The Mudblood

Chapter 109 : Summer

The artwork for this chapter was made by a reader from Quotev

His harrowing words hung in the air for only a few short seconds as I tried to compute their meaning. Slowly, I blinked and stammered, "D-Dead? Are you—Are you saying that Evan is...dead? He died?"

Though his mouth didn't move, I could see the answer in the way his jaw shifted and his eyes pitied me. Evan Fitzroy—my brother—was dead.

His lips parted to voice a verbal response, but I had already darted past him and back into the Manor. My legs flew me through the library as Draco called after me, begging me to stop. Whatever explanation he had to give me didn't interest me; Evan could not be dead. I'd been with him for weeks trying to nurse him back to health; he couldn't have died now just because I'd left him for a few short hours. Unless...unless Voldemort killed him because I didn't kill Charity Burbage. My brain buzzed with the possibility, willing it to be impossible.

"Fitzroy!" Draco's voice shouted from behind as I jumped down the stairs into the cellar. "Er—Potter! Whatever your name is—Mudblood! Half-blood! Listen to me—"

I didn't listen to him, though; instead I shoved the metal, barred cellar door open and burst into the frigid wet air. The first thing I noticed was Ollivander, curled up in the corner where the dead wolf had been, murmuring to himself. And then, on the opposite side of the room, Rookwood was standing with Snape, both men speaking in hushed tones. Rookwood's head was bowed slightly while Snape's eyebrows were creased with impatience. Without greeting, I approached them and demanded, "Where is Evan?"

Snape pivoted his head toward me briefly, his expression unsympathetic, and then turned to his other side, where a frail body lay limply in a puddle on the ground. My brother looked exactly as he had a month ago when Voldemort first brought me down here, peaceful and still, except now he was completely still. There was no faint movement in his chest, no indicator that he was breathing. My heart seized and my throat constricted as my head jerked back and forth in denial.

"No—no. You—you killed him?" I cried, staring at Rookwood in disbelief. "Why? I haven't done anything—"

"The Muggle died on his own," Snape told me flatly. "Starvation, perhaps lack of nutrients. Natural causes."

"No—no," I repeated more forcefully. "You're lying." Without waiting for either of them to rebuke me, I plowed through them and fell to my knees beside my pale brother. His eyes were shut, and he could have been sleeping, but when I placed my hand on his chest, it was motionless, and when I pressed my fingers to his neck, no pulse beat beneath his cold skin. He was dead. He was really actually dead. I'd left him for three hours—maybe four, and he'd died.

My head spun toward Rookwood as tears blurred my vision. "He just—he just stopped breathing? But—but he ate this morning—"

"I was not present at the time that the death occurred," Rookwood said, feigning a submissive demeanor because Snape was here. I knew that if it were just the two of us, he'd be jeering at me over the death of my Muggle brother. "I left for a few short minutes to confer with the Dark Lord, and when I returned he had passed."

"But he was fine when you left?" I questioned, and Rookwood nodded. "Then someone killed him. He was murdered. Someone came down here while you were gone and killed him—probably just because he's a Muggle, or maybe just because they hate me—"

"Don't be foolish," Snape snapped coldly. "Get up. Rookwood will dispose of the body. I must inform the Dark Lord of the Muggle's death, and then we have other business to attend to—"