Disclaimer- Harry Potter is J.k Rowling
A/N- written for QLFC round 11.
Prompt - Who's Afraid of the Dark? - BEATER 2: American Psycho — Bret Easton Ellis
I'm taking the aspect from book that how upper class hides the wrongdoings of their own people
Additional prompts - (word) pattern, (word) fatal.
It was the night of the full moon, perfect for what had been planned. Deep in the English countryside, tunnels snaked through wine cellars and dungeons, leading to large rooms destined for acts that were never meant to see the light of day. Inside one such candlelit room, a cloaked figure slowly approached a stone altar, holding aloft a jug full of scented oil.
Atop the altar lay a girl on the cusp of womanhood, her dark hair and fair skin marking her as a beauty that would ordinarily turn heads in the street. But the shadowy figure's head was tilted upwards, gaze riveted to the statue behind the altar. It was of a benevolent woman, who, with her head tilted to the side and her hands cupped as if to catch the rainfall, marked a sharp contrast to the gloom of the rest of the room. Indeed, someone had painstakingly worked magic into the statue, lending the grey stone a glowing blue aura.
The cloaked figure knelt in reverence, dipping their head, before carefully anointing the girl's body with the scented oil. As they did so, the hood slipped back, revealing a woman with honey blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. She threw back her head and spoke in a clear, commanding voice as she dipped her hands into the remainder of the liquid.
"Oh Inanna, my goddess, my mistress. I offer you this maiden. Fairest of them all, her blood is pure and magical. Take her, my mistress, and give me her beauty and power."
The girl, who had been lying motionless up until that point, awoke with a start. She struggled for a fraction of a second against the invisible hold, but then relaxed as she saw the familiar face.
"Lady Cordelia Malfoy! W-Where am I? The last thing I remember… Wait! Wh-what are you doing with that dagger?" she asked in a panic, realising that her saviour was in fact her captor. She squirmed, trying to escape, but the magical bonds held true.
Cordelia ignored her frantic cries. She had heard them all before.
"Oh, mighty Inanna, take this maiden and give me her beauty and power!" Cordelia cried, holding her dagger high above her head.
"No!" the girl shouted, her voice echoing around the underground chamber. "Please, don't!"
The dagger plunged into a fatal blow, and the pleas quietened. Cordelia cupped her hands to catch the pooling blood, rubbing her offerings at the statue's feet. After prostrating herself in reverence one last time, Cordelia removed her dirty cloak and called for her house-elves. She would not allow her sacred lady to be tainted by this filth for a minute more than necessary.
At the crack of dawn the next morning, a team of Aurors were called to a field not far from Malfoy Manor. A Squib had contacted the Ministry, telling them to come before the Muggle police arrived on the scene. So, blearily rubbing the sleep from their eyes, they were here to investigate. After casting the customary Concealing Charms all over the place, it didn't take them long to find a woman's burnt body, her throat slit and a tear in the breast of her robes. Those, and the wand they found within one of the pockets, marked her as one of the missing witches on their radar. The Mediwitch who had been assigned to the group immediately knuckled down to cast an assortment of spells before looking up worriedly.
"Someone has used dark magic on this body," she said, her voice heavy. She motioned to the stab marks visible through the woman's clothing. "The burning was probably to get rid of it. At least the marks look fatal. She was killed quickly, if that's any consolation. The heart wound was fatal, though the pain must have been unbearable for those few seconds."
"But who could've done this?" asked Auror Howard Goldstein, eyeing the body suspiciously.
"Maybe one of those hooded figures," said a young Auror.
Goldstein glared at young Auror. Rumours had been cropping up about a group of hooded wizards calling themselves the "Knights of Walpurgis", dedicated to purifying the wizarding race. It just so happened that they had taken inspiration from historic witch-burning and turned it on Muggleborns and Squibs they deemed unworthy. In Goldstein's opinion, it was a load of tosh, made to scare young impressionable wizards like Johnson. And he said as much.
"Now, Johnson, this has nothing to do with those hooded figures. Stop connecting everything with them." Then he turned to the Healer and spoke firmly, looking her in the eye. "Make sure the Daily Prophet don't get their hands on this."
