Queen of Winter, Throned - chapter third and last
by Faith Accompli
Lines had divided the students and the staff the moment she murdered Dumbledore and Potter. They had no sooner fallen than sides were taken, her side; Slytherins, Ravenclaws, a few Hufflepuffs who were-above all else-loyal, and the wrong side; everyone else. Bloody battle was drawn.
Not everyone of hers was capable of the killing curse and improvised with painful and messy hexes, no one on the wrong side knew enough to perform the curse. They mouthed the words, and fell beneath the wands of their more enlightened schoolmates. She did not sully her hands further, clasping them behind her back as she surveyed the field, she had made the first strike and it was her duty now to watch, to see those of her side who acted without hesitation, who had proven themselves most worthy. Her eyes were drawn from one scene to the next, little spots of vibrant colour on the frosted and bloodied floor.
One Slytherin boy was physically attacked by a Gryffindor girl, but to no avail, as Crabbe and Goyle - who had given up acting as Malfoy's enforcers and begun to think for themselves, in a slow and trollish way - grabbed the girl off him by the scruff of her neck, slamming the girl into the buffet table and decapitating her with a silver cheese-tray. She couldn't remember quite whom the girl was, some little fifth-year, completely unworthy of her notice despite the child's bravery.
The Slytherin boy-Malcolm-fell back as Vincent and Gregory had, their places in the ranks filled efficiently by the diminutive forms of sixth-year Prudence Nott and seventh-year Susan Bones, the latter punching Hermione in the jaw as the Gryffindor tried to cast a body-bind hex on the Hufflepuff.
Granger stumbled, fell on her rear as others on the side of 'good' fell in a more...final fashion, and looked up in shock. At Draco where he stood between Ginny and the general melee, at the dead bodies of both her friend and her headmaster, at Susan, the most evil of evil Hufflepuffs. Betrayal came in many shapes and forms, it seemed so much less of a surprise from Ginny - she had been tainted already, evil had taken root in her soul, but from a Hufflepuff? "But-but-you're good...how can y-"
"Crucio," irritation, years building, was easily audible in the Hufflepuff girl's voice, although she recognised it and made her best attempt to force it away. "What? We're not bumbling idiots. We simply work hard and keep our heads down," Susan smirked at the aghast and agonised Hermione, one of the few remaining Gryffindors yet breathing, before she gestured at those of her fellows who had seen the more intelligent path and opted to follow it, follow Ginny. "We might be slow, but we're not stupid."
She could stop Susan's little outburst with a single word, if she so desired. It was hardly conductive to a swift take-over, although it didn't truly impair her plans. How tight a leash did she need, however? Was it best to allow her witches and wizards their moment of revenge for slights real or imagined, or would the wiser course be to make them stay their hand?
No. She would let them have their fun.
Parvati had joined her side the moment the Gryffindor realised what was happening, taking Lavender's arm and physically dragging her over to bide behind the Indian girl's twin, temporarily out of the cursing range and behind the lines until the enough of Ginny's people could recognise them and know they weren't to be killed. Padma had the right to use her discretion, had her sister's life in her hands for one brief moment, and didn't hesitate. Both Gryffindors had offered her their wands, and Padma had taken them as surety that they would not be in this fight, taken their wands and sent them to the wall, where temporarily-disabled Slytherins, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were being administered to by hopeful future mediwitch Laura Madley.
She could have intervened, but she had nothing against either Parvati or Lavender, they had grown out of the vapid laughter stage in their later years at school, and were tolerable, if dull, people. Besides, saving one's family, if one loved said family, was surely one of the perks of being a major player in a coup of this magnitude.
She had pardoned a few that she genuinely cared for herself, after all. Colin - a friend of hers, despite his Muggle heritage, the boy's little brother and his Halfblood girlfriend, that trio had been cut out of the crowd to bide safely guarded by a pair of Ravenclaws just before she had signalled the night's end. She had advised a pair of seventh-year Gryffindors, girls that had been kind to her in her first year, girls that had helped her study without acting superior in the slightest, not to attend the ball. They had taken her advice to heart and slipped down to Hogsmeade to spend the night at the pub, safe and away.
To her other side, teachers were dead, dying, or clever enough to have joined her side and were thus still amongst the living. Professor Sinistra, Selene, who had written destiny in the stars for this night, had murdered Lupin with no more than a thought and a stab of silvered light. Vector-Victoria, she had said Ginny could call her-had dealt to the half-giant that her brother had thought so much of, stabbing him in the eye with her wand and casting a particularly nasty curse that Ginny was quite sure she'd not had the opportunity to learn yet. She would have to ask Victoria at a later time just what made the back of Hagrid's head explode so spectacularly in a shower of-not blood, bone, and brain matter, but butterflies.
Severus side-stepped the curse McGonagall flung, fire-red and deadly, killing the older wizard in a heartbeat but not before Flitwick had the time to return it with a stunning spell of impressive magnitude and leaving McGonagall completely vulnerable, unable to even attempt a dodge of the killing curse Severus used.
