REBEL

18. CHROME BLACK - SOOT BLACK

18. CHROME BLACK - SOOT BLACK

Over the last few weeks and months, I have often wondered what the Exit might look like. What I haven't thought about, however, is what it might sound like. Now, as I stand on the ice-encrusted beach section adjacent to the plot of land that belongs to Shell Cottage, I receive the answer without having asked for it. The human sounds that reach my ears are eerie, to say the least.

Dread. Panic. Agony. I can clearly hear these three elements, although the person emitting the sounds is not screaming at the top of their lungs. It's more of a continual whimpering that they can't seem to stifle. The fact that I can hear it out here, despite the whipping wind and the hum of the wards, tells me everything I need to know.

And although I had so firmly resolved not to think about Malfoy for at least a few minutes, images of him suddenly pop into my head. How, as the very first candidate, he subjected himself to the Exit last summer. Performed by a stranger who he couldn't be one hundred percent sure was trustworthy. All alone. Without knowing whether he would survive the ritual. Accepting his fate.

I can't even imagine what it must have felt like to be completely at the mercy of death. And I realize that Luna was right. What he did wasbrave.

Determined, I snap myself out of my stupor and make my way to the house. I draw my wand, mutter the necessary spells to gain access and slip through the seashell-studded front door.

Inside the house, the wailing is louder and thus sounds even more gruesome. Nevertheless, I follow the noise and enter the living room, where it seems to be coming from.

Theodore Nott is sitting on a chair directly in front of the burning fireplace, the flickering flames of which are the only source of light. He is bound hand and foot, which confuses me at first, as he no longer has a wand and therefore doesn't pose a serious threat. But then I realize that this is not the reason why the other rebels have restrained him. His arms and legs are twitching spastically, vaguely reminding me of the effects of the Cruciatus Curse, and his head is so hyperextended that his upper body is arching away from the back of the chair. If the others hadn't tied his limbs to the armrests and chair legs, I'm sure he would have slipped off the seat long ago.

I take my eyes off him, only to find that it's not Luna performing the ritual.

On the one hand, I shouldn't be surprised, after all, I was the one who asked Harry to have someone else trained for the task. On the other hand, the sight before me is so unexpected (and somehow grotesque) that my wand hand twitches. Because the back of the head I'm staring at belongs to none other than Pansy fucking Parkinson.

She is facing Theodore and thus has her back to me, but I recognize her immediately. Her chic, sharp, raven-black bob is unmistakable, as is her voice. The incantations she's mumbling under her breath are completely foreign to me, but the harsh pronunciation tells me that it's not Latin, but ancient runes. So it is indeed the Exit she is performing.

"From the look on your face, you'd think Harry didn't tell you that Pansy volunteered for the task," comes a whisper from my right.

I don't have to turn my head to know that it's Neville, who is now standing next to me. His voice, too, I would recognize anywhere.

"Well," I reply just as quietly, "maybe because he didn't tell me. After I asked him to replace Luna, he merely said that he would take care of the matter. That's all we discussed. Can't say I'm convinced by his choice of surrogate."

Neville lets out a barely audible chuckle.

"Luna taught me too," he mumbles placatingly. "And besides, we never leave Pansy unattended, don't you worry."