mahogany ; d.m

53 - demise

No. No. No. No.

It seemed implausible that such a thing could be happening. Reality had never felt further.

Her palms were scuffed with the mud from the ground below, knees covered in bloody grazes. Her chest writhed in pain, lungs overexerted with the oxygen that she couldn't manage to intake.

It didn't take an expert to realise what she was doing there. To know why she had been portkeyed to the other side of the grounds.

The castle was still in view, beside her was the Black Lake, the water dull under the clouds that covered the night sky.

But she was too far away from any sign of life. If she tried to scream, surely no one would hear her. The Quidditch stadium was a few hundred feet to her right, but it was unlikely anyone would be able to hear. It wouldn't be worth the risk. Perhaps a Centaur would hear her from the Forbidden Forest—a ridiculous thought really when considering the majority despise Wizard folks.

"Ah. Good. You received my note," Lucius Malfoy sneered.

She refused to look up at his face, already feeling repulsed by imagining the smug look on his expression.

She dug her palms into the ground, struggling to get herself up steadily. She stumbled on her feet, wincing, but maintained a heavy footing.

"Athena Greene, yes?" he grinned. "Or would you prefer if I called you Rivière? That is your real name after all."

She said nothing, glaring at him, but not meeting his eyes. Refusing to.

"Well?" he scowled, impatiently.

"Why have you brought me here?" she blurted, already knowing the answer, but begging to be mistaken. All she could think was—how?

How did he get out of Azkaban? How did he find her? How does he know?

His face curled with menace, but appeared utterly entertained. "Oh—I think you may already have an idea."

She made no reply, but forced her eyes to his, glaring so intensely, masking her fear. Not allowing any sign of terror to falter in her expression. She would not give him the satisfaction.

His hair was whiter, almost archaic, and his face was lined with distress—the time spent in Azkaban prominently displayed upon his countenance. 

It threw her off guard when she noticed how alike his eyes were to Draco's. Both silver, grey with darker shades interweaved within. Only Lucius's were old, grieved, evil. They were alike, yet so very different. In fact, not at all similar the more she looked at them.

"Weren't you locked up in Azkaban?" she spat.

"I was, yes. But I have been released as of this evening. You see, I'm paying a debt to the Dark Lord—a chance to redeem my past mistakes. In order to do so, my lord has assigned me with a task, and of course I would not refuse," he explained, implication in his tone.

When she said nothing, he continued.

"Your father made that mistake and of course...he paid the price."

"My father was never loyal to the Dark Lord. It was you who forced him there. It was you who lied to him. Everything he did was to protect himself—to protect my mother—to protect me."

"Yes, I remember," he condescended. "Once the Dark Lord vanished, and Atticus was free to bring his pathetic little family out of hiding, he ought to have known that was the biggest mistake he could have made."

A sinful chuckle escaped him, his face contorted with evil.

"So I killed him."

And there it was.