Genuine Bliss
/ The sweet melancholy
Pervades me when I see
The angel of my dreams,
You. /
"...the woman with the heavy-lidded eyes looked up at Crouch and called, 'The Dark Lord will rise again, Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban; we will wait! He will rise again and will come for us, he will reward us beyond any of his other supporters! We alone were faithful! We alone tried to find him!" –Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
"I was and am the Dark Lord's most loyal servant, I learned the Dark Arts from him, and I know spells of such power that you, pathetic little boy, can never hope to compete..." –Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Genuine Bliss
Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin Prince, entered the Owlery. The sun had not yet risen and the land was cast in everlasting, yet evanescent twilight, a breathtaking sight. Twilight—so much more subtly beautiful than day, so much clearer than night.
He scowled when he tried to take a breath of fresh air. The smell of dirty owls and droppings met him instead and he shuddered in disgust. Calling to him an entirely black owl, he tied a piece of parchment to its leg and sent it off. "Malfoy Manor. Narcissa Malfoy," he said, watching its blank, stupid yellow eyes. At least he could pretend there was intelligence underneath. With Crabbe and Goyle, there was no way he could imagine intelligence into them.
On this chilly November day, he felt dismal. It wasn't right; Draco Malfoy wasn't supposed to feel despondent, no matter what he did. And he didn't do anything. The cause of his gloom was Bellatrix, his aunt, and Narcissa, his mother.
Mother, wonderful Mother, had given him Bellatrix's diary to read, to learn from, to continue the Death Eater tradition.
He had paused, like an idiot. He had faltered when his mother asked him if he would join his father in the ranks of the Dark Lord's most trusted followers. So, as a Christmas present, he had been sent a single, dragon-leather bound diary with yellowing pages and the lingering smell of aging blood. Of course he read it. What sixteen-year-old boy wouldn't give into the curiosity?
It was a gruesome account of her life, how, in her seventh-year, she met and fell into the service of the Dark Lord. She immediately succumbed to his teachings, with a willingness that disgusted and intrigued Draco. Now, he was mailing off his reply to his mother, with a decision that seals his fate.
A passage jumped up into his memory. Last night, I found the man who styled himself Lord Voldemort. I thought him such a fool to think he could actually have the power to face me, Bellatrix Black.
Black. Yes, that had been her maiden name, with his mother, with Potter's godfather, Sirius.
He was no fool. To the contrary, he was cunning and ruthless, a tall and pale man with... with crimson maelstroms for eyes. He was everything I had dreamed of. His eyes—essence of blood—pulled me to him with an attraction I have never felt before. When he spoke, the simple iciness of his voice beckoned to me, a voice I had heard before, in dreams; this was a man who knew what he wanted and would stop at nothing to get it. This was a man I would willingly serve.
That was a man she would willingly serve.
Draco shivered despite himself. He never was particularly brave, he never was particularly fearless. It was one of the aspects he envied Potter for, no matter how he tried to deny it. It did no good to be loyal when you had your own life to think of... that was why he had ran in the first year, in the Forbidden Forest. That was why going into its darkness still scared him, the haunting menace that year that happened to be the Dark Lord still chilled him to his bones. Was he ready to serve the man he ran from when he was but eleven? Was he man enough to face Potter in the inevitable battle of evil against good?
He had to be. That was a Malfoy's legacy. To be man enough. To fear nothing.
Except he did fear, and fear greatly. It was the same fear that had gripped his heart in third year, when the dementors swooped down the halls of the train when they approached Hogwarts, the fear that he had kept silent about, forgetting his pain by goading Potter for fainting instead. The memories and fears that had come back to him then: his father snarling at him to be strong, mocking him for being a weakling, threatening to disown him, the Cruciatus Curse that he performed regularly on his son, the indifference of his mother... it had tore at him, wrenching pieces of his heart with it. There was always the constant fear that one day, he would be thrown out of the Malfoys to starve on the streets.
When he was at Hogwarts, no matter how he hated the headmaster and mocked the teachers, he felt relieved of some of the fear that killed him little by little. At least his father could not look down his nose at his incompetent son anymore. Hogwarts, despite his scorn at its teachings, was a kind of haven, exactly opposite of Bellatrix's opinion.
I hate this place. I hate Hogwarts. I hate the mudbloods parading the halls as if they were worth something. They should be our slaves! Our damned slaves! But no, they smile and flirt with wizards and witches who place no respect on pureblooded superiority! How disgusting! These halls keep me from my home, my wonderful mansion home, where warm fires and stories of the torture of muggles wait for me by Grandfather Slythian's side.
The only thing that makes this bearable is Lucius Malfoy, with his coy smiles and his values, so correct, so honorable. But he fancies my sister, Narcissa. There's nothing so special about her, really. She just has blond hair, like Lucius himself. One of these days, I would like to cut it all off, and see how she likes that. But, then Andromeda, my other sister would give me that accusing glare of hers. Well, she's a Ravenclaw, and I'm Slytherin. We have different priorities.
