Disclaimer: not mine
The Distribution of Will
Chapter 2
Rasalas returns after the repast to his room in what is now his brother's house, empties his pockets and tosses the box onto the smooth, dark wood of his desk where it clatters amongst piles of his old textbooks and battered quills. He glances at it as he sets about his room, stands the letter up against it. Nimbly, he pulls loose the knotted black silk of his ascot, pieces of crushed brocade dripping to the floor until all he has on is the simple linen of his dressing gown. He feels uncomfortably naked, too light without the layers and constrictions of his formalwear. He picks his way across the room, rummages through his closet for a shirt, a pair of trousers, then remembers that all of his clothes have been packed away for his summer overseas, and that his wardrobe is bare and unlived in.
He feels, for a moment, at a loss; he wonders at the state of his father's closet, whether the houselves had been so alacritous with the bundling and putting away of his clothes, his belongings.
Suddenly he remembers being small again, younger than he has been in a long time: hugging the wall at the back of his parents' wardrobe, pretending to be a boggart or some nonsense; peeking from between the legs of his father's suits, hiding himself in the long skirts of his father's robes. He remembers beaming, pulling terrible faces and his father, who never could paint shock and surprise from across his features as well as he thought he could, looking down at him with his brief, tight, though genuinely fond smile.
The memory pulls at something buried deep within his chest, makes him feel bitter and empty, but he won't cry again; his grandmother had looked the other way the other time, possibly even forgiven him, but Rasalas still remembers the doctrine and dogma of unwritten family laws: Malfoys do not show their cards, even when it's family at the table. Even if they are alone at the table.
Rasalas wraps himself in something thick and dusty, far too heavy for the late summer weather but it's all he cares to find. A pile of papers stacked on his desk suddenly plummets, knocked from their precarious balance and rustling like leaves when they fan across the floor. Rasalas looks over perfunctorily, and then remembers the red velvet box, still sitting mournful and worn amid pieces of his life. More hesitantly than he is perhaps accustomed to, Rasalas crosses the room. He fidgets a bit with the letter first, running his fingers across its seams and the vivid, melted, wax seal. Now is as good a time as any, he supposes, and pulls closed the curtains and bolts the door.
The envelope is of thick, ivory parchment paper and is perhaps a little heavier than he would expect of a package its size. He weighs it absently, wonders what it could possibly be. Then he digs his nail under the seal and lifts, the wax coming off the paper in a series of dull snaps. Several sheets of paper are contained inside, the first sheets newer and more cleanly folded than the others.
The first is a letter, which Rasalas holds with careful reverence as he recognizes his father's familiar, narrow script.
"Rasalas," it reads.
"I hope this missive finds you well. That you are reading this means that I am dead, but I take comfort in the youth and health of my sons - the Malfoy family will live on for generations through the lives and children of those who carry our august name.
"The birth and survival of strong sons is the greatest blessing to an esteemed house such as ours since, as you know, such is not always the case; not every line continues on through its sons and some families are cut at their heads, ancestral legacies abruptly ended through mishap or misfortune.
"My mother, your grandmother, is the last surviving member of the ancient and noble house of Black. With her death will be the end of not only a bloodline, but its legacy, and its gifts.
"This leaves you, Rasalas. You are the hope for that dying legacy, new blood and a new beginning. The gifts and secrets that could not be mine and can not be your brothers' are yours, Rasalas, the treasures only a son of the Black family can reclaim.
"I hope this letter finds you well, Rasalas Abraxas Malfoy Black, because this is where you leave us, my son, and find your own beginning."
For a moment, Rasalas forgets to breathe and loses all feeling past his knees. He inelegantly slumps into a chair and stares vacantly at the black lines of ink on parchment as if they were a foreign alphabet from a distant culture where men are not who they think they are and sons do not know their real names until after their fathers' deaths. He fumbles for the other contents of the envelope, his father's letter fluttering to the ground, momentarily forgotten.
The first sheet that meets his fingers is a birth certificate, proffered proof of his father's claims. Rasalas racks his memory, trying to recall the last time he'd seen the documentation of his own birth; he'd always simply assumed he'd seen it before, he realizes. It'd never occurred to him that something so mundane as his own name would have secrets hidden within it. The ministry's seal is entirely real, Rasalas faintly realizes, and next to it an elaborate coat of arms that is distinctly not that of the Malfoy family. It's the one on the box.
He is not a Malfoy, he is a Black, a member of a dead family because his grandmother had wished it and his father had honored it and it was real - he wasn't who they'd said he was; he wasn't who he'd said he was, but someone entirely else, entirely different.
Rasalas finally takes notice of the box, its dusty cloth and tarnished silver seal. It too contains a roll of parchment, but this is ancient, obviously charmed, held against time more by magic than any physical element. He unfurls it delicately, refusing to let his shock overwhelm him, and keeps his hands steady. The scroll lists the Deeds of the House of Black, as ennobled by an ancient king of a long lost time. The list is long, complex, with properties and sums and kingly and courtly positions, most obsolete, crossed out by generations of steady hands wielding black ink. What is left untouched are small fortunes, present day investments, patch-work tracts of land across empty countryside. And a manor house, Grimmauld Place.
It is his now, Rasalas realizes, carefully rolling the deed and the certificate and the letter and placing them all into the narrow red box. It's all his, an ancient fortune revived by new blood. Secrets and gifts, the privileges and burdens of his new family.
Scorpius sits with a ledger spread over his desk and another in his lap, an untidy habit left over from his school days. There are other people he can have do the tedious things like ledgers for him; the entire estate is his now; he can certainly afford it. He does it himself anyway, because, as he'd told his father, it's one less middleman to the result. His father had been most pleased with him, put a hand on his shoulder and said that he had excellent ethic, that he should remember this diligence when it was his turn at the family helm.
What he doesn't say is that he finds it cathartic, something he can mindlessly do with his hands while he lets his mind wander.
He has always been the good son, considerate and meticulous, achieving in every expectation laid out for him: prefect for Slytherin, captain of the house team, perfect on his OWLs and NEWTs, beating out Albus Potter for position of Head Boy. Scorpius had been the one their father could turn to when an investment was hedging into trouble, the one their mother could ask to watch little Rasalas when there was company, the one who stayed out of the petty sibling quibbles that pocked the walls with jinxes gone awry and had their mother screaming for his brothers to either solve their issues like civilized human beings or to take it outside.
After his father's death, he had been the one to assemble the notices, arrange the services. When his father's solicitor had presented him with the deeds to the Malfoy house, Scorpius had not been surprised; he deserved this fortune, most certainly – it was