Chapter 176 - Eliminating the Pea

Huh?

Praeris believed that love with hidden agendas was short-lived.

Before truly committing to an exchange of promises, you had to lay out all the stakes clearly, otherwise it was essentially fraud: using sweet illusions to lure someone in.

Yes, Praeris could certainly do that. Even without any promises from her, Draco already didn't care about her mixed-blood origins.

But Aesop's Fables had a story called "The Boy Who Cried Wolf."

Praeris had once concealed her blood status. Now she was concealing her stance. What would she conceal next? In time, this would become a question Draco kept turning over in his mind, a pea lodged beneath the mattress of their love.

In one midnight waking after another, that uncomfortable pea would wear down Draco's trust in her, wear down his feelings for her, until the spring ran dry and nothing could be undone.

Praeris was certain Draco wouldn't tell anyone. Just as he had swallowed down the truth about her relationship with Winnie, and about her blood status.

She was even more certain he wouldn't let anyone else discover it. He was good at keeping things hidden. It was just a pity he'd run into Praeris.

When the words left her mouth, Praeris had imagined Draco might say anything, about stances, about identity, about things that mattered.

What surprised her was that the first question he actually asked was,

"So you stopped me because I was going to kill Dumbledore, or because I was going to kill Dumbledore?"

Praeris understood what he meant. She shook her head. "Draco, I already answered this question. I stopped you because you were going to kill Dumbledore."

Just as she had said before, premeditated murder would tear Draco's soul apart. Once that sinful act was carried out, both Dumbledore and Draco would become victims. The only one to benefit would be the mastermind behind it all: Voldemort.

Draco quietly exhaled. The moment the question left his mouth, he'd regretted it. It was a stupid question.

If Praeris had chosen Dumbledore, he might very well have turned into a jealous Medea on the spot.

If Praeris had chosen him... he guessed he'd be happy. Though he wasn't sure he wouldn't have doubted that answer either. But even if it were a lie, he still would have been happy.

"Praeris, I don't like this answer." Draco spoke slowly. "But I can't say I hate it, either. Still — you're being foolish. Dumbledore indulges the prejudice against Slytherin. He humiliated us at the House Cup. And you still want to support him?"

He meant the time in first year when Dumbledore publicly awarded last-minute points to Gryffindor and swapped out the Slytherin banners.

Praeris had no interest in explaining Dumbledore's larger designs. That had nothing to do with Draco. She shook her head. "No, Draco. I chose Dumbledore because the Dark Lord is not a choice worth making. And the enemy of my enemy can be an ally."

"Why not!" Draco's speech suddenly quickened. "Once I accomplish this, my family will earn the Master's favor. Our standing will rise to a new height. All the misfortune will be behind us!"

"Do you actually believe that?" Praeris scoffed. "You believe the Dark Lord's promises? You believe that a half-blood is sincerely devoted to realizing pure-blood supremacy?"

With Voldemort, lying came as easily as breathing.

The name Death Eater meant to conquer death, yet the only one who had ever temporarily conquered death was Voldemort himself.

The founding purpose of the Death Eaters also included purifying the wizarding community. He raised the banner of pure-blood supremacy. And yet he himself... was a half-blood.

If Voldemort truly wanted pure-blood supremacy to rule the world, the last person he'd need to eliminate would be himself.

At Christmas, Praeris had asked Dumbledore a question while he was drinking one of his restorative potions: why had he paid such close attention to her in first year?

Dumbledore smiled. "Praeris, because I've grown old, and I've started to know fear. Before the story begins, I ask you to consider — can you forgive your headmaster?"

Dumbledore. Fear.

Those two words really didn't go together.

As for forgiveness, Praeris hadn't even known where to begin.

Dumbledore told her it was because her past was too similar to a former Hogwarts student's. A student named Tom Riddle. The similarity ran through many things: blood status, family, talent, ability, circumstance.

Before she ever set foot in Hogwarts, Praeris had carried boundless ambition to climb higher, and a faint, indistinct hatred underneath it.

In first year, she had seemed separated from the other students by an invisible film. Close on the surface. Very far in truth.

In Sylvia's case, Dumbledore had worked extensively before the trial. He didn't believe that kind Gryffindor girl could be a ruthless murderer.

He had gone to great lengths to uncover the truth of it. And yet there was almost nothing substantive he could do for Sylvia.

Because she had, in fact, killed someone.

Dumbledore had once turned over a question in his mind: if Merope had lived, might it have brought even a sliver of positive change to Voldemort's life?

Now, faced with Praeris, another orphan of extraordinary gifts, Dumbledore was willing to give more attention.

Even if that attention made him seem paranoid. Even in the midst of everything pressing on him, he had been willing to learn about this child, to hope she had a fundamentally kind character, and to help her find her way back if she ever strayed.

The words that might have sounded like self-defense, Dumbledore never spoke aloud. But Praeris seemed to understand something. She said, "I forgive you. For sending Winnie and the others to my side."

Ms. Pulley's companionship had let her feel what family love was. Winnie's Muggle novels had given her soul an outlet, a window to the world beyond London.

Back in the Room of Requirement, Draco had gone still when he heard those words. "What did you say?"

With Praeris, he had almost never seen her read a situation wrong. But if this was true, didn't it mean that so many descendants of pure-blood families were pursuing pure-blood supremacy under the leadership of a half-blood?

"You know my relationship with Winnie isn't simple." Praeris spoke in an unhurried, patient tone. "She fled, after the battle where your father failed. So think about it. Peter Pettigrew betrayed his closest friend for the Dark Lord. He cut off his own hand to resurrect him. What did he get?"

"Has Mr. Malfoy told you?" A mocking sneer crossed her face. "What a precious metal hand. One moment of wavering and it will strangle him to death."

