THE HEIR APPARENT
Chapter One,
Where we brush up on history, meet some old acquaintances for the first time, measure the value of true worth, and Draco discovers that some ties are stronger than kinship
Twenty years ago
Some call it the House of Riddles - even those who know nothing of the family that occupied it in its better days. It seems only fitting: abandoned and mystifying, the house atop the hill gapes blindly with its bare windows and moans in the wind, loosely-joint roof tiles and tarnished door hinges creaking, and yet there is energy in it, as vibrant as that which fills any living being.
It stands through rain and snow, through years of curious investigations by teenagers whose rocks inspire the trilling song of broken window glass and make the crows that inhabit the attic soar to the sky in protest. It endures the occasional raids of appraisal-seeking real estate agents who do not remember paying it a visit the day after. It carries on through the meticulous raids of the police - frequent after a sultry August night when the gardener's body is discovered in its parlor by the merrily crackling fire, the mantle and matchbox mysteriously lacking any fingerprints. It perseveres.
Before the strangeness began – or became obvious - it was known as the Riddle House. Tom Riddle, the bloke whose wife ran off leaving a son behind, is still discussed in these parts, where rumour has long lost an unequal battle to monotony. The elders recall with nostalgic sighs the anxious tries of the ill-tempered young father to find a way to his boy's heart. And then it happened - one dull autumn day the house saw its family sitting in lifeless heaps around the dinner table.
The boy, eighteen at the time, vanished, lending himself freely to suspicion. That was when the house name was altered to better suit its current stature. A subtle change; an incarnation of pure evil. Ever since then it would live up to its new description.
Some said it was possessed - smirking with sarcasm, but keeping their eyes averted in involuntary fear. More than once, when the moon was young and pearly clouds brushed the hilltops, dark shadows were spotted sneaking in and out the front door. Dark shadows that came from nowhere and left in a similar direction.
Fear seeks a simple, rational explanation to the unknown. Superstition feeds on fear when such an explanation is unavailable. 'Beggars,' people said, tongues clicking in regret. 'What's the countryside sunk to?''
They were not beggars, of course. No beggar would weave into tangible form in front of a forsaken house, accompanied by a faint popping sound. No beggar would dawdle at the front door, lavish velvet cloak sacrificed to pouring rain, as if painstakingly deciding whether entering would be a wise idea. No beggar's hands would be adorned with signet rings whose monograms traced their roots back to the Dark Ages.
One such night there were six at the front door, all tarrying to go in. Scarce winter moonlight snatched out their gleaming eyes, full of fear and fervor, and glinted off the head of a silver hawk that topped one man's ebony walking stick.
"For heaven's sake, Goyle, pull yourself together," the man said, shaking the hood off his blond hair and pointing the hawk at his mate, whose knees wobbled with undisguised terror. "Be a man, will you? I have it on good authority the Initiation is a profound ritual and gives you a feeling of true worth. That ought to be a pleasant novelty in the minuscule world of your experiences."
He sneered, managing to look down on his counterpart who was almost a foot taller. Thin features and a contemptuous smile made clear the hawk's significance - the twenty-five-year-old man with sharp eyes and a raptorial nose looked somehow akin to this delicate but vicious bird and left no doubt of the pleasure he took in attacking chance prey.
Goyle was a pitiful sight. In contrast to our first acquaintance, graceful and aristocratic, Goyle's heavy jaw and tiny blood-shot eyes, burning with bewildered embarrassment, conjured up the image of a rhinoceros forced to go on a diet.
"Easy for you to say, Malfoy," another growled. "You're but a rustic upstart without kin; you can lose nothing because you own nothing."
The one called Malfoy laughed, long hair fluttering in the wind like a luminous white banner.
"Ingenious, Pencroft, won't you agree? I cannot part with what I do not own, and intend to part with nothing more. That, my friend, is precisely the reason why some day I shall have everything."
The door opened, rendering indecision obsolete. Inside, dust crunched on their teeth and the stale air smelled of damp rags. In the parlor, a tall man draped in black stood facing the fire. He half-turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, smiling only with his thin lips as the flames sparkled in his vigilant pupils that, upon closer observation, had a strange reddish tint to them.
