Prologue
A green flash, laser-thin, shot through the air to impact on
something soft at approximately floor level.
A cry of pain followed by muffled groans elicited a high-pitched laugh
from the figure standing by the desk.
Giggling uncontrollably, he raised his wand to rain a volley of
identical attacks in the same direction, almost jumping up and down in glee at
the resulting howls of torment. With a
flourish, he took aim once again.
"Crucio!" he declaimed triumphantly, eyes afire with
unholy delight as his victim writhed in unspeakable agony. The anguished screams were getting quieter,
the vocal chords raw and lacerated.
Abruptly there was silence. The torturer, his manic grin fading into
uncertainty, repeated his Curse. In the
firelight a shapeless lump jerked once as the magic hit home, but was otherwise
ominously still.
"Fool!" Snarled a new voice, harsh and angry. A third person rose swiftly from behind the
desk and strode over to the prone figure sprawled on the exquisite Chinese silk
rug. He kicked it indifferently in the
ribs. It remained motionless.
"You are just as incompetent at torture as you are at
everything else!"
"I'm certain he isn't dead, sir, just unconscious." The voice was oily and uncertain, the face
flabby, pale-eyed beneath a thinning head of grey hair.
"Of course he isn't dead!
You're not even adept enough to kill him. The essence of torture is control: assessing the victim's pain
threshold and keeping the level just below unconsciousness. It is an art – an art in which you have
absolutely no ability, just like everything else!" The man was virtually spitting with rage by this time. He waved a negligent arm.
"Have him put in the dungeon. The East Wing. Nothing
but the highest security for this one - he was a very able and promising
student at one time. And, of course,
blood will always out." He sighed and
sat back in his chair, smoothing his silver hair gently. "After all, he spent more than twenty years
in my house, under my instruction." He
sighed then added almost inaudibly, "As my son." The other had not heard, he was issuing instructions for the
removal of his handwork from the library.
The silver-haired man sighed again then opened an inlaid mahogany
cabinet and proceeded to pour himself a substantial drink. The other, having followed his orders,
hovered nervously in the shadows by the doorway until the silver-haired man
waved him away irritably.
"Are you still here?
Get out of my sight – I've endured enough of your dismal ineptitude for
one day. It defeats me how you ever
managed to train as a wizard in the first place, let alone become an
Animagus. Away! Don't taunt me with your uselessness. You're a constant reminder of how difficult
it is to get good help these days. Take
your miserable hide out of my sight and keep it there until I summon you. And stay away from the East Wing
dungeon. When he wakes, I'll deal with
him, and perhaps then you might learn a thing or two about torture – from an
artist."
Wide-eyed, the balding man fled the library, wiping sweating
palms on the seat of his trousers. For
a long while his superior sat motionless at his desk, gazing unseeingly at the
blotter. Eventually he reached for his
untouched drink, twirling the amber liquid around the glass thoughtfully. The light from the dying fire caught on a
carefully fashioned device etched into the glass and the man sighed. He knew its design so well he could have
sketched the crest in its entirety on the blotter without a moment's
thought. And the motto "Ambition is the
mother of power", in Latin of course, had been the mantra which had dominated
the entirety of his adult life. He had
done his duty: married well, maintained the family honour, produced an heir to
continue the family line. Making a
sound of disgust, he drained the glass at one gulp and crashed it down
forcefully on the desk. He crossed to
the door in three impatient strides, slamming it forcefully after him. The contents of the desk trembled in the
aftershock and the glass, already unsteadily poised, tipped over, spilling its
dregs over the neat stack of writing paper.
The liquid soaked into the letterhead, blurring the title: "Lucius
Malfoy Esq."
~oo0oo~
Draco Malfoy came to slowly and painfully. He felt like he'd been on a three-day bender
with the Bulgarian International Quidditch team, then comprehensively stomped
on by a herd of mastodons. Come to think
of it, that amounted to the same thing, didn't it? Gods, his head ached. It
seemed like several days later, when he'd managed to drag his eyelids open, it
registered that he was lying in a sprawled puddle at the far corner of a damp,
dirty and extremely smelly basement.
Further examination of the bars on the windows and the heavy iron door
led him to revise that conclusion. This
was, in fact, a dungeon. To be precise,
his dungeon, in his house.
