1. Delivery
There were cold whispers stalking Lucius Malfoy through the dark corridors of Malfoy Manor; the silent suggestion of a madman's gibbering; the prowling sensation of some strange creature (not a man at all, though madness hung in the air, swinging like a lynched soul's innocence) tied to him, leech-like, through some invisible snare, slowly strangling all life, all remnants of joy, out of him.
Every loose object lining his path looked deadly, lethal, a potential tool towards the destruction of his mortal flesh. Every ancient battleaxe a swift blow, every knife a quick slice, every small pike a final fall.
Everywhere on the oppressive, looming, towering walls, paintings joined in the screaming silence; ancestors shivered and sneered; fair maidens fluttered to attention, their eyes unfocused but not as vacant as before, pupils dilated, following his shaky progress, small smiles surfaced where scowls had once seemed a fixture; creatures cowering or gone; suns taking refuge in angry, billowing clouds; a once sleeping dragon undulating inside its smoky darkness, eyes on fire, claws tearing at the ancient canvas.
It was as if all the life seeping out of Lucius – his unwinding thread of fate – was flowing into the paintings, weaving itself into their canvases, inspiring a level of sentience, of intent, of willpower never intended. A desire to break free.
Lucius hurried his steps. The icy presence swept along, a shadow of himself, a nagging conscience not quite his own. Outside, the wind refused to howl and the breaking waves were too distant to be heard. Silence ruled supreme, a dictator of evil dreams and living nightmares.
Malfoys did not break into a run over figments of the imagination. Malfoys did not turn around to face invisible foes. But Malfoys did sweat as much as any peasant, however much they wished it was not so.
Malfoys still felt cold. They fought fright, commanded fear, but froze like any mortal prey.
Lucius threw the door open, basking in the warmth billowing into the corridor but frozen to the spot by the cold stare of his guest.
'Don't you ever knock, Malfoy?'
'I apologise, my lord. Force of habit.'
'You told me to make myself at home,' the red eyes glowed, 'and I never share mastery of my home. You would be wise to remember that while I am here, Lucius.'
'Of course.' The deposed master of the manor pushed the door closed, jerking further into the room, eyes wide, restless.
'Something the matter?' It was not a friendly inquiry.
'What? No. No! Nothing.'
'Good.'
'It's just all so – silent.'
'Good.'
'Apologies, master. I – have what you requested.' Lucius pulled a small vial from his robes.
'Of course you do,' said Voldemort, snatching the vial from Lucius's trembling fingers, 'or you would not have dared come here.' He turned and strode over to a table in the corner of the room. A small potions lab was set up on top. 'Very wisely so, I might add.' He sat down.
Silence descended.
Lucius remained standing. For a very long time.