A snake lay dormant at his feet, coiled manifold on a tattered rag, its scales flickering in the erratic dance of the fire. It was so enormous and unseemly for an ordinary winter night in a British village that the entire scene suddenly plunged into the realm a dream.
"In you come, in you come," the man called, his deep voice full of ravenous anticipation. "Six today! I grow popular, it seems. Very well; anyone who takes a step towards a better future deserves to be a step closer to it. What have you brought me in exchange for the world I offer you?"
"Our faith," the men - all but one - said in unison. The answer was predetermined - those who came here knew it well, as they knew no words could truly measure the full weight of their pledge. "Our allegiance and our undying devotion. Our lives, to do with them as the Master pleases."
The snake owner nodded slowly, allowing each of them to speak separately.
"G-goyle, my Lord. I give you my family's homes in Europe and South America for lodgings."
"MacNair, Master. The profit from my diamond mines in Australia."
"Pencroft, my Lord. My business ties with the giants in the North."
"Montague, your Lordship. My column in The Daily Prophet for communication."
Malfoy watched his counterparts triumphantly. As he suspected, none of them had wit enough to give anything imaginative.
He shuffled his foot gallantly before speaking. "Lucius Malfoy, Master. I trust my contribution will be of greater use than wealth or comfort. I promise you my first-born son -"
The Master's eyes narrowed in curiosity.
" - when he comes of age," Malfoy finished with satisfaction.
The man he spoke to nodded in acceptance.
"Such a gift is not reconsidered or returned. You realize this child's singular fate completely?"
"Yes, my Lord. I will commit my life to training him in your service, so that one day he may prove useful to you in matters none other can be trusted on."
The one they called Master smiled and stretched out his hand. Malfoy took a hasty step forward, caught this hand and ardently pressed it to his forehead.
"How old is your son now?" the Master asked, sounding pleased.
"He is not yet born. I would be so bold as to solicit your Lordship's advice in choosing his mother to your liking."
One of the five men behind his back gasped with shock - such audacity was unthinkable, but it appeared Lucius had selected the correct approach: the snake Lord nodded importantly and looked at him with evident favoritism.
"This is a thoughtful gift. A time may come when I shall need a faithful servant to complete a task beyond the power of others. This child must be cultivated with extreme care and aptitude. My loyal Bellatrix tells me of a cousin who comes from an ancient and noble house. Her parents are both in the Dark service. Yes, I think young Narcissa Black will do nicely."
Malfoy bowed. "As you wish, my Lord. With your sanction, it will be the most fortunate marriage!"
"To a pauper, two Knuts make a fortune," said a young voice discourteously.
Malfoy whipped round, his handsome features tightening like a bow drawn back. The person that just spoke was his murkiest protégé - he turned up in some pub, considerably drunk and dressed emphatically in black, and agreed to come to Little Hangleton too quickly. At other times, Lucius would have been more careful in his screening process, but that day he determined to solidify his reputation with the Dark Lord and sought to enlist as many followers as would cross his path.
Still, he could not allow insolence to flourish unpunished.
"Children today are quite remarkable," he said contemplatively, with as much venom as he was capable of. "They speak out of spite and act out of fear, and their allegiance bends towards the hand with the most pocket money. They strut around, thoughts clouded with arrogance, thinking they alone are the answer to the future, only to see their hopes broken and their spirits overthrown by any such who does not perchance regard himself world savior, but whose stamina is greater and whose patience has been tried. How I pity them, foolish and dissolute."
The cruelest way to insult youth is to question its sufficiency. Although Lucius could not see the face of the young man he was addressing, he knew his words yielded desired effect. The figure in the cloak shrunk briefly, as if stung by an unseen blade, but straightened again.
The Master of the house inclined his head favorably to Malfoy.
"You seem to be skilled in ontology for someone so young."
"I know what frightens people," said Lucius with modest dignity.
"Much like a boggart," muttered the young boy from under his hood.
This time, Malfoy did not bother turning. "Perhaps, but with one notable distinction," he threw over his shoulder. "Unlike a boggart, I can make your scary vision come true."
"So you're the fairy godmother's evil cousin," the boy retorted with childish vehemence.