At least, it used to be his house.
Draco sighed. By his
calculations, he was in the East Wing.
That fact alone made the chances of escape more or less negligible,
although he could pass some time prowling around to make sure. Just as soon as his legs agreed to hold him
up, that is. How in hell had he managed
to get into this situation anyway?
Draco fell back against the wall and let his mind travel
backwards. It wasn't that he had
expected to get off scot free for allowing Ginny Weasley to slip through his
fingers. He knew he was due for some
pretty serious punishment – Lucius didn't tolerate failure – but he hadn't
bargained for Veritaserum. Something in
Draco's explanation, his words, his demeanour, had obviously set Lucius's
suspicious antennae twitching, and he had chosen to use the truth drug rather
than accept Draco's word. However, he
had never seen his father so overcome with shock as when the real truth of the
matter was forced out of his son's own mouth.
Initially, this numb disbelief had proved to be Draco's salvation:
Lucius had been careless and Draco had escaped. However, he had not been functioning on all four cylinders and
had left a trail as wide as Hogwarts Lake.
It had only been a few months before Lucius's minions had caught up with
him. Macnair had actually made the
capture – Draco's face burned with humiliation at the memory. This was a Malfoy lackey whose contract he
would take great pleasure in terminating – with extreme prejudice.
The pain of his injuries and the effects of starvation and
thirst made Draco light-headed. His
mind wandered into unfamiliar territory, dogged by memories he wanted to
suppress. That moment of weakness on
the brink of achieving something no other Dark Wizard, including you-know-who,
had been able to accomplish – to seriously damage, perhaps destroy, the famous
Harry Potter. He called himself every
name he could think of – why had he been so weak? His father would have revelled in the experience, would have
viewed the girl's coercion as arousing, her helplessness exciting. Just as he would take a twisted pleasure
from his next task. Draco knew he had
no future, he was facing little more than slow torture and death. He had already given Lucius every scrap of
information that might prove useful, and a good deal that would not. He was an empty husk, drained, bled dry,
useless now except for the entertainment of watching him die.
Draco had no illusions
about his father's regard. His mother,
Narcissa, had been a career wife: beautiful, educated, willing to tolerate an
arranged marriage for the sake of money and status. She had been unaware of her husband's cruel, sadistic streak
until Draco was born. Draco himself had
been conceived purely out of duty because the Malfoy family needed an
heir. However, after Draco's birth,
Lucius no longer felt it necessary to conceal his true nature from his
wife. Instead he used the young boy as
a lever to ensure Narcissa's obedience to his every whim. Draco was a very observant child and grew up
believing this to be both normal and acceptable. He had very few memories of his mother. After her death, he deliberately suppressed them, scorning her
for her weakness and her lack of the true "Malfoy spirit". Lucius hardly paid lip-service to her
memory. His father had been discreet,
but Draco had always been wired for sound and had learned very early on, even
before his mother's death, that there were many other women in Lucius's
life. Narcissa slipped quietly away:
Draco himself was the only concrete reminder that she had existed at all.
Unaware that he had slept, Draco was aroused by a scratching
at the prison door. The key was turned
and the door swung open on its hinges to reveal a strange stooping figure
carrying a tray. Draco let out an
unsteady breath and consciously relaxed muscles tight with anticipation. He watched the House Elf diffidently
approach him and nerved himself to sit up, registering as he did so the chains
on his wrists and ankles. The pain was
not as great as he had anticipated, but he felt as weak as a kitten. The House Elf put down the tray without
raising its eyes, then, before he could blink, it shot a bolt of silver sparks
from its fingertip directly at the chains around his wrists. Draco opened his mouth in surprise, but the
House Elf raised its head, a finger over its lips. It turned back to its task, opening the shackles on his ankles
without destroying the chains themselves.
It then gestured urgently towards the tray, lowered its hood and made as
if to leave.
"Why are you helping me?" Draco's question was so quiet as to
be almost inaudible. He shook his
head. This was impossible. There was no one at Malfoy Manor who would
give him a glass of water if he was on fire, and his reputation with House
Elves was far from good. The Elf paused
then lifted its hood once more.
