Last Train Home
Title: Last Train Home, prologue
Author: Lyndsie Fenele
Rating: All Ages/Not Naughty
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Summary: A story of one generation, still feeling the aftermath of a war not their own, and of the parents who love them.
Author's Notes:: Mostly completed before HBP, but inaccessible for several years due to my own idiocy (dumping water on my laptop). I am finishing it now. For a never-going-to-happen spinoff of this story, see here.
Chapters: Undetermined.
"Malfoy."
"Potter."
It had been years since they had first met in Diagon Alley, and he knew that he never would have imagined this future when he was that ignorant little blond kid who had only been looking for friends. Those memories held a bit of nostalgia now, although he wasn't thinking of that when faced with the danger of the present situation.
"What the hell do you think you're doing here, Malfoy?" spat out Weasley. His brown eyes looked ready to shoot sparks, and he put his hand into his cloak where undoubtedly he had his wand. The other boy already had his gripped tightly in his fist because he had figured this would be the reaction.
"I'm here to help you," he replied icily, feeling like he wanted to deck the redhead in the face. "You'll never find the altar without me."
"Who says?" replied Weasley automatically, in what everyone knew was a childish overreaction. Potter sighed in what sounded like exasperation.
"It's old magic, Weasley, very old. There are undoubtedly wards to protect it from being found by anyone… unwelcome. It's been consecrated by the blood of the followers, and only they know how to find it."
Weasley choked out a noise that sounded a cross between disbelief and horror. "Aha! So then you admit you're a dark wizard!"
The bushy-haired girl ran her hands through her mess of curls in a frustrated gesture that he recognized well.
"Please, think, for once in your life!" she cried out. "We both know that none of our relatives ever got near to spilling a drop of blood on that altar," she responded.
"Unless they were being sacrificed," he added. She shot him a look of half-amusement, half-disgust.
"Thank you, Malfoy, but you both know what I mean. And we can assume that your ancestors took a fairly active role in the ceremonies at this altar?" she said, turning to him with a gleam in her eyes.
He shrugged. "According to some of the family records I found, yes." Her eyes went wide.
"Your father lets you look at that? He didn't hide it?" He scoffed.
"Of course he hid it. Wouldn't do to have the Ministry stumble upon some of it, really." She now gave him an admiring look before Weasley broke in again.
"Well then, how do we know we can trust you? You've never proven yourself to us." There was silence for a moment, and then Potter broke in.
"He's proven himself to me. If you trust me, then you have to trust him."
Weasley looked like he was about to start shouting his disapproval, but with a glare from Potter he backed down.
"Well then, what are we waiting for?" The brown-haired girl whirled and started to walk deeper into the forest.
With a last mutual glare, the others followed suit.
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