As the four men behind them began to snigger, Malfoy felt his cheeks ignite with fury. He knew the Dark Lord enjoyed playing his servants up against each other and resolved, even before entering the house, to be above petty confrontations. Nonetheless, something about this boy's conduct made him long to forget age and poise and spoil for a fight - a certain familiarity, perhaps… Lucuis' refinement, cultured with years of hard toil, crawled deep into his chest like a wounded animal, while unyielding arrogance and scorching hatred came forth, driven by some wildly accustomed catalyst that, like an addiction, does not endure absolute banishment from the system it enslaves.
His answer would have cut like a diamond through glass, but the Master stopped him short. As the blazing wings of fire sprang to outline his dark figure, he stepped over the snake and approached the newcomer in a slow, measured pace. At a brief gesture of his bony hand, the cloak the boy was wearing fell down with a soft whisper of silk-lined fabric, revealing a thin figure and a pale face half-hidden by thick strands of raven-black hair, through which defiant eyes shone like onyxes in torchlight. He must have been barely twenty.
"I see your mind has trouble keeping up with your tongue. Words are spoken, yet you did not say your vows. Have you nothing to give me?"
"Nothing of value," the youth replied grimly.
"Then you do not deserve to be here."
"I think I do." The boy's voice was startlingly calm, making the other five glance at him with envy. "The reason I know that is because I don't want to be anywhere else."
"Opportunities such as the one I present do not come unrewarded."
"You can take my ability to love if you want," the youth offered.
The Master shook his head. "Love and power do not cross on the paths I will tread. I have no use for such a gift."
"Neither do I," said the boy, bitterly.
Malfoy scoffed. "Every wound is fatal when you're young. What did she do? Look at someone else?"
The boy glared at him defiantly, his milky face a drastic contrast to tangled black hair.
"None of your business," he snapped -
- and gave a helpless shout, grasping the back of his neck in pain.
"She married someone else," the Dark Lord clarified victoriously. The boy groaned, dark eyes full of shock and puzzlement.
"But… I was blocking you…"
"Not many can challenge my mind-reading abilities, but I commend you for trying. Are there arts besides Occlumency you are proficient in?"
The boy gave a timid smile reserved by modest men everywhere for pondering a favorite pastime.
"I'm pretty good at making potions."
"Pseudoscience," Malfoy threw with disdain, but the Dark Lord did not share his opinion.
"Alchemy! A fascinating subject. I could very well do with your services, ah…"
"Severus," the boy said to the inquisitive glance of strange red eyes.
"I've been contemplating an idea, Severus, a personal goal, one could say… It may involve a very intricate concoction. Perfect your talent, and you will advance well with me."
Young Severus nodded, satisfaction gliding proudly across his heavy features. Lucius sighed. His ego was injured and his temper grew short. He looked out the window. The east was splashed with a pinkish glow of unmistakable sunrise and the birds in the village were beginning to wake.
"Let us begin," the Dark Lord uttered, retreating to the fire. "Face me, all of you."
Driven by some unseen force that moved their limbs as easily as the wind carries a blade of grass across a rolling plane, the six men formed a semi-circle in the center of the room. The noises of the waking village drifted away, blotted out by paralyzing tension and a silence louder than a thousand screams. The Master watched the fire, calculating some mysterious formula, and the men waited, unbound still but already bow-backed under the weight of their pledges as they plunged into the world of Dark servitude. The snake woke up and now rocked its ugly triangular head eerily in the air, like an inverted pendulum.
"Remember this night," the words, abrupt, made the Initiated give a violent start. "You enter a world whose facets are yet incomprehensible to many, but whose power will extend to all! Your gifts are accepted as ties that bind you in the Dark Service, undone by death alone. Be true, and you will be rewarded beyond your most imaginative dreams. Break your oath – you will see in a moment that I have very palpable means of making you repent treason."
The Dark Lord did not raise his voice nor made any sinister gestures to uphold his warning. The fire sputtered lively; a rooster cleared its throat in the invisible distance, no doubt ready to greet the rising sun. Already its beams penetrated the smoked windows and threw translucent speckles on the tatty wallpaper, making the airborne dust motes in their path flare up with all the colors of the rainbow.