The last, the very last man standing on the other side was, oddly enough, her brother. Ron, poor Ron, tried to reach her-tried very hard, looked intent on pushing Draco aside with brute force as his wand had been broken in the battle and he didn't have the foresight to take another from one of his many fallen housemates. If Ron had captured the queen he might win this day, might force her people to stand down at threat to her life, if he would have killed her-but it came to naught, as all good must, in the end. Draco killed him without a thought, protecting her.
There was a pause, a velvety silence, as her chosen ones looked around them in mingled amazement and pleasure. They had done it, everyone in the hall who had opposed them was dead, and they controlled the school. The Ministry wasn't the heart of the magical side of the United Kingdom, this school was. This was where loyalties were made first and foremost, this was the heart of it, the blood of the magical world was its young, those who entered this hall as a young boy or girl and emerged a true witch or wizard, and she held it.
"Bleed them," she gestured imperiously at the dead, her nose wrinkling ever so slightly as she realised the stench of death was rank now, rank within the hall. "Bleed them out and then we burn them. Last thing we want is a pack of Gryffindor ghosts."
Those that followed her looked around for something sufficiently sharp to accomplish the task she set, futilely, she knew-there were no knives in this hall, not one, but that would not hinder her plans. She would provide.
"Now," the pitch of her voice, the magic beneath the word, shattered the diamond-shaped windowpanes, glass tinkling down the walls to catch the light and sparkle prettily, as prettily as death personified.
Her chosen plucked shimmers of glass from the floor, moving to their task with the grace of the grim reaper, dragging the still-warm bodies to the centre of the floor and slashing dead throats and wrists. Blood flowed like wine, seeping into the patterns of power that Victoria had taken care to frost the floor with, spiralling round and round but not melting the ice in the slightest, only filling the gaps with beautiful scarlet contrast that froze over when the circles were complete.
"Back," Draco nodded to the walls, sensing Ginny's need before she could verbalise it, and moving to clear the floor. "Everyone back, at least ten paces." He gazed at her a moment, then amended his orders, "Fifteen."
They did, and she turned her back to the stage knowing that it was empty, the teachers on her side having moved to stand on the floor with their students, and Tyler Nott having already gathered four fellow Slytherins and, between them, dragged the bodies of the fallen teachers into the centre of the room. She raised her hands, success and magic running through her veins, feeling the emotional currents in the air and pulling magic from the earth, and she conjured witchfire, blinding white like snow-glare, consuming those that had opposed her, consuming those that had not been wise enough to join her side. Their spirits were bound into the floor and burned clear in a fire of pure magic that eradicated every last trace of them in this world, sending them on to the next plane, and they would not trouble her again.
Her thoughts turned momentarily to a fragment of history that rested in her memories, either those her own or his, and inspiration struck. "The virgin queen," she murmured softly as she translocated the high table away with a wave of her hand, studying her court with an introspective air.
Although she wore virginal white, she was not pure, could not be pure after Tom's touch, and she had ruthlessly used her body and mind to garner the power and information she required to gain her current status, her power, but now...that was over. She would never again be forced to lower herself, never need to play humble and thankful for the touch she did not want, because she-she was the final authority, she was ice, and they would not challenge her to a game she could not win.
Draco was at her side in a heartbeat, one arm proffered gallantly with none of the pretension usually found in such a gesture. She laid one hand delicately over his wrist, accepted his guidance up the ice-hued stair, and claimed the seat Dumbledore had vacated just a handful of minutes earlier.
Now they watched her, every Slytherin, every Ravenclaw fourth year and above, a handful of third years who had proficiency enough with the Unforgivables that their inclusion in this party seemed a beneficial idea, the Hufflepuffs who had joined her side and the Gryffindors she had spared, their eyes were on her.
Third year Ravenclaws and Slytherins had been deputised to subdue the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs that were too young to attend the ball, by now that would have been completed to her satisfaction-or she would have heard all about it. They would wait until morning, she, all those with her, had so much to do before dawn; a strategic run of assassinations, eliminating the current government before they were even aware of the new power-structure. So many people to kill in order to consolidate her reign, it was almost annoying that they couldn't conveniently gather in one place for her chosen to massacre. Needs must, however. His legacy would live.
She let both hands fall to the wooden armrests of her chair, let magic seep through her palms. Effect, it was all for effect, and yet it wasn't nearly so hard to affect the world around her as conventional logic dictated. Conventional logic held that a wand was necessary for any 'proper' magic, as the magic that was in a witch or wizard's blood needed a focus, the average mind inadequate to the channelling of raw power.
Unconventional logic dictated that any person, any mind focused and strong enough, could do away with wands and be their magic. Absorbing her own wand-yew, yew for him, and dragon heartstring that had always been hers-had given her a rush, a hit of almost-pure magic, and although she would probably pay when it wore off, that time was not now.
Her mind was focused, physical desires subsumed to those of the mind, making her stronger than any around her. She had lost all that she ever truly wanted, this was what she had left, this had made of her the person she was today. Ice spread out from beneath her fingers without so much as a word, without a full-fledged thought, intuitive and pure, ice lacing and layering in pristine perfection over her chair, changing it to mirror her, a throne of ice, a throne of diamond. Her magic, her power rippled through the hall.