Look at her flirting with the mudbloods. Haven't Mother and Father made it clear to her that they are worth nothing? That man, Ned Tonks—what a deplorable name!—has some brother that is pure Muggle that Andromeda is becoming increasingly interested in. If I ever feel the need, I will write to Mother, telling her of darling Andromeda's pursuits. Damn her! They think she is some sort of pure angel! Well, she's going to get into heaps of trouble if she doesn't pay me to keep my mouth shut. What will I make her do?
At night, I dream of a tall man, standing alone on a slope, watching the vermilion dawn, like blood dripping over the skies. He calls me "Bella," quite unlike anything I've ever been called before. There is cruel promise in that voice, promise that makes me misty-eyed with pleasure. I go to him to stand on the slope and he uses his majestic arm to gesture at the burning villages, all muggles and muggle-lovers.
"This is what I will give you. This world, purified."
I cry when I wake, not from desperation, but from joy.
Draco closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cool stone of a window as the sun's rays began to spill over the tips of the trees to light upon the land, casting long shadows across the grounds. The diary jutted out in the pocket of his robes, constantly reminding him of the burden forced upon his shoulders. There were times when Draco wished he were not a pureblood Malfoy, but rather some poor boy living happily with two busy but satisfied parents in some slum... sort of like Weasley. It made him sick with envy, again, to see Weasley with his laughing family, unaware of the absolute paradise bestowed upon him.
But then Draco would berate himself for ever thinking that a family like Weasley's, poor and pathetic, was better than his proud, pure line. A Malfoy had no yearnings for love of any sort. His father and mother bred that into him. Yet... whenever he saw the redheads hugging and beaming, there's a part of him inside that withers.
And then there was Mudblood. Absolutely infuriating, she was. How a mudblood would better him in his classes completely baffled him... but then again, she was ugly, bookwormish Granger. No... wait... not entirely ugly—he had to remember the Yule Ball, when she shrugged off the bookworm and assumed a dignified presence... almost like a Malfoy woman would. He always presumed it would be Pansy taking the place of his powerful wife when he became the reigning generation of Malfoy, but that night, Pansy looked infantile and pathetic, having none of the stature that Granger possessed.
Not that he would ever marry Granger, of course. She had gone back to the disgusting know-it-all after that night. The idea of her walking down the aisle sent horrified chills down his spine. But who would he choose? After all, most of the girls he knew were empty-headed, giggling maniacs who could not be looked at as intellectual equals.
He sounded like Bellatrix.
Who was that man that haunted my dreams? He seemed older—not by much, but still older—than I, yet he spoke with such familiarity... The males I know here at Hogwarts are simply pitiable. They attempt to win my hand, for my beauty is renown—I am a Black—but they cannot match my wits. I would outsmart them any day, and they know that. This man... this wonderful man... he could open up such delicious horizons... yet I do not know his name! I would study under him than Dumbledore anytime! I pine after his presence, knowing that I would do anything and everything for him. WHO IS HE?
Perhaps he and Bellatrix searched for the same thing: someone who they could respect—except he wanted an equal, she wanted a master. She had been ecstatic over the lessons the Dark Lord agreed to teach her.
He said he would teach me the Dark Arts! He said it, from his own lips! My heart is thumping in anticipation.
I have finished my first lesson. It was nothing I expected, and much better than I thought possible. He told me to first work simply on the Unforgivable Curses. When I blanched, he turned on me with such delicious fury. "Are you afraid?" he asked, voice quiet and deadly. I couldn't look away from those eyes of his, those red slits of death that drew me in like prey to the alluring eyes of snakes. I couldn't speak. My voice caught in my throat from the beauty of those angry eyes. I only shook my head. "Then do it."
He corrected me several times, telling me to feel the pain, feel the hatred and the evil and channel it into the spell. He told me to remember all the slights and derision suffered by the hands of my tormenters. I remembered everything. From little Timmy Fawcett, who pulled my pigtails when I was only six, to Douglas Dilglass spitting on me when I was in the sixth year, when I told him I would not do it for him. The hatred of the mudbloods, the resentment of Andromeda always being the favored child rose up in me... and I tortured a child. A little muggle child, but still a child. I could hear his bones cracking as I laughed wildly.
This was the power I had always wanted. This was the power I deserved.
Frankly, the thought of torture was brought bile to Draco's throat. Though he enjoyed his little jokes on Potter and Weasel, he had a hard time truly inflicting hurt on innocents. His father had stared at him as if there was something wrong with him when he finally told him that he could not, would not, practice the Cruciatus Curse on the little lamb his father brought forth when he was seven as part of a new "Death Eater" family ritual.
