Treachery

A/N: As always, profuse thanks to RedSkyAtNight, who really had her work cut out for her this chapter, correcting my errors regarding academic institutions and terms, which were legion.

Thanks to all of my readers and especially to those who take the time to review!

Concerning the new Potions laboratory that was being donated to Hogwarts by the Malfoy family, Rawa knew three things: first, that Dumbledore was not especially pleased about it; second, that knowledge of it was making Draco Malfoy even more insoportable; and third, that she was not sure what she was going to wear to the festivities. Dumbledore's announcement of the event had been heavy with ironic overstatement, the kind of communication with which no one can find literal fault, but so fulsome in its effusiveness that neither can they mistake its true intent. He had used the phrase "full dress regalia," which Rawa took to mean formal ceremonial robes, of which she had none.

None, that is, of the kind the ingleses wore: silk or velvet, in black or some other somber color.

She was disinclined to buy new robes for the occasion...largely because she so disliked the guests of honor...and in the end decided to wear the clothes she already had. There was pride involved, certainly: her own ceremonial garb had been in her family for many generations, and there was honor and dignity in wearing it. But to the extent that she was honest with herself, she had to admit that her decision was in part motivated by a knowledge of the kind of reaction these particular clothes were likely to provoke.

The celebration was to take place in the Great Hall on a Sunday evening. The pupils were assembled first, seated with their houses at the long tables. Then Lucius Malfoy and his wife Narcissa, resplendent in black velvet, took their places of honor at the high table. Finally the staff entered, proceeding in single file the length of the hall between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables on one side, and Hufflepuff and Gryffindor on the other. Dumbledore, at the head of the line, wore dark purple robes trimmed in gold; Snape as usual was all in black; and Minerva McGonagall wore dark green velvet robes and her signature tall black pointed hat.

Rawa was close to the end of the line, and when she walked in, she could hear the buzz of conversation among the students, and see clearly the rising anger on Lucius Malfoy's face.

As the professors ahead of her took their places at the table, facing the hall, they caught sight of her for the first time. She saw the twinkle in Dumbledore's blue eyes, although his face maintained a suitably solemn expression. Flitwick and McGonagall were much less guarded in their amusement, while Snape . . . Snape looked as though someone had struck him.

On her head, Rawa wore a parrot-feather crown nearly half a meter high. Her feet, as always, were bare, her ankles adorned by dozens of thin circlets of gold. Wrapped low around her hips, a cloth of hummingbird feathers, once worn by Pachacuti himself, floated, nearly weightless, about her.

Any one of these things would have been a remarkable departure from traditional wizards' robes, but none of them, at the moment, was exciting any comment at all, because there were two aspects of her appearance upon which every pair of eyes in the hall was focused.

The first was her face, which was painted in bold red diagonal stripes, with a thin black line bisecting it from forehead to chin, and black cross-hatches on either cheek.

The other was the hammered gold breastplate that covered...just barely...her chest. It conformed to her body in such exact detail that she looked as though her breasts had been gilded by a thousand daubs from a tiny brush. Her black hair hung in one thick dark plait down her naked back, swaying gently from side to side as she walked up the steps and took her place at the high table between Snape and McGonagall.

Gradually the hum of voices died down, and, when Dumbledore rose and walked to the lectern, quieted entirely. Before he could begin to speak, however, Lucius Malfoy's voice...dripping with disdain...pierced the silence.

"If the school has sunk to such a level, Dumbledore, perhaps I should have funded the appointment of a properly qualified Defense Against the Dark Arts professor rather than a laboratory."

Turning to him, Dumbledore said evenly, "I'm sure I've no idea what you mean, Lucius."

"I mean," said Malfoy, "that under your direction a once-respected school which I was proud to call my alma mater has been reduced to employing half-naked savages in the place of qualified academics."

Rawa had begun to have a very nasty feeling. This was more than just a routine display of the Malfoy family tradition of arrogance and insult; there was a calculated quality about it that suggested some deliberate purpose. Crossing her arms casually across her gold-plated chest, she quietly enveloped herself from head to toe in a Shield Charm. Beside her, she felt Snape shift in his chair and knew he must be sensing the slight ripple caused by its presence. Without turning his head, he glanced quickly at her out of the corner of his eye.

There was a fresh murmur of voices and Dumbledore, his tone still mild, said, "If you are referring to Professor Akapana, I can assure you that her credentials, and her abilities, are equal to those of any person present."

"Really?" said Malfoy. "Then she will surely not object to favoring us with a little . . . demonstration?" He turned his gaze to Rawa, and she looked back steadily at the pale blue eyes, determined not to show the anxiety and confusion she was feeling. Why was he doing this? And why now, at an event where he was the guest of honor? He was going to be the center of attention anyway; all he had to do was sit quietly and be showered with accolades. Why create a disruption?

"A duel, Professor Akapana?" he suggested, raising an eyebrow.

"Mr. Malfoy!" McGonagall had leapt to her feet. "Really! You are a guest in this hall!"

"A guest?" Malfoy said. "I think not. More of a patron, wouldn't you say, Minerva?" His cold eyes stared contemptuously at her. "And it would seem to me, that given the size of my financial investment in Hogwarts, I have a right to verify the bona fides of any new member of staff."