Memories were rich here, she could see shades of scenes unrolling before her touch like history, highlights of events that belonged to the past, either emotional or magical or both.
A boy that so reminded her of Tom that it hurt, arguing with a blond boy much younger than she, both Slytherins, their shades marked with rich emotion that she could almost taste, almost feel, that marked them forever in these hallowed halls.
A pitched battle between yellow and blue. Girls and boys both in old-fashioned robes, the curses and hexes flung marking their own entry in the annals of time.
A girl not older than her, on her knees and begging, in a cut of robes dating her yet further back, only to be turned away by someone with the authority of a teacher, dragged to her feet by Muggles-the girl went bravely when there was no further option, shaking her hair back and composing her expression, her chin tilting up as she brushed aside Muggle hands and became recognisable-the Grey Lady, but as a scared young woman-child.
Murder, an Englishman and a Moor, locked in death's embrace-former teachers, she guessed or knew.
Faster and faster the images swam before her eyes, overlaying that which she had wrought this night, until-burning out, fading, they cleared for the final act.
Salazar Slytherin looking nothing like his statue, his expression wrathful and himself shadowed by a dark-haired contemporary, stalked into the hall through the heavy doors, crossing the distance in mere seconds, his robes swishing noiselessly as he spun in place before her, just before her on the dais, pulling a sword free from where he carried it on his back, sinking to his knees as he drove that sword through the stone. The brunette lowered herself beside him, one hand over his where the sword had been, the other pressed lightly to her stomach. They kissed hurriedly, obviously pressed for time in contrast to the longing writ in their movements, in the lingering touch he brushed her cheek with before he rose, and he left her. He left her where she knelt, her eyes-startlingly dark blue eyes, Tom's eyes-filling with tears after a heartbeat's pause. She faded slowly, faded out, and there was no more.
"I claim," she whispered, one hand held out, her palm turned up . "I claim that which came before, in the name of the fallen heir."
The stone before her began to melt, and, like magic -as magic-Salazar's sword rose, hilt settling in her hand easily, the weight of it almost surprising her. Her other hand came up gracefully to support it, flat of the blade resting on her fingertips. It lacked the ornamentation of Gryffindor's prized weapon, silver hilt almost devoid of decoration save for a hint of scaling etched into the metal and two tiny emeralds as eyes, the serpent. Two runes, one on either side of the blade, she saw as she turned it slowly. Ambition before and cunning behind, a sword that was as free of magic as the most mundane object could be, even though it had remained the sword in the stone for a thousand years. This was no toy, and no weapon for show, it was beautiful, lethal simplicity. Flawless.
All eyes were on her as she studied the sword, watching, waiting to see what she would do.
"Draco," she said clearly, and he stepped forward, kneeling before her as Salazar had, his head bowed. He looked up at her next words, grey eyes shining. "My white knight. Will you serve me forever?"
Every ruler needed someone they could trust, someone to be their right hand, their protector, the one who watched over them in their sleep.
"Forever, my queen." His expression was solemn as she gave over the sword to his keeping, as he accepted, aware of exactly what he gave his word to. He was no longer boy but man, the blood shed in their coup washing away any last vestiges of innocence the youngest Malfoy possessed.
A baptism of blood, the same could be said of all who yet stood. They had taken no prisoners, all were either dead or on her side, those few spared swift to swear allegiance. Every man and woman there was either proven loyal to her or willing to become so. It was-not a bad night's work.
Had Tom lived, had she survived his rebirth, she would have knelt in Draco's place and Tom would have sat in hers, he had promised her that.
He hadn't lived. She had to rely on her own judgement, had to choose the inner circle of her court, and trust that he would have approved.
"Draco," she indicated to the seat on her right. It had been McGonagall's once, but no longer. Thirteen seats. Thirteen, including her. Four times three and one to rule over, four elements, three made a coven, and one was queen or king.
"Pansy. Victoria. Severus. Selene. Terry. Blaise. Padma. Xiomara. Emeryth. Tyler. Susan."
They reigned. She reigned, and she would have it all. She would take it in his name.
This world was not that which she wanted, it was shattered, fragmented, its slightest touch could make her bleed, but it was all she held in her hands, clasped tightly to her for him. This world was as broken as she was, without him, but she still existed, still breathed. There were those that she was responsible for, and although in time she would die, her work was not yet done. That time would not be now, and it would not be soon.
On her honour.
In his name.
Thank you, reviewers. grin Much appreciated, all your contrasting views and all.
And, disclaimery stuff! Yes, I can put it at the end if I want to, I swear.
Places belong to Rowling.
Many characters mentioned belong to Rowling in name, if not in personality - because let's face it, how many of her characters are anything more than a couple of stereotypes pasted together, canonically?
Other characters may be recognisable as belonging to/from: TWIB, by McTabs, English History, by a bunch of old dead people, Any of my stories, by me...
Ah, whatever. You get the idea.