"You're soft," he whispered, fixing a shocked stare onto Draco's blond head. "You are SOFT." Draco couldn't stand meeting the gaze; he turned and tried to release the lamb.
"No, Draco," said his father. "You will not untie it." Draco stood back obediently. Ignoring Father mean pain. "You will kill it. You will take a knife and crudely carve out this lamb's heart alive, bathing your hands and arms in its blood," he said softly, enunciating ever word.
"Father, where is its heart?" Draco asked, turning big, shining grey eyes onto his father.
"That's for you to find out. Accio knife." A knife came whizzing through the air, finally falling a metre or so away from Draco. "Take it and do not stop until you have found and presented the heart to me." Lucius whirled around on his feet and walked off, his black cloak swishing in the dungeon corridors.
Little Draco gawked at the softly bleating lamb. "I'm sorry," he said finally, holding the knife.
A little later, Lucius returned to find Draco waiting in the corner, holding a small, scarlet organ in his hands, tears coursing down his cheeks. The blood stained his face, his neck, his clothing, his arms and hands, yet the only things Lucius saw were the tears.
"Soft," he snarled quietly before storming out again, leaving Draco to think about what he did wrong.
To this day, Draco could not forgive that last, suffering cry of the lamb as he smashed into its head as he looked for the heart.
When he told Mother, she barely batted an eye. "Dobby!" she had shrieked. The house-elf sped to her side. "Clean up Master Malfoy." Thus, seven-year-old Draco was directed off to a warm bath where he entertained the idea of drowning himself for a long, long time.
Weasel King's parents would have never had him do such a thing.
But, then again, Weasel King's parents were not supporters of the Dark Lord.
I have done it. The Dark Lord bade me, and I have convinced my relatives of his motives one night at a gathered dinner. Of course, Sirius has been disowned, but my other cousin Regulus joined up right away, probably to please his rigid parents. Not that my parents are any less rigid, towards me, anyway. Andromeda they pampered. Me? No chance. Andromeda looked troubled when I brought it up, but Narcissa accepted the idea and said she will speak with Lucius. The Malfoys are rich; they would make a good addition to the team.
Regulus would speak with Severus Snape, a sixth-year. His hair bothers me, but he would make a good supporter. He studies the Dark Arts to a great extent. The Dark Lord looked pleased when I told him. He spoke of seducing someone else to the Dark Side, another weakling like Regulus, but fell silent as his sharp intellect went to work again.
He is simply astounding, and he is searching for a way to immortality. I thought it impossible, but when I looked at him, I realized nothing is impossible for the Dark Lord! I will prove my unwavering loyalty to him, again and again.
I don't believe it. They are bidding me to marry, the absolute bastards. My mother and father are bidding me to marry some damned git named Lestrange. Rodolphus is a strange, disgusting, undignified name, nothing like Voldemort. But I spoke with the Dark Lord about it. He tells me to marry and get the Lestranges on our side. And so I will, for only him, because I will do anything for him. I am his most loyal follower.
The adoration in her words revealed to him so much about the Dark Lord and Bellatrix. She was always bitter towards her family, refusing to see them in Azkaban, even Narcissa, her own sister. But this explained so much.
Draco would admit he was an idiot, but only to himself. He would admit he was softhearted, and thus faulted by the Malfoys' set of regulations, but only to himself. And now... what would happen now, with that reply? Was he a frightened fool? It took so much courage to face the Dark Lord in service. He didn't have that sort of courage. It took even greater courage to oppose him. Once someone was a Death Eater, one didn't turn back. Could he make that kind of decision, and live with it?
There had been one wise phrase among Bellatrix's ramblings on the Dark Lord:
I followed my heart, and look where it led me: into the arms of the greatest bliss I have ever known--serving Him.
I followed my heart... it led me into the arms of the greatest bliss I have ever known.
On the ebony owl that soared on the swift winds towards the Malfoys' Wiltshire mansion, a single strip of parchment fluttered, tied to the owl's leg. Addressed in a curling, black script, it bore four words.
To Narcissa Malfoy.
No.
-----
A crinkle in the straw alerted him and he turned to face the end of the Owlery as a single figure approached cautiously, scanning the shadows fruitlessly. Draco had hidden out of sight, and hidden well. "Hullo? I got that message... is there anyone here?"
He swept his platinum blond hair back absently, his heart palpitating wildly, and stepped into the light, much to the other person's shock.
"What do you want, Malfoy?"
"You."
He advanced swiftly, pinning Hermione's arms by her side and kissed her, hard, until she closed her wide eyes and returned the favor, melting into genuine bliss.
------
I wondered if I could use twilight as the period before dawn. Apparently, according to Webster's New World Dictionary, I can! Hmm....
Disclaimer: If I owned JK Rowling, I would be a millionaire. Do I see any millions? No....
Please R/R!