Thank you annora099, arlyetta, Guest, Lena2244 and jollygood for your reviews!
Dragon's Heir
Narcissa Malfoy had just settled into bed—in one of the guest bedrooms of her own mansion, no less, because she and Lucius had given up the master bedroom to the Dark Lord—when she heard an unearthly shriek from Draco's room. In a panic, she raced down the hallway and burst through her son's bedroom door.
He was sitting up in bed, drenched in sweat, panting as if he'd just sprinted across the grounds. When the door crashed open, he looked up in surprise, staring at his mother with wide, haunted eyes.
"What happened?" Narcissa demanded, already calming down a little. He was alone, he didn't seem to be bleeding or otherwise hurt.
"A dream," he said, but his voice broke and the words came out in a shattered whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again, with a little more strength. "I just had a stupid nightmare, that's all," he explained. "Sorry for waking you, mother. Go back to bed."
"What did you dream of, Little Dragon?" Narcissa asked quietly, slipping into a habit that she'd tried to break when he'd insisted he was too old for nicknames, or to talk about his dreams.
Most people wouldn't have noticed the pause, the slight guarding of his facial expression, but Narcissa was both a mother and a Slytherin. She knew he was about to lie before he even opened his mouth.
"I was being chased by a werewolf," Draco responded, finally getting his breathing under control. "He'd just gotten his jaws around my arm when I woke up."
"I see," Narcissa responded, although she didn't, really. Of all the silly things to lie about, why would Draco not want her to know about his nightmare? Perhaps it was something embarrassing, she rationalized as she padded back to the spare bedroom, wondering nervously if he'd have another so loud while the Dark Lord was trying to sleep. Secretly, she hoped he'd claim or conjure a mansion of his own soon. It was more than a little disconcerting, having him staying in their home…
-0-
Draco didn't fall back asleep that night. The image of Aunt Dee crumpling to the floor after a jet of green light struck her right in the heart was burned across the inside of his eyelids, and when he closed his eyes longer than it took him to blink, the whole scene played out in stunning, horrifying detail. As soon as a decent hour of the morning rolled around, he was going to go over for breakfast and assure himself that what he'd seen was just some product of his overtired mind and the stress of having the Dark Lord living down the hallway in his parents' bedroom.
Aunt Dee had told him quite frankly that Lord Voldemort had wanted her on his side way back in the day, and that she'd cloistered herself at Dragenwold instead. He knew that the reason his parents had made her his godmother was because the Dark Lord needed a way in with her. But that had all seemed very hypothetical, like historical trivia.
Until a few weeks ago when Voldemort himself had apparated onto the front porch.
Draco hadn't been too worried about Aunt Dee; she was ancient, and hardly stayed awake for more than a few hours at a time these days. The Dark Lord couldn't possibly want anything with her. Frankly, Draco thought she must have been greatly exaggerating whatever secret power she was supposed to have. He'd never seen her do any kind of magic that didn't look completely normal to him. Honestly, she used her wand less than most other adult wizards. She did have amazing people skills—made his mum look positively awkward in comparison—and the uncanny talent to know exactly how he was feeling at any given time, and catch anyone in any lie, but that wasn't a "special power," it was just a personal quirk.
Or, so he thought.
It took him a few days to realize exactly how wrong he was.
It started small. His father wanted him to dress nicely and have breakfast with the family—and their honored guest. Normally, Draco couldn't spot the chinks in his father's armored expression, but it was like he could sense the underlying concern, and the warning. He would've protested—he'd planned on surprising Aunt Dee—but somehow he just knew that it was a very bad idea to cross his father today.
He washed up, put on nice robes, and took his seat in the dining room. His mother's cultured calm was as impeccable as ever, but he could tell she was upset, and worried, and overtired, and annoyed… Blaming his messed-up perceptions on lack of sleep, Draco rose with everyone else to greet the Dark Lord, and then sat along with the adults, and dug—politely—into the spread the house elves had prepared. Nothing was wrong with his parents; whatever was the matter, it had to be with him. He needed a nap, and a little visit to Dragenwold. Then everything would go back to normal.
Somehow, Voldemort was more intimidating than usual that morning. It was like Draco could actually feel hostility and irritation rolling off of him in giant waves. Even on the best of days, he never spoke to the Dark Lord, but this time he remained completely silent throughout the meal, not even daring to make eye-contact with anyone.
