"Trust me, you shouldn't want anyone like me on your back."
"Maybe I don't want anyone like you on my back," His eyes darkened as he stepped closer, confining me tighter into barely any space as my back pressed against the wall.
"Maybe I want you. U...
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CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
THE RADIO SWITCHED ABRUPTLY THEN, a static ensuing as the channel broadcast was interrupted. Elias Dupont fingered the dials, his expert focus fixed on the device he had silently taken charge of.
"Shouldn't someone feed that boy?" Brigette Monet's voice was an inquisitive whisper, as she glanced at the platinum haired boy still sprawled on the floor in a far corner, moonlight washing over his muddied face.
The bodies of the witches and wizards present—pulsing with life yet giving rise to occasional yawns and catlike mewls—much to everyone's surprise at Yordanka Hristova—had all lounged themselves on the ground, taking respite in resting heads on laps and makeshift pillows. The cackling and sputtering of the wireless radio in Elias Dupont's care was the only other sound, as the boy was seemingly the only one to not give much precedence in allowing sleep to overcome him, like everyone else.
"I suppose he'll die otherwise," Bridgette concluded when no one had responded. Her light brown irises settled on me, a questioning twinge dancing in them.
She had shifted her head on Zubair's lap slightly, just to make sure she got her message across to me, without employing much of her energy. Zubair himself had apparently dozed off, his eyes half shut as his head rested unmoving on his makeshift pillow pressed between his back and the wall, the pillow which was basically a rumpled contortion of Elias Dupont's discarded London suit.
I turned my head to look at Draco Malfoy's form, being careful not to disturb Viktor Krum's resting head on my own lap with any abrupt movements. Krum had been the first to nod off, having yawned audibly and announced his sign off by the time Bartemius Crouch's news was being broadcasted. I had assumed the junior Crouch's death would please him, for it had certainly pleased me.
Voldemort had handled the situation I had left him in cleverly. He had disposed of the nearest death eater he had at hand, making it seem as though it was on his command that Albus Dumbledore had died. The mere act of it spoke volumes. The evil wizard didn't want the world to know of my existence unless he was the one to expose it. He could do it when he had me in his grasp, drained of all my power, his own veins bursting with the stolen heuristics. That was the time for exposure, was it not?
The dwarf witch, Flora Fischer, had trudged off to a different corner, no longer keeping an eye on the motionless boy as she had been asked to do.
"Fischer," I whispered at her, my voice though quiet, still reverberating in the castle ruin like a gust of trapped air.
The witch jumped, her scattered self psyche arranging as she looked at me.
"Remove that spell off of the boy," I instructed, keeping my voice low. "Have him eat something."
"Why did you bring him in the first place?" Gabriel Chevrolet scrunched up his face, folding his arms across his chest as he lay on the ground, the boy's biceps bulging out in his frustration. He eyed the platinum haired boy as the German dwarf witch bent over the form, trying to undo the binding spell she had cast.