"The mistress says 'All debts are now paid'. That is all I is saying. I must go now." The House Elf scuttled quickly away. Draco stared after it, something niggling at the back of his
mind. He shrugged, sat up – more
comfortably now without the chains – and investigated the tray. Bread, a slab of reasonable-looking cheese,
a pitcher of water. He looked for a
knife to cut the cheese and his fingers curled round something slim and
wooden. Feeling his fingertips tingle
at the contact, Draco's thin lips curved into a smile. His wand!
Now he had a fighting chance to escape.
It would be difficult, but suddenly hope came flooding back. He broke off some of the break and took a
long drink from the pitcher of water. A
frown spread across his forehead. Why
did the House Elf help me? Who sent it? A faint wisp of memory chased its own tail
for a while, and finally broke through to the surface. Dobby. He affirmed silently. And
the mistress? Well, I think I can risk
a guess who that is. So all debts are
paid are they? He shook his head,
smiling enigmatically. We'll see
about that.
~oo0oo~
"Bring him in." The
bald-headed man scuttled quickly out of the library, returning moments later
pushing a suitably battered and chained Draco before him. One particularly spiteful shove sent Draco
sprawling bonelessly forward onto the Chinese rug, smearing it liberally with
nameless filth from the dungeon floor.
"Get on your feet, you
worthless piece of excrement!" Lucius
was already beside himself with impatience.
Draco allowed himself an inner smile: Dad was losing it already, and he
hadn't even started. It took him three
attempts to lever himself off the floor, and each effort ground more and more
dirt into the pastel silk. In actual
fact, Draco had made good use of his time in the dungeon. The bread and water had, of course, saved
his life, giving him the energy to perform healing spells for his considerable
hurts and to provide the wherewithal for a comfortable night's sleep. The wand he had hidden in the emergency
sleeve sheath, one of which he ensured had been sewn into every shirt he
owned. Draco smiled: the clothes he was
wearing might be filthy, torn, smelly and disgusting, but at least they were
his own.
Lucius rose slowly from his desk, gradually bringing his
temper under control. Gradually and
with the utmost care, he removed his cufflinks and began to roll the sleeves of
his immaculate bespoke robes to his elbows, taking his time, prolonging the
expectancy. The bald-headed man was
watching with barely concealed excitement, tongue darting rapidly over his lips
as he eagerly anticipated the promised demonstration. Draco glanced briefly at him and felt the first stirrings of
nausea: now he remembered why he had been revolted by Peter Pettigrew from the
very beginning.
"Now, Wormtail." Began Lucius, silently sliding open a desk
drawer and removing his wand. "The promised demonstration. I told you torture was an art form, and indeed
it is – one that must be carefully prepared and meticulously studied before the
practitioner can be truly effective. I
studied with a master of the art – my father, who you never knew. That fact is, of course, very fortunate for
you. He would never have tolerated a
feeble, useless wretch like you as a servant, but then," Lucius sighed in an
exaggerated fashion, "He always did accuse me of being too soft." For the first time his eyes lit upon Draco,
hard as flint and just as unyielding.
Draco flinched visibly.
"Father," he began, swallowing convulsively. Lucius sent a sudden bolt of fire into the
rug at Draco's feet, obviously having written off the antique carpetwork as
beyond salvage.
"I have disowned you." Lucius hissed savagely, "You are no
longer my son, you are no longer a Malfoy.
You are nothing! Just a
piece of dirt, a miserable, snivelling vermin, a failure and a turncoat." Draco looked terrified.
"But I did my best …"
"If that is your best, then the Dark Forces are well rid of
you!" Lucius snapped back. "You are
worthy of nothing better than the Avada curse." He raised his wand. Draco's drew in a sudden breath, preparing
to duck, but Pettigrew could not contain himself.
"Oh, go on, sir!" he chuckled evilly, clutching Lucius's left
elbow in his excitement. Lucius glared
down at Pettigrew's hand as though it had leprosy. He shook him off violently and leaned over him, glowering in
fury. Pettigrew cringed.
"If you ever lay a hand on me again …" rumbled Lucius,
leaving the threat unspoken. He turned
back to Draco.
"But Father, one mistake – just one!" Draco was trying again. Lucius took an infuriated step towards his
son.