Later that afternoon, after his father and Voldemort had left to go and do whatever important things they did all day, Narcissa sat Draco down and told him that she had something important to explain to him.
"Draco, last night, your father took the Dark Lord to visit your godmother," she began, and Draco could feel the color draining from his face. There was no way. There was no way that dream could be real. Even if it was a possibility that it had happened, he didn't have any kind of power that would show him something like that… He looked into his mother's carefully composed face, and felt the wave of apprehension washing over her. She already didn't like how he was taking this. He stiffened his jaw and made an effort to breathe evenly.
"What did he want with her?" he asked. "I wouldn't think she'd be of much use to him these days…"
"He wanted her support," Narcissa responded carefully. "She refused him—rather rudely, according to your father." That didn't surprise Draco at all. Aunt Dee wasn't overly fond of authority. Perhaps that was why he'd had the dream. If he'd been half asleep when his father and the Dark Lord returned from Dragenwold, and overheard them talking, that would explain a lot. Hopefully, that was it.
"That officially makes her a blood-traitor," Narcissa continued. "We've removed her name from our family tree, and revoked her claim as your godmother. You must never speak of her again, do you understand me, Draco?" Draco nodded, although under his robes, his fist was clenched. What harm could she do? Why couldn't they leave her out of it? He could still sense the heaviness in his mother's words, the warning behind her tone. It confused him. What was the big deal?
"Since you were closest to her, you are in the most danger, my son," Narcissa explained. "We can't have anyone thinking she's influenced you too heavily." Now he was beginning to get it. His mum was worried about the Dark Lord thinking he was siding with Aunt Dee. If, indeed, Aunt Dee had a side of her own at all, when she clearly just wanted to be left well alone.
"Can I send her a letter?" He asked softly. He watched in fascination as his mother struggled with herself. There was something else, something deeper, something darker, something she was at war with herself over—should she tell him, or should she keep it to herself? "Mother?" he asked, fear twisting his stomach.
"She's dead, sweetheart," Narcissa admitted finally.
For a full ten seconds, the words stabbed into Draco's gut like a knife twisting through his insides. Then, he started noticing his mother's expression again. He watched her watching him, felt her terror that he'd react badly and earn himself the same fate…
"I understand," he said simply, shoulders tight, throat protesting. As he stood, he felt his mother's wave of relief.
By the time he'd hidden himself in his bedroom, he was equal parts grief-stricken and confused. What was happening to him today? He'd never been this perceptive before.
He thought perhaps he was just tired, but that evening, he retired early, and he slept late in the morning. The Dark Lord was gone for a few days on business—his parents didn't tell him what sort, and he didn't ask—and the family could finally breathe again.
But the next day, it was actually worse. Every time he was in the same room with his mother, it was like she was constantly speaking, or making noise, except that she was completely silent—he was somehow, inexplicably picking up on her mood. It was disconcerting. It was also stressful, but the stress wasn't his. He wanted to be sad, wanted to lay on his bed and cry like a little child, because he was never going to spend the summer at Dragenwold again, or hear his aunt read faerie tales… But even if he could've gotten away with mourning a blood traitor, he couldn't really get the feelings to manifest; he was too preoccupied with his mother's.
After lunch, he took his school books and hid in a corner of the kitchen. Whatever was happening to him, it was easier to be around house elves than around humans. It felt so much calmer in there, listening to the monotonous sounds of cooking and dish-washing and little footsteps. A little logical voice in the back of his head whispered that the house elves were calmer and happier than his Death Eater mother. The voice reminded him of Aunt Dee. It pushed at the knife in his heart, and he tried his best to block it out and focus on his transfiguration essay.
On and on it went. He'd wake up in the morning, already tense and worried, go through his day trying to avoid all human contact, go to bed and dream of things that made no sense—disjointed jumbles of images and sounds and emotions… so many emotions. Sometimes he'd watch Aunt Dee die again. Sometimes he'd hear her crisp, waspish response to the Dark Lord's offer. The strangest feeling of pride and sorrow and resignation and unnatural calm would wash over him, and then at the last second he'd think of… but then he'd awaken, just as tired as when he'd gone to sleep, and repeat the process.
His mother noticed that he didn't look well, and knew he was having recurring nightmares, although she didn't know of what he was dreaming. He claimed it was school stress—he didn't want to bring shame on the family next year when he took his O.W.L. exams. He felt her surge of pride in him.
He waited a moment, then carried on, inventing as he went, and paying attention to the way each word affected her.
