Invidēre
Invidēre – adj. jealous, to be jealous of.
- Collins, Latin Dictionary
Disclaimer: Characters, settings etc belong to J. K. Rowling and her respective publishers and associates.
Draco's POV
I make my way down to the dungeons tonight. In the distance I can hear the bells chime the late hour. It must be almost 2 o'clock by now. Far too late for a student to be walking the halls. Too late…
The thought makes me laugh, quietly, so as not to disturb the night. Too late… Too late for a boy, for a Slytherin, for a Malfoy who is already damned. Too late already. It's always been too late.
Too late for the House of Serpents to redeem itself. No matter how much old Dumbledore tries, now that he has remembered, of course. Now that the Ministry is divided. Now that a generation is gone to Azkaban. Too late…
I wonder if the old fool looses any sleep over it; over us. I think not. What's the use after all, when you've already condemned us all? This one's a Slytherin; send him down. This one's a Malfoy; watch him closely. This one's a Snape; pray God he dies quickly.
Nothing changes throughout the years; with the fall of one generation another simply rises to take its place. Another flock of lambs to the slaughter. Unless they're sainted Gryffindors, that is. Unless they're the famous Harry Potter, the blessed Boy Who Lived. In which case the world with bend over backwards to accommodate him and his. You'll never live in fear of Azkaban, will you Potter? Never worry that the slightest slip of the tongue will damn your family? Never be forced to stand mutely by as witness thinking over and over again that those convicted are innocent of that which they are accused? Not to say that they might be guilty of other things but that's hardly the point now, is it?
We are already forsaken. For being pureblood, Slytherin and everything else besides. Evil begets evil. Or so I have been told. But while Good is ever vigilant is it not the case that Evil never sleeps? And how many times has it been simply the case that the victor characterises his actions as virtue? History would, no doubt have been rewritten had Grindelwald triumphed. With Malifacent Snape at the head of his legions….
Of course, I never knew her. She died before my time but I've heard father speak of 'Aunt' Malifacent and the awe in his voice is palpable. And I've seen her portraits; all dark hair and cold eyes. An internationally renowned duellist, married to a recluse, often seen with my grandfather in her company… Which sometimes makes me wonder because the strangely distorted portraits of my grandmother never really look like any woman I could be related to. Not that I haven't asked but father can't seem to answer… because he doesn't recall his mother at all…
Turning a corner the swish of a cat's tail flickers at the edge of my vision but I can't tell if it's the squib's cat or the mudblood's. Or perhaps even the monstrosity belonging to Pansy's friend, Millicent. And anyway, it hardly matters if it's the squib's, after all, what can he do? Send me to Professor Snape for punishment? It's not as if that would even get me there faster. I know most of the routes that lead to the dungeons, though I won't fool myself into believing that I know them all, and could walk this path in my sleep. In fact sometimes I arrive at my destination wondering if I have. And wouldn't that be an interesting story for the Gryffindor trio to spread, that Draco Malfoy sleepwalks his way to Professor Snape's office on certain nights?
I wonder if anyone would be surprised, somehow I doubt it. I am a Malfoy, after all. Not that father wouldn't be angry, just for all the wrong reasons.
I've often watched the spectators file into the stands before our Qudditch matches and always, always father seats himself beside the Professor, as if he owns the world. Though it only takes the mildest of observance to realise that it's not the world that he'd like to own. Not that anyone else seems to take any notice and besides, don't they say that whatever it is that you view is distorted by the lens of perception? Who would really care anyway? Who would even bother to notice the intensity of my father's gaze? Unless the Professor decided to look back…
Of course he never does.
The Professor will never look at my father, just as my father will never look at my mother in that way. But then, it's more of an acceptable arrangement in a pureblood marriage. My parents both came from respectable families so it was only natural that they should form an alliance, which in this case took the form of marriage. As far as I know there have been no similar attachments formed by the Professor, though that's not to say it has not happened. For the House of Serpents can often be likened to the mythical hydra. For every one of us that fall, there are at least three more to take our place, though you might never know exactly which face you are being shown.
And again I find myself wondering, this time about the weasels, the family of Weasley. About one of them in particular. Percy Weasley who hides behind the Ministry, who believes in the honour of Wizard-kind, whose hair is not quite the same shade of red as all his siblings… Is it not possible that perhaps this one is not quite as much a Weasley as all the others?