"Then there is a time and a place...not to mention a proper procedure...for doing so. And challenging a member of staff to a duel in front of the whole school is not it."

The "whole school" was as quiet as Rawa had ever seen them. No one moved or spoke, but every eye was on her. She knew that if she did not accept this challenge, she would lose all credibility with them. No matter that Lucius Malfoy's challenge was discourteous and untimely; what they would remember was that their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, when presented with the opportunity to defend herself against the Dark Arts, had chosen not to do so.

Slowly she rose to her feet. She could feel the fluid warmth of the shield around her. Inclining her head in Malfoy's direction, she said, "I will duel with you, Mr. Malfoy."

"No!" cried McGonagall. "Albus! This is outrageous! You must put a stop to it!"

But Dumbledore just smiled and said, "If Professor Akapana is willing, I see no reason on such an occasion not to provide a little entertainment of an educational nature. Professor Flitwick, will you do the honors?"

The diminutive professor nodded and stepped forward. "Mr. Malfoy, will you choose a second?" he asked.

"Severus Snape."

Stony-faced, Snape walked over to join Malfoy, and the two men walked together to the far end of the high table.

Flitwick turned to Rawa. "Professor Akapana?"

She was caught out for a moment, because she too would have chosen Snape, if for no reason other than his skill. Having him at her back would have been the surest guarantee against treachery by Malfoy. Now who could she choose? Dumbledore was out, as of course was Flitwick. Minerva was a skilled witch, but not especially quick with her wand. Sirius? He was too much of a farolero, likely to seize on any pretext to start a fight with Malfoy. She needed someone Malfoy would respect too much to cross, but who could be trusted not to needlessly escalate the duel. She looked out across the crowd of expectant students and was struck with a sudden inspiration.

"Draco Malfoy."

There was a second's silence, and then a cheer went up from the Slytherin table and Draco stood and walked up to the dais.

As soon as he was close enough for her to see his expression, Rawa regretted her choice. It had felt like a clever tactic...Lucius was unlikely to endanger his own son...but she hadn't stopped to think how Draco might feel about it. His face was paler than ever, and rigid with tension.

"What do I have to do?" he whispered to her.

"Nothing, really," she said in a low voice. "Just stand down here at the end of the table." She smiled to take the seriousness out of her next words. "And pursue justice for me if there is treachery. Which there will not be." She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the forehead, to a chorus of whistles and catcalls from the Slytherin table. "I am sorry, Draco. I should not have dragged you into this."

He shrugged mutely, and stood back as she leapt lightly onto the table. At the far end, Lucius Malfoy stood facing her, his white-blond hair luminous against the black velvet robes.

There was absolute silence in the hall. Flitwick brought down his wand, and Rawa raised both hands in front of her. "A la izquierda, amachay," she thought, spreading first her left palm, and then her right, "a la derecha, hark'apay."

Malfoy slowly, dramatically, raised his wand, and slashed it in a downward diagonal in front of him. A stream of violet fire shot forth, and Rawa raised her shielded right hand and deflected it, passing it back and forth between her two hands until it formed into a phosphorescent purple ball. Holding it made her stomach cramp slightly: this was some powerfully destructive curse.

She was shocked, although at some level not surprised. She had expected Malfoy to take the opportunity to try to humiliate her with jinxes that dissolved her clothes, or made her break out in boils; instead he was using the kind of curse that could do real damage.

He pointed his wand directly at her and loosed a bolt of red lightning; this too she caught, adding it to the glowing ball of purple fire. It was hot, even through the shield: some kind of flesh-burning curse, she guessed.

She took a step towards Malfoy just as he unleashed another jet of fire at her, this time a bilious green. By now the fiery sphere that she was tossing from one hand to the other to keep from burning herself was growing quite large, and glowing almost white. She walked towards him steadily, as stream after stream of malevolent power surged forth from his wand, and each one she caught and added to the blazing globe in her hands.

When finally she stood directly before him, she saw that his face was a frozen mask of fear. All she had to do, she realized, was toss the fireball at him and the combined power of all those curses would surely kill him.

She looked steadily into his ice-blue eyes and let him wonder what she was going to do. After a moment she threw the ball into the air and clapped her hands together, and it exploded with a loud bang into a huge cloud of black smoke.

She held out her hand for Malfoy's wand. "Vente," she said, and it leapt into her hand. Then she turned, the feathered skirt floating, light as air, about her legs, and began the long walk back down the length of the table. The hall erupted in a cacophony of applause, cheers, and whistles.

Draco was waiting for her, a stricken look on his white face, holding out his hand to help her down from the table. Instead of stepping down, she placed his father's wand into his outstretched hand, and said again, "I am sorry," but her voice was lost in the din. He gave her a brief nod, pocketed the wand, and then held out his hand again to help her down. She was reaching for it when she heard an unfamiliar voice behind her, shrill above the tumult, cry out, "Avada Kedavra!" and a tremendous blow struck her between the shoulder blades. There was a smell of burning hair; a feeling of crushing, suffocating pressure; and then everything went white.

Illustration for this chapter by Thanfiction.