The alarm registered immediately in Draco's expression.

Praeris stood and walked toward him. "That is the reward for loyalty," she said softly. "Suspicion. Do you want that too, Draco?"

He flinched at the sudden sharpness in her voice. His breath came fast.

Praeris didn't spell it all out. She left it to his imagination. Peter Pettigrew had betrayed his friends and resurrected Voldemort. His reward was a metal hand that could kill him at any moment.

When it came to wavering, this year Draco had been swinging harder than a grandfather clock's pendulum.

Never mind whether Draco could even kill Dumbledore, he couldn't give a certain answer to that himself.

And even if he did, what then? Would Voldemort really free his father? After his father was released, would he truly be trusted again? One failure had earned this kind of punishment. If his father failed again, how would they ever atone?

One question after another. Nearly enough to drown him.

"Tell me," Praeris said, tossing out another question he had no answer for, "why would even his own followers betray him? Tell me — why would you support a leader like that?"

"Your aunt taught you Occlumency, didn't she? Well done." Praeris's voice rose and fell with careful rhythm. "You give him your loyalty, and he strolls through your minds like a back garden. Look — even a fanatic like your aunt keeps things from him."

She smiled pleasantly. "Even I know how to shut certain things out of my own head."

Draco sank into silence.

Abandoning pure-blood supremacy, abandoning his family's long allegiance to Voldemort, it was too much to ask. But the shock Praeris's words had landed in him was almost equivalent to learning Dumbledore was actually a dark wizard.

If Voldemort was truly a half-blood, then every year his family had spent devoted to pure-blood supremacy had been an utter joke.

Among everyone Draco knew, the strongest of the younger generation in Slytherin was Praeris, a half-blood. The strongest Slytherin across past generations was Voldemort, also a half-blood.

Draco's mind was mush. He drifted out of the Room of Requirement in a daze, carrying only the last words Praeris had said to him,

Don't walk into my world in a muddle.

Draco, I only want love that is clear-eyed.

He stopped her before she could leave. "Aren't you — aren't you afraid I'll tell everyone what happened today?" he managed.

Praeris stopped walking. She turned back to look at him and laughed.

"Go right ahead," she said lightly. "If I die because I gave love, that only means this world has run out of reasons worth staying for."

Draco stood motionless, like an envelope that had forgotten to write its address.

Praeris walked a few steps. Then she turned back.

"Hey." She called his name. "Listen. If that day ever comes, I'll kill you before they kill me."

She tilted her chin up, the corner of her mouth curving. "I will not allow you, after exploiting my love, to go on and love someone else. We go to hell together."

She turned and walked away without a backward glance.

Draco blinked. Once, twice. He slowly pressed his hand to his chest.

He had been wrong.

Completely and utterly wrong.

10 minutes ago, he should never have taken out that ring with his name on it.

He hadn't just been crying, this was absolutely not the respiratory alkalosis Praeris had described, but his heart was beating faster now than it had right after he'd stopped.

He feared death. He knew that about himself. And yet, after Praeris had just threatened to kill him, what he felt was not fear. Not anger.

It was a heartbeat more fervent than before.

Draco looked down at the hand pressed to his own chest and couldn't help thinking: love is truly a strange thing.

Back in her dormitory, the first thing Praeris did was strip off her shirt without sentiment.

Draco had cried her shoulder completely soaked through. Sticky and thoroughly unpleasant.

The second thing was to open her potion chest and take out a vial the color of winter jasmine blossoms.

She felt a twinge of annoyance with herself. This was terribly rude.

Harper had given her such an interesting gift on Valentine's Day, years ago, and she had never returned the favor. If anyone found out, they'd think she was a child with no proper upbringing. How unworthy of Professor Snape's teachings.

Praeris slipped the small square bipyramidal vial into her pocket and walked out of the dormitory with a light step.

"Praeris, where are you going?" Daphne asked, coming through the door just as Praeris was leaving.

Praeris smiled faintly. "Returning a favor."

Daphne's brow furrowed slightly. Something about that smile was off. She shook her head, she couldn't be bothered. Whoever was receiving the favor would be the unlucky one anyway.

Come to think of it, she'd forgotten to mention what had happened that morning. During her early class, Daphne had heard that Ron Weasley had drunk poisoned mead at Slughorn's.

That evening, at the Slytherin table.

"I really didn't expect this!" Millicent said to Praeris. "First Ron Weasley, and now Harper!"

Pansy wasn't impressed. "Harper's case doesn't even count as poisoning. Tsk. I'd bet anything he crossed some girl."

"What do you mean?" Millicent asked.

"Didn't you see the state of him?" Pansy said, thoroughly confident in herself.

If Ron's condition had everyone frightened, Harper's was purely dinnertime entertainment.

Apparently, Harper had received a package, a gift, supposedly from a secret admirer.

The girl who sent it wrote in her letter that she had obtained a luck-enhancing potion from a legendary Egyptian wizard with an especially long name.

She wanted to give this treasure to Harper, because only her god among men was worthy of a potion like this.

The potion's name: Felix Felicis Gold.

Several nearby Slytherins immediately burst out, a chorus of envy and jealousy rippling through them, punctuated by a few cries of "Has that girl lost her mind?"

Harper was overjoyed. He drank half the bottle on the spot.

He was still thinking about how to test his luck when he noticed the looks on the faces around him.

Horror.

Because Harper's face had started to swell, a lump here, a lump there, bumps of all sizes spreading rapidly across his skin.

By the time Harper was carried to the hospital wing, some of the lumps had already burst, releasing a stench like raw sewage. The Slytherin boys wouldn't go near him.

The letter in his hand had changed, too. The sweet words were gone. In their place, a single line,

Karma is a funny thing.

➤ Next: Reconciliation — Words Unspoken