Contemplating Weasleys I find that my thoughts turn to Potter again. The famous Harry Potter, who looks so astonishingly like his father. A perfect copy. Too perfect, in my opinion. His features hold a level of magical duplicity that is only possible with potions, of the rare and delicate kind. And I am not unaware of the unkind rumours that tell of Lilly Evans' affection for Sirius Black or of her bizarre friendship, if it even can be called that; her alliance with a young Severus Snape. An unholy alliance between a mudblood and a Slytherin, who would have thought…
I smile at the thought. I must admit that I sometimes entertain this thought, that Potter and I may be related. How ironic, how deliciously cruel. That the saviour of the Wizarding world might actually be the heir to Salazar's line but as entertaining as I find it, it is unlikely. Though the House of Serpents had not borne the name of Slytherin for centuries…
From a muggle perspective, or at least a mudblood one, I suppose it must seem terribly complicated. Heirs to families that no longer exist, siblings who are not actually siblings, wizards and witches who contribute nothing to their families, not even progeny. But to we who are born into this world it is nothing out of the ordinary at all… A Slytherin is a Slytherin, unless he's a Gryffindor in which case he might still be a Slytherin anyway. A child who looks identical to his father might find that he ought to drop the 'god' bit from his godfather's title, unless his father thinks to play at god and in doing so run the entire Wizarding world from the comfort of his tower. And Lord Slytherin might still sit beneath his family banner and watch his kin from the corner of his eye under the pretence of watching his son or nephew or lover play Qudditch instead. But all that matters is the purity of the blood after all… Or should that be ambition, I forget…
Forgetting, it seems, carries me to my destination for when I take notice of my immediate surroundings again I find that I've stopped outside the Professor's office. I reach out and pace my hand flat on the door and instead of knocking, take three measured steps backwards. Today's password is 'inquinātus'. Filthy or impure. And I smirk at the choice as a passageway opens up behind me, leading to the Professor's private chambers.
Following the twisting, semi-lit path that leads through unimaginable distances in these dungeons, I finally reach my destination. The room is well furnished and lit only by the light of the fireplace, though I can see in the dim light, the shapes of bookshelves and cabinets, a large table and some plush chairs. Taking a quick look around, I find that I am alone. So I sit down on the antique sofa to wait, letting the flickering flames ensnare my thoughts.
Later I wake, certain that something has disturbed me and somewhat perturbed that I have slept at all. But there is nothing as far as I can see. The firelight paints dramatic shadows across the walls and the chill in the air in piercing but there is nothing there. Nothing that I can see that could have woken me. A particularly loud crackle from the logs in the fireplace sends up a few sparks that illuminate the top shelf of a bookcase, against the far wall and my gaze is drawn towards one thick volume, the sight of which never fails to chill me. For no matter how often I am told that books can not be bound with human skin I am quite convinced that somehow this one may be.
I get up from the couch, drawn by some strange impetus towards the far end of the room. Just as I reach the edge of the light cast by the fire there is a sound behind me and I turn to find that the Professor has returned. He is like some ghastly shadow, outlined by the flames. And immediately the metallic smell of blood taints the air.
I do not move as he steps forwards, towards me, leaving visible trails of blood and dirt. His white mask is already discarded and at once both the intensity and emptiness of those dark eyes are frightening. The white hands that reach towards me with their long-fingered grace appear bloodstained claws in the distorted light. I hear a whisper that might be my name and then those corpse-white hands are stroking my hair, gently touching my face; leaving trails of blood in their wake.
"You should not be here… Draco."
Where else would I go, Professor? Where else would you have me go?
"You do not want to be… like this… To become…"
I already am. I already have.
"Draco…"
And I wrap my arms around his waist and turn my face into the dark, stained fabric. Breathing in the heavy scent of blood and damnation I hear his sigh as those thin arms enfold me.
These are the arms of a murderer that hold me tightly, the hands of a DeathEater that trail through my hair, the steady, untroubled heartbeat of a madman that I feel pulse against my ear. I can do nothing but hold on and wonder if that dampness against my cheek is blood or tears. Mine that is, not the Professor's. He does not weep, not for the victims of his madness, not for himself…
Looking up, I find that those black eyes are no longer fixed on me but now stare off into some undefined point in the distance. His gaze is unfocused, empty and it is enough almost to move a Malfoy to tears, almost… While the strength of his embrace does not falter, I think it is only in abstract that it is even being considered.
From the direction of the fireplace there is another sound and in a moment I am pinned by my father's grey eyes. Reflected in the burning light, his shadow looms over us. But the anger evident in every line of his body, in the coldness of slate, in the trembling of alabaster does not touch the Professor but falls on me alone. And it is horribly ironic, my father's jealousy.
Do you wish that he would shield you from the darkness, as you never shielded him, father? Or is it something as simple and grotesque as the most meaningless touch that stirs your ire? Perhaps it is what you have convinced yourself that this touch means, that boils your blood?
Perhaps you fancy that the Professor loves me, as much as he could love anything. Is that is, father? But not to worry. I'm sure he doesn't love me. Or anyone else for that matter… And even if he did…
He'd love his own destruction more.
20:55, 04/11/03