity thatÔŅĹs wrapped around them. The idea twists painfully in my head, offering me vengeance with sweet poison included.

I can do it... I really can. Then weÔŅĹll see how they react.

My lips twist into a feral smile, as I turn on my heel and depart, without even saying goodbye.

 

ThereÔŅĹs no moon when I return to the graveyard a week later, cloaked in the shadows of darkness. I donÔŅĹt need to light any torch yet ÔŅĹ I have night-vision, you know, and it works just fine. My hands are full with everything I need. WonÔŅĹt be long now.

I work slowly but steadily, starting with the torches. I place them in a circle around the grave, lighting them one by one. Then I use them to help me as I go around the circle with salt, stepping inside it just before I seal it. Now it starts for real.

It was frighteningly easy to find the worst of my fatherÔŅĹs books, the ones that were supposed to have been destroyed. TheyÔŅĹre going to be kicking themselves for that later on, IÔŅĹm assured of that. I open a little book with a scarlet cover, rereading the Latin one more time to ensure I have it correct. Dark magic is not something to err.

Add in the potions, add in the neutralising herbs, heat with wand until steam billows gently off the concoction like pale flames, then add in the final ingredient... blood.

In the old days a sacrifice was required, but extra reading on my part gave me a new slant on things: the blood of a lover basically equals the same effect. The reason I now have the knife gently pressed against my skin.

The gash opens smoothly from my elbow to wrist; no crooked scar for me, unfortunately. Blood streams down my arm in dark rivulets, dripping into the shallow chalice, blending in with the potion. I grit my teeth, pain writhing white-hot in my arm, silently counting the heartbeats in my head, before tilting my arm and frantically rubbing a salve into the cut, stopping the bleeding. A proper healing can be done later.

I lift the chalice in my hand, rising to my feet and slowly sprinkling the potion onto the grave, whispering the Latin quietly under my breath. Then I put down the chalice, sit down, and wait.

Nothing happens for several moments, but I have all the time in the world.

None of the books explain how the coffin is never an obstacle, or how clawing through earth is so easy, but thereÔŅĹs no answer I can provide, so I quickly stop thinking about it. I donÔŅĹt expect anything to happen immediately, and I grew out of impatience. IÔŅĹm content just to sit.

Then something crumbles and shifts.

I freeze, straining my ears for a sound I can hardly hear. The torch-light flickers, bringing up nothing. My fingers twitch, trying to grasp my wand, but something is on me with a feral snarl and itÔŅĹs too late.

Hot breath billows across my face, accompanied by snarls and growls IÔŅĹve only previously heard wolves utter. Talon-nails rip at my clothing, trying to get at my skin and tear. I tense, keeping talons and teeth from anything vital, desperately trying to remember what it is IÔŅĹm supposed to do in this type of situation, but remembering is rather difficult under the circumstances.

He slashes at my scarred arm, reopening the wound. Blood gushes forth and I wince, hoping I can get to it before too much spills.

The crazed form on me freezes, then hesitantly sniffs. It takes me a moment to realise whatÔŅĹs going on.

Oh no, you canÔŅĹt be serious...

He crawls off me slowly, face coming closer to my bleeding arm. Then he licks slowly, cleaning the skin smoothly. I watch, both fascinated and repulsed.

What have I done?

ÔŅĹDraco.ÔŅĹ The voice is guttural, not having been used in a long time. I close my eyes, trying not to remember how it used to sound, smooth and full of laughter, even when he was afraid.

ÔŅĹDraco.ÔŅĹ

I open my eyes before I can tell them to stay closed. I stare into emerald eyes that burn with hate, burn so intensely that I realise IÔŅĹve made a huge mistake, one that I donÔŅĹt think I can reverse, one that has just damned me to Hell most certainly, if they donÔŅĹt kill me first. But I canÔŅĹt blame them if they do.

ÔŅĹDraco.ÔŅĹ My name sounds like a curse, but thereÔŅĹs love in that hoarse whisper, hardly decipherable, but itÔŅĹs there. Love courting with hate at exactly the same time.

What have I created?