The Mark of a Death Eater : Sequel

Chapter Seven

Later that morning, I walked over to Narcissa's small study, where she did who-knows-what in; read books and cried about the future of her only son over tea in silver cups probably. I knocked on the snakewood door and it swung open out of its own.

"Narcissa?"
The woman was bent over, picking something up from the floor. Her pale hair covered her face. She straightened out when she saw me and nodded for me to come inside.
"You were awake early today," she said.
"I didn't get much sleep." I raised an eyebrow, wondered if she would pick up on what I meant.
Her expression told me she did.
"How much did you hear last night?" she asked.
I shrugged. "Enough."
"You know about Ollivander?"
"Yes. And Charity Burbage. That is who you were talking about?"
Narcissa faltered. "Yes."
"Why are they here?"
Narcissa exhaled and replaced a stack of books atop her table. "Multiple reasons. The Dark Lord does not explain, he only does."
Succinct much? "Good for you. Have you seen Draco?"
"Yes, I have." She paused. "But it was agreed that the two of you should keep away from each other. At least until tonight."
"What? Why? Who agreed?"
"The Dark Lord-"
"Yeah, okay. Thanks Narcissa."

Whatever. I didn't need to hear any more of that. I turned to leave.
"You ought to visit the cells, before the meeting tonight."
I lingered in the doorway. "Why would I do that?" I asked, turning around.
"It was a request."
I didn't need to ask who it was from.

__
I made my way down a steep flight of stairs, my boots clanking on the cold stone. At the end of the stairs stood a heavy door, and a man.
He started when he saw me and got to his feet quickly, bumping into the wall and apologizing profusely. 

I recognized him immediately.

"Wormtail. I'm here to see Ollivander."

He shifted on his feet, his eyes darting towards the stairs, as if he was thinking of fleeing. I saw a flash of silver in one of the sleeves of his robe.
"Ah. You're the girl. Draco's friend. It's wonderful to meet at last." He gave a small bow and a simpering smile.
"Yes, of course. Now please open the door. I have an audience with The Dark Lord tonight, and I'm eager to get on with the other tasks I have."
"Yes, yes of course."
The man shuffled and turned to open the heavy door with his wand. He examined me curiously as I passed him. When I caught him staring, he gave me a hurried smile and turned away.

The cellar was dark and smelled of mildew. I stepped inside and looked around warily.
"Mr Ollivander? Professor Burbage?" I set down the pitcher of water and candle I brought with me.

"Who's there?" Mr Ollivander's voice came from a corner, sounding weary.
"My name is Emma Evergreen. I bought a wand from you six years ago."
"Of course, I remember. Eleven inches, dragon heartstring, hawthorne. Good for charms." The statement came so easily to the wandmaker, yet I could hear the exhaustion to his voice.
"Yes," I answered. "Where's Professor Burbage?"
"Emma! Emma Evergeen. It's me. Please! Please you have to help us."
I turned to the sound of her voice, then thrust the candlelight in her direction.
Charity Burbage covered her face with her arms out of instinct and shaking, lowered them. My muggle studies teacher looked so much worse than I remembered her from Hogwarts. Her face was gaunt, part of her hair burnt, and her once comely features lost.
I forced myself to be strong, steady and cold.
"I'm not here to help you," I said impassionately.
I turned the candle away, and the woman broke into sobs.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.
Ollivander replied first, though it took a long time. "I was taken from my store in Diagon Alley. He-" The man choked on his words and continued. "He had questions about Harry Potter's wand."
"I have no interest in Potter's wand. Why is Professor Burbage here?"
Ollivander cleared his throat. "Professor Burbage wrote an article in the Prophet in favour of muggle borns."
"Mudbloods," I corrected. "Address them by their proper term."