He was having a little trouble focusing at home.
He was accustomed to doing what he pleased at the manor, while he was accustomed to studying at school.
He felt that perhaps he'd have an easier time trying to concentrate if he went someplace else, someplace quiet, someplace where he didn't have memories of lounging about and wasting time…
It was so easy.
By evening, Narcissa had sent off a few letters, and booked him a room at the Silver Cobra, an expensive, high-society wizarding hotel in Switzerland, just a quick broomstick ride away from the Swiss National Wizarding Library. He was to stay most of the summer, come back home for his birthday, then go back, and return a week before the start of term. He could tell she was nearly as relieved as he was. Apparently, she didn't like the idea of him being in the same house as the Dark Lord all summer, although that was probably more about his loud nightmares and constant moodiness than anything else.
It would hardly do for Voldemort to come back and realize that the next generation of the Malfoy family was going completely mental.
But the real understanding of what was happening to him came that evening. He'd checked into the Silver Cobra, then realized he'd left his potions textbook and kit behind. He could've waited until morning, or else sent for it, since he had the whole summer to study, but there was a whole jar of complementary floo powder, and he wasn't tired yet.
"Malfoy Manor, back parlor," he called into the emerald flames. He wanted to try and sneak by without notice—he'd already done the whole kiss-mummy-goodbye routine and felt a bit awkward imagining an unexpected repeat. He stepped as quietly as possible out of the fireplace, and crept through the servants' corridors to his mother's potions laboratory. He stuffed his supplies into a satchel, and headed back through the passageway.
It was when he passed by the wall and artfully hidden entrance to the dining room that he felt it; an immense wave of caution, a desire not to be overheard. His heart pounded wildly, and he froze, not wanting to risk making a single floorboard creak.
He didn't realize that the emotion wasn't his until he heard the Dark Lord's low voice.
"There is only ever one," he was saying. "Bellatrix was the closest in blood, but Draega was hardly foolish enough to leave it in the family. She would have designated a successor. Likely, she sent it abroad—she was quite adamant that it not fall into my hands. The old fool…"
"My Lord," Lucius murmured, "you are already so powerful, and an accomplished Legilemense. What need have you of this 'empathy?'"
"Empathy, Lucius, is far more than simply mentalism," the Dark Lord explained, with hunger in his voice. "It is the ultimate ability to sense and manipulate emotions, even on a massive scale. A trained empath can control thousands of people, keep track of individual minds simultaneously, and at great distances. He or she could sense inklings of dissent or disloyalty, hear a lie before it leaves the speaker's lips, enter the dreams of anyone he or she pleases. They could connect hundreds of minds, allow perfect secret meetings…" He sighed quietly, and Draco wasn't sure if he was hearing the longing in the high, cold voice, or… feeling it.
"An empath is capable of feats of mentalism that would break even the most accomplished Legilemense," he finished. "It would be an incredible asset. Or, conversely, it would be a formidable adversary. But now, thanks to your wife's aunt, I must start from the beginning and find them."
Draco's heart hammered even louder as his father's fear flooded him. He waited until Lucius had started speaking before whispering a silencing charm with his wand pointed at his feet, and creeping with painstaking care down the passage and out into the back parlor.
"Room 617, The Silver Cobra," he whispered as clearly as he dared, sprinkling a handful of floo powder into the fire and nearly jumping through the flames in his haste.
As soon as he landed, Draco set his bag down, shed his robes, and fell face-down on the bed. He'd specifically requested a room as far away from other guests as possible, and he was beginning to understand why. Aunt Dee had indeed kept the power in the family—the moment before she'd died, she'd given it to him. He was the successor.
After mulling it over for a little while, he reasoned with himself that he knew what he ought to do—go straight back home, tell the Dark Lord that he had the coveted power, and swear allegiance to him immediately. Bring honor and glory to his family, have the greatest Legilemense of all time teach him to control whatever was happening inside his brain, make his father proud…
But...
Aunt Dee hadn't wanted Lord Voldemort to have Empathy on his side, for whatever reason. She'd bowed out the first time, and given her life rather than join the second time. And although he knew it didn't do anyone any good, he was angry—now that he was alone and could feel his own emotions clearly. Angry at the Dark Lord, and at his father, because Aunt Dee was someone important to him, and now she was… now she was…
Finally, finally, the tears he'd wanted to shed for days started pouring from his eyes, and ragged sobs shook his thin frame.