Lucius contemplated the metaphorical symbolism of the dawn, its link with the faith that inspires all of nature's living things down to every last flower bud that rears its sleepy head to taste of the comfort of ongoing life, and the hope morning brings to everyone, despite their intentions or further actions. Suddenly sunrise seemed welcome, desired, valued above anything else. He wanted the brilliant golden disc to come up more than he's ever wanted wealth or authority. Inside, he felt the burning inclination to give his life to ensure it.
Uncontrollable, near-hysterical laughter tickled his senses. Well, this is awkward. I should be weighing the consequences of betrayal, and instead…
Daybreak stopped – if anything, it turned backward, blatantly defying all laws of widely renowned and hitherto perfectly functional time continuum. Perhaps he imagined the dawn in some wonderful delirium; the tea-rose-coloured highlights, gentle as a maiden's first blush, faded from his memory as light died in his eyes. The night crept up again, its heavenly bodies veiled by corporeal darkness, thick and greasy like petrol.
"Through fear, we estimate the truest price of loyalty," The Dark Lord said inexorably.
Heart plummeting into pure, unbridled panic, through the trespassing night Lucius struggled to see his companions. Next to him, Goyle emitted an inhuman cry of horror. Distracted, the darkness withdrew slightly to reveal the shape of a large man who trembled and clawed the invisible walls that closed in on him in a mortifying attempt to escape illusory captivity. Lucius called out, but Goyle did not hear or see him.
Further down the circle, MacNair flailed his arms at the deadly swarm of creatures he alone could see. Pencroft spun around, as if colliding head-on with a large craft, rolled back to the wall and slid to the floor.
Montague fell to his knees, palms over a terror-stricken face. His shoulders were shaking finely and sobs escaped his crooked fingers. The young boy in black was the only one that seemed relatively unscathed. He was staring unseeingly at a wholly unremarkable point in space with an air of someone who would be very displeased if prevented from committing much-desired suicide. Someone who had come to the end of all things and had no desire to turn back.
Someone who had already lived through his worst fear.
Like mountain echo that precedes an avalanche, the Dark Lord's voice poured into the darkness Lucius was fighting, obscure words filling the hollow crevices of silence. Searing pain shot up his left arm, threading into skin like white-hot iron, making multicolored sparks explode behind his eyelids, and with it came the humiliation of being branded much in cattle-like manner. His mind noted, although failed to understand - violence without reason, unfounded punishment from someone who, ironically, asked allegiance in return.
Reluctantly, the pain subsided and his eyesight recovered. Beyond the window, dawn gleamed with new, previously unrecorded colours. Rolling up his cloak sleeve, Malfoy saw a scar between his wrist and elbow, shaped like a skull with a swerving snake creeping out of its mouth. The swollen flesh stung mercilessly, droplets of blood pooled in the hollow sockets of the skull's eyeholes and the curves of the snake's head.
Looking at it, he knew with unaccountable certainty that the others would bear the same mark. In the back of his mind, taut with pain and exhaustion, a tiny voice amended - the Mark would bear them.
"You are Initiated," the master of the house uttered. "I will call upon you when time of action comes."
His words were tantamount to parting. Spellbound still, the men struggled to their trembling feet. Only Pencroft sat with his back against the wall, staring ahead. His arms were thrown widely to the sides and rampant fear could be read on his face.
"Pencroft?" Malfoy called, and received no answer. He dragged himself over to the other man and touched his shoulder, surprised at the bone-like rigidity beneath his fingers. He prodded it, and Pencroft – no, Pencroft's body – slid down the wall, pliant as a cropped stem, and just as lifeless.
The young boy, clenching his bleeding forearm, could not keep back a muffled cry.
"Do not concern yourselves," the Master pronounced, eyeing the body both squeamishly and in aversion, as if death was something he just didn't see himself getting his hands dirty for. "He would have made a poor servant if the very first test of his strength proved overwhelming. Go now. I shall deal with the remains."
The snake already slithered off the rug and headed towards the cloak-wrapped heap on the floor. The Dark Lord bent his head down to her permissively. Malfoy thought it was best not to witness what followed, and stumbled into the hallway.