"One mistake? One
mistake?!" he shouted. "If it were only
that, perhaps something could be salvaged.
But you were always a disappointment, Draco, never the Dark Wizard
you should have been!"
"But why? How did I disappoint you so badly?" Draco
was shaking his head in confusion.
"Why? How?"
Lucius was starting to pace around in his agitation. "No family of any status
in the wizarding world has had to endure such a pathetic failure as a son and
heir. You disappointed me at Hogwarts,
you were hopelessly inept as a post-graduate, the rank you finally achieved was
so low as to be a disgrace to the name of Malfoy. My influence wasn't enough – even that couldn't redeem you. Crabbe and Goyle, brainless as they are, at
least produced biddable canon fodder.
My only son and heir couldn't even be classed as that! Why even your useless sister would have
…" Draco's eyes shot wide open.
"My sister? What
about her?" But Lucius had turned away
and was walking back to the desk. Draco
straightened up, all thoughts of escape forgotten.
"Father, look at me." his voice held an unmistakeable ring
of command. Reluctantly, Lucius turned
to face Draco, his face stained a dull red.
"I shouldn't have said that." he admitted, avoiding his
son's eyes. Draco felt his muscles
tensing, his breathing quickening. It
had to be soon.
"Lucius." He said calmly, coldly. "What about Aurora? What have you been hiding from me all these
years?" Lucius struggled, his face
working.
"Silence!" he bellowed, then with a roar he drew his left
hand back and struck Draco hard across the head. This was the opening Draco had been waiting for. Watching his father's body language, he
predicted the blow and moved to avoid it.
He was not totally successful, but at least he maintained his
footing. The heavy iron chain fell away
from his legs, but he held on to the one between his wrists. With a nimbleness at odds with his injured
exterior, he kicked the wand from his father's right hand while freeing his own
from the sleeve sheath. He pointed it
straight at Lucius.
"Stupefy!" he shouted, simultaneously swinging the
chain in an arc until it wrapped itself firmly around Pettigrew's neck. Pettigrew gave a horrified gurgle and
snatched at the chain with both hands, his eyes starting out of his head. Draco took the opportunity to connect his
right foot hard against Pettigrew's groin, grimacing in satisfaction at the
resulting shriek of agony. Lucius
crashed headlong onto the abused Chinese carpet like a fallen tree. Pettigrew grovelled, scrabbling at his
master's feet, paralysed with pain and vomiting helplessly. Draco shook his head, looking indifferently
at the tableau before him. That
carpet has to be a write-off, he thought, then stunned Pettigrew too, for
good measure. He stood for a moment
regaining his breath and listening for the sound of reinforcements before once
more aiming his wand at the two prone figures.
"Astringo!" he muttered. "Nothing like both belt and braces." Cords flew out of his wand, trussing them
quickly and efficiently. He then moved
to the door, opening it slowly and carefully.
Nothing. Apparently the cavalry
were on holiday. Draco stood
hesitating. In all honesty, he had not
expected to get this far. He now had no
idea what to do next. Brain working in
overdrive, he moved quickly to the desk, selected a pen and a stack of headed
paper and began to write: he had to buy himself as much time and freedom of
movement as possible, and chaos within the Malfoy empire would achieve both of
those things.
Thirty minutes later saw Draco, having sent off the last of
the owls, showered, newly attired in his own clean clothes and carrying a
backpack containing a number of useful items, most of which were not his
own. He stood in the library surveying
the unconscious forms of the two wizards, deep in thought. His eyes flickered over to the desk. Moving over to it, he began to take it
carefully apart, destroying documents, throwing items apparently at random into
the fire. Methodically, he searched it
for hidden drawers and, finding two, examined the contents, burning what he did
not transfer to his own backpack.
Finally he stood up holding one small item between finger and thumb: the
Malfoy seal. Tossing it up to the
ceiling, he caught it in the palm of his hand and pocketed it with a smile.
"Finders keepers." He said quietly, and left the library
without a backward glance. Five minutes
later he was astride a Nimbus 2000 stolen from the house collection, arrowing
his way through the clouds, a very thoughtful expression on his face. Draco Malfoy had made up his mind where he
was going – at least for a while.