Abraxas wasn't a fool. He knew what was going on behind his back. But as far as he was concerned up until now, there was no point in interfering with Cordelia's hobbies. They kept her young and beautiful, and occupied her while he met with the Dark Lord. However, a recent conversation with his overlord had led him to rethink the matter. She was taking more and more lives. Soon, the house-elves would talk. He sighed, gripping his cane tightly as his grey eyes stared into the fireplace. The Malfoy family name was his only legacy, the family fortune squandered years ago. He wouldn't let anyone defame it.
Not even his darling wife.
"Misty!" he barked.
On cue, an old house-elf popped in. She bowed before Abraxas, who motioned impatiently for her to rise.
"Master called Misty?" asked the elf.
"Where's Cordelia?" he asked, his voice dripping with danger. Her wife had crossed the line this time.
Misty frowned at her master's tone but wisely said nothing. "Mistress is in her dressing room, Master."
Abraxas groaned. He should've known. She loved the damn mirror more than anything else in life. Even her son. He focused his hard eyes on Misty once more. "And Lucius?"
"Young master has gone to see his friend," Misty replied.
Abraxas dismissed Misty then headed to the room that was the bane of his existence.
Cordelia was watching herself in mirror when the door banged open. Abraxas entered, glaring daggers at his wife until she deigned to put her brush down. The feeling was mutual; she wasn't pleased to see him either. Long gone were the days of his high cheekbones, his lustrous flaxen hair. Now she saw a rounding man decaying with age, and it disgusted her.
"Darling," she greeted dryly.
Abraxas narrowed his eyes, letting out a humph. What a bore. She sighed. Apparently he wasn't in the mood for niceties that day.
"Cut the crap, Cordelia. Are you behind Amethyst Montgomery's disappearance?" Abraxas demanded.
Cordelia pursed her lips. If he hadn't ruined her day before, he certainly had now. The reminder of the buxom brunette had soured her appetite for small talk too.
"Are you talking about the bitch you were drooling over?" she asked venomously, her lip curling cruelly. "Why would I associate myself with such woman who's so, so beneath me? I have more respect for myself than you with your lord, Abraxas."
Something inside Abraxas gave way and he lunged at her with a snarl. He slapped her then attempted to choke her, but she freed herself from his hold before he got a grip, as slippery as a snake as she darted to the back of the room.
"I'm warning you, Cordelia. Do not insult the Dark Lord ever again," Abraxas said, his tone low and dark. Then he left, leaving Cordelia cowering behind the mirror she loved so much.
The next evening, Auror Goldstein read a report about another body with the same marks. Closing the door to his office, he carefully marked the map atop his desk. It was a pattern he could not miss, and he would eat his hand if none of his officers hadn't also noticed it. One in the fields, one in the lake, three in the woods. All in Wiltshire. All within a day's ride to Malfoy Manor, as the broomstick flies. He closed his eyes, massaging his temples, and sighed. The pattern was clear, but so was that of the sacred twenty-eight: Protect their own at all costs.
He almost wished Johnson's "hooded figures" were involved. He was in for a long night.
Abraxas Malfoy sat at the head of the table drinking wine as the food grew cold. The house-elves clustered near the walls, as if feeling the weight of his wrath. He felt like strangling one of them, maybe giving it a good kick. But he needed them on his side, needed them loyal more than just the average family.
Besides, he knew whose fault this really was.
Summoning his cane, he made his way to his wife's dressing room, but to his surprise he found it empty, the fireplace cold. Frowning, he walked down the hall, to his son's room. If he couldn't take his anger out on his wife, perhaps watching little Lucius play would calm him some. The boy was always lost in his world of chess and magic and monsters, eager for the day he would grow up and be as powerful as his daddy, who was scared of nothing and no one.
Little did he know, mummy was scarier than daddy let on.
Suddenly, Abraxas's face grew as white as a sheet and he had to lean on his cane to stop his knees from buckling.
"No," he breathed.
She wouldn't.
She would.
Cordelia would do anything for her looks, for more power, and what better than the fruit of one's loins? The sacrifice of a child always granted the most power to the witches and warlocks of legend.
"Cordelia." He growled, drawing his wand and making his way to the "disused" tunnel in the wine cellar. "In Merlin's name, I will kill you if it's the last thing I do."