The sun was rising with reassuring conviction. Lucius unfolded his sleeve, careful not to disturb the fresh scar on his arm. His first night in the Dark Service was over. Tomorrow he would introduce himself to Narcissa Black's parents and, a stranger with no assets or pedigree, would be welcome in her family. In a week, he would secure a new promising post in the Ministry of Magic and begin to work on his career. In a year, he would finish building – not with own hands, of course – a house worthy of its thriving and successful owner. He knew it as clearly as he knew that nothing would stop him on his way there. Life was finally shaping into what he always envisioned it should be.
Then what was that nagging feeling in his head, that acrid taste in his mouth? He did not know, but felt his joy was somewhat diluted due to its lodging there.
And the worst of it was – that feeling of true worth he was looking forward to had apparently been a myth after all.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
For the first time in five years, Draco Malfoy was glad Father didn't come to pick him up from the train station. (Since the infamous Quibbler interview Lucius, humiliated and sacked from his position as school governor, spent most of his time at the manor, letting his associates do business on his behalf.) If his reason for shunning public appearances were any less dramatic, Draco would have been genuinely happy for it; as it was, he found modest satisfaction in the fact that Father's misfortunes happened to coincide with his own.
Draco sat in the kitchen, watching from under knitted brows as his mother busied herself by the stove. An hour ago he was brought home after an incident that left him and a pair of his buddies in a state one can only describe as rather unfortunate and not entirely human. Mother had been able to reverse the multiple hexes put on them by Potter's despicable henchmen before other parents entered the compartment, and patiently endured his sulky silence all the way home.
Now she forced a cup of hot cocoa into his limp hand and smiled.
"So you've been in a fight, darling," she said tenderly. "Teenage boys do that. I'd be more concerned about you if you hadn't."
She put down the dish rag and sat next to him. The cup smoked with a single steamy tongue that made Draco think of an immature dragon and decide he wasn't all that thirsty. He placed it on the table.
"In my school days, there were brawls that left boys with far worse injuries. Several had even been over this old girl," a humorous spark flashed in her eyes and vanished as Narcissa Malfoy's face became solemn. "Come now, Draco, chin up. There are more important things in life to worry about, all of them ahead."
Draco shivered, emerging from his trance. He looked up at her inquiringly, only to discover she was eyeing him with the same interest. Draco knew his mother enough to take her astuteness on faith; it was a quality inherent in women and perfected by them. What could she have known to say such a thing?
Father could not have told her. It was supposed to be a secret…
"Er," he said, thoughtfully. "That means what, precisely?"
She ran her fingers through his flaxen hair.
"I guess we'll both find out soon enough," was her obscure reply.
Draco nodded and went upstairs.
He passed his father's study and paused, intrigued by the pacing heard beyond the surely locked door. The pacing itself was not unheard of before, but today it sounded more on the worried side. Draco knew that if Father was concerned about something, he would want to share it. If there was one thing Lucius Malfoy gave away generously, it was trouble. Preferably his own. He always maintained the simple truth that problems never look so attractive as they do on someone else's shoulders.
Draco knocked. The pacing stopped for a moment, then a sedate, dignified echo of steps approached and the door swung open. Lucius took great care to appear calm and venerable to everyone. Right now, that image was slightly damaged by the velvet bathrobe he was wearing, and completely blown to Tartarus by a wet towel on his shoulders, half-hidden by a cascade of accurately brushed silver hair. Draco's mind involuntarily began painting him such blasphemous images as god taking a lavatory break.
"Now, son, I want it understood that this is a temporary venue," Lucius said without a word of welcome as he shut the door after Draco.
Draco was used to his brusque verbiage. It underlined the pointlessness of courtesy many other families were too much dependent on.
"I know," he said.
"This affair will soon be sorted out and I expect full reparations whereas our family is concerned."
"I know, Father."
"And I expect you to continue in full esteem of me and in no way associate this incident with my role as your guardian, because the two are entirely disconnected."
"I… what are we talking about?"
Lucius blinked. The dripping towel seemed to have gained points in comparison to the look on his face.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he replied coldly.
"That's unlikely," Draco said politely. Immersed in his thoughts, he completely forgot Father did not know anything about his train confrontation.
Lucius quickly recovered from his blunder – a tempered conscience suffers no lasting ailments.
"Then we understand each other?"
"Only one question," Draco said, eyes narrowing. "Is it true?"
"Is what true?"
"You know… what it says in the article."
"Interview, Draco. An article, especially unsigned, possesses a great deal of credibility if its content finds a way to the reader's heart. An interview, however, is only as good as the person that gives it."
Draco shrugged. "Fine. Is it?"
Lucius walked over to his bureau and sat down. Behind him, the wall was hung with a withered tapestry of unknown origin and thus immense value; in its centre a silver, ruby-studded crossbow was transfixed, arrow locked into place. There was something sacrilegious about the way the arrow pointed downward, directly over his head.
"Certain parts of it do bear a striking resemblance to the truth," he said carefully.
"The part I'm interested in is what happened at the Ministry. Is it true Sirius Black is dead?"
Draco thought he heard his father sigh lightly with relief.
"Son, you needn't worry. He won't be killing any more; we are quite safe from…"
"Did you kill him?"
So rarely did Draco interrupt him that Lucius couldn't help giving an unexpected start.
"He was a criminal and a publicly recognized one at that…"
"I know all about a dog dying a dog's death. What I'm asking is - did you kill him?" Draco repeated stubbornly. Lucius stood up and walked closer to him.
"If this is your way of exhibiting concern over the unjustified accusation made against me…"
"I want to know whether or not you killed him."
Lucius' eyes narrowed, scanning his son's face fruitlessly for underlying meaning.
"No. That particular credit belongs to your aunt Bella."
"I see. Just wanted to be sure." Draco turned and opened the door. On the threshold, he looked back. "Nice crossbow," he added, leaving.
Alone in his room, Draco fumbled in the bottom drawer of his desk for a small leather bag tied with a black string. Inside it was Floo Powder and, although he used it almost every day while staying at the manor, it never ran out. It was also an unusual greenish color and made the connection to only one fireplace.
He tossed a handful of it in the crate. The flames sputtered and burst forth, as if trying to start a spur-of-the-moment conflagration, but a shape began to develop within their amber entrails and they embraced it obediently, green sparks sailing into air.
"I'm home," he said simply.
The shape in the fire moved and rotated until it was facing him. Or, rather, Draco presumed it was – he could never really tell as the face was always clouded by puffs of billowing smoke and looked little else than a pale oval with prominent dark spots where the eyes and mouth traditionally reside.
"I recognize the room," the mouth said, curling into a wispy smile. "How were the O.W.L.s?"
"Easy as pie. Father will be very pleased."
"Did you have a safe train ride?"
Vague as it was, this was a face of a friend – possibly his only friend. Resting his eyes on the soothing greenish flame, Draco narrated his earlier misadventure.
He did not expect compassion – it was not in the nature of his interlocutor to express any, but talking about it helped, and finishing with a great booming "I hate that blasted Harry Potter!" helped a great deal.
When he fell silent, the voice from the fire said nonchalantly, "How is it possible the students seemed to know spells you could not counter?"
Draco told him about the illegal club formed at the school, and how he was the first to expose it.
"And does this High Inquisitor continue in her title?"
"She left a few days before us. It didn't look like she was coming back."
"Then it appears you could have gained more by joining the club than by unmasking it," the voice noted.
"What would I gain? An alliance with the likes of Potter and his revolting friends?"
He thought he saw the face in the fire squint at him.
"Would that be so unbearable?"
"I'd rather have my ears pierced with this quill," Draco exclaimed, tossing his peacock-feathered quill into the corner. "Or my hands gnawed off with a prosthetic jaw. Or my head cut off and used as a punch bowl."
"Enough… enough! What is this sudden poetic flare?" the voice protested, full of mirth. "I do not for a moment believe you'd let so small a gaffe get you down. Yet you look troubled. What's wrong?"
Draco snorted. His friend may have been wise and insightful, but he wasn't sixteen. "Nothing."
"Ah," his friend said. He always was, Draco thought, more amused than invested by their conversations. "We seem to talk a lot about that lately."
"Well, I'm very well-versed on the subject."
"I, for one, would like to talk about your birthday."
"That's almost six months away!"
A faint smile appeared in the fire. "I like to prepare early. What do you say to a celebration at my house?"
Draco considered this. "I've never been to your house. Except that one time, when I was four - but you cannot still be living in…"
"Of course not. It is a very good house, and much closer than the retreat you visited. Let this be an official invitation, then. I shall commence the arrangements right away, so that nothing is less than perfect. It's not every day you come of age."
"That's the problem… My father has a lot planned for the day." Draco wanted to add "and the rest of my life," but held the words back.
The smile grew. "He won't mind my taking over on that day, I assure you."
"The circumstances would have to be pretty drastic for Father to…"
"I have told you," his friend's voice grew rigid. "There are things more important than family, and your father knows that."
Draco doubted Father would share the credit he could attribute entirely to himself. Then he remembered what Mother said to him earlier.
There are more important things in life to worry about… The coincidental obscurity of the two statements was not lost on him.
Cryptic is the new simple, he thought, nodding to the shadowy-expectant shape in the fire.
"See you soon," it said, vanishing.
"I can't wait," he muttered as the fire in the crate died down. The door creaked warningly and a house elf edged through the crack carrying a small tray of homemade treats. Narcissa made sure Draco's first meal at home didn't remind him of the school menu: here was a warm piece of cheesecake – a nice change from Hogwarts' usual pumpkin pie, mozzarella cubes pinned to juicy tomato slices with toothpicks that had tiny silver ribbons tied around them, and a small heap of strawberries under a fluffy coverlet of whipped cream.
Draco dismissed the elf, moved his chair so that his feet could rest on the windowsill with the saucer full of strawberries balanced perilously on his knee, and peered into the darkening forest outside. The sun was swiftly losing height; pale gloom cast equally dull shadows over the once diverse greens of blooming trees. Summer scents of freshly cut grass and sun-warmed wooden frame sashes filled the air.
Draco Malfoy, as the saying goes, was a very special boy. That is, he was quite ordinary, if ordinary meant two arms, two legs, a sound head on one's neck and a decent broomstick in one's closet, and sometimes even extended to an owl on one's shoulder if one happened to be a human of the non-Muggle variety. All this was at his disposal, and much more, although not everything. It was in fact what he did not have that made the prefix 'extra' attach itself so inevitably to his description.
What he did not have was a choice.
The whipped cream stuck to his fingers as the clouds stuck to the sharp tree-tops in the distance. He listened as the house settled in for the night, noting the soft whisper of the curling chimney smoke, the quiet babble of water drifting through the gutters running from the well. When even those noises died, he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, thinking.
∞∞∞∞
Draco sometimes thinks Father is made entirely of silver, like a statue of some tranquil god – his hair is almost blindingly white, and he is so unaffected by anything that goes on around him, untarnished by the daily unpleasantness he, as master of the house, is obligated to deal with. It was with that same look of glorious stillness of expression that he calls his son to him one day, when the morning of his third birthday dawns and the sun shines brightly over the manor and the untouched snow in the backyard beckons him to come out and test it with his sled.
"You are now old enough to learn a secret," he says confidentially. "This will never reach anyone's ears but mine and yours, understood?"
The boy before him nods, thin hands gripping his fleece gloves impatiently.
"Listen carefully, Draco," Lucius warns. "Great things await you when you turn sixteen. You will be given an opportunity none other can be handed – a chance for unlimited power; it is yours now, you needn't do anything to deserve it. However, you must spend what little time you have left in preparation for that day. Here is where the secret part comes in. Listen!"
Draco allows the gloves to be snatched from his fingers. Father's glare overwhelms him and, although he doesn't nearly want unlimited power as much as he wants to lick the snow to see if it's made of sugar, he opens his eyes wider and tries to understand.
"There will be tests. Some will try your skills, others – your patience, your intellect and your physical abilities. Some will be announced to you, others will come as a surprise. You must always be ready, son. This is a great honor, and must be met with an equal amount of worth. It may seem difficult at times, but you must be strong, and your reward will be substantial. Are we clear?"
Draco nods again, thoughtfully this time. Maybe power means making snow turn into sugar, should his initial experiment prove to be off the mark.
"I promise to guard this secret with my life, until I come of age," he repeats obediently the words Father mouths at him. "I swear to do all I can to affirm the great honor bestowed upon me. I swear…"
∞∞∞∞
When he is about four, a man comes to the manor, as frightened and unhappy as ever he had seen. Swarthy skin and a long foreign-looking robe suggest his homeland is far and his journey - extensive. He stays only to grab a quick meal and, fixing his purple turban before departure, says it is time.
"He is finally ready for you."
Father looks gratified.
"It's time we took a little trip, Draco," he says, throwing his napkin on the table in one flawless aristocratic movement, his lip curling disdainfully as he watches his guest's discomfort in an atmosphere he is obviously unused to, balancing on the edge of a luxurious chair as if it were a brink of a chasm.
They exit a fireplace in a small hotel overlooking a blue sea, so bright it hurts when Draco looks at it. Neat white houses rise in a semi-circular amphitheatre from the shore to a forest at the foot of a snow-capped mountain that topples over the city like a stern grandmother in a night bonnet. There are multicolored boats drifting peacefully in the shipyard, and patchy brown camels tied to a few pegs in the court, and the breeze is warm and smells of salt and oranges.
"Saranda," Father says with a sweeping gesture of welcome. The word has a longing timbre, like a password to a treasure hidden behind many doors from all but the one worthy.
They arrive to a long building with many archways in the front. The columns are polished smooth by years of rain and wind, and long caverns overgrown with ivy run their length. Inside it's as chilly and hollow as a crypt, except for one room where a fire burns merrily and a deep armchair stands with its back to the door. Draco is cold and wants to squat near the fire but Father grabs him by the collar before he takes a single step.
"Stand where you are," a weak voice says from the armchair. "Let me look at you."
"How can you see me if I cannot see you? Are you holding a mirror?" Draco asks, puzzled. The hand on his neck suddenly becomes heavy and shivers, digging into the tender skin.
The voice chuckles, then breaks into a stifling cough.
"Mirrors are so… Muggle. There are other ways," it says at last. "Well done, Lucius - he is charming. I am most pleasantly satisfied. What is your name, boy?"
"Draco. What's yours?"
"You may call me Tom," the voice says softly.
Draco looks up at Father and immediately wishes he hadn't. Lucius' eyes are alight with rage, cold and deathly like an ice storm. Long fingers shrink away from his skin and hang in the air, spread wide as if Father has just accidentally brushed them against the dirtiest of Muggles.
"Go outside and play." His words too are frosty and pierce Draco with a thousand angry needles. "I have some business to attend to, it isn't for your ears."
"May I ride one of the camels, Father?"
"Certainly not. They are filthy and dangerous."
"Let the boy alone, Lucius," Tom says from behind the armchair still. "You do not wish him to grow up cowardly?"
Father goes very white in the face. "He is in my care until he comes of age," he says carefully, staring into the fire. "I would rather my orders were not undermined."
"There are none who give orders in my presence, Lucius. You would do well to remember that, as well as the reason why the boy is in your care at all."
Tom's voice has not changed - it is still frail and quaking, but Draco suddenly feels a powerful wave of fear gushing from his father whose ivory-white fingers grip the silver hawk's head on his walking stick. He had altered it to encase his wand, but surely he would not cast a spell on Tom simply because he gave his approval where Father did not?
In his mind, a memory arose - an old servant, writhing and groaning on the floor, his creased hands still clutching the smouldering remnants of today's paper. Father's business deal with the Wizarding Trade Association had gone awry, and a long article on the front page pointed, like an accusing finger, to his picture. "The man is on my payroll, Draco," Lucius explained hardheartedly when he saw the boy with his huge watering eyes watching from the corner. "He should know better than to be the bringer of ill news."
Father has punished people for less.
Lucius' momentary weakness passes as swiftly as it comes.
"Of course," he says with a light slur. "Go outside, Draco. I will follow shortly."
Draco cannot explain it, but something inside him urges his feet forward as if some unbidden part of his mind wants to run away. He stands by an apathetically dormant camel until Lucius storms out of the building and has to run to keep up with his stride all the way to the hotel. Father does not speak to him for the rest of the day, and he still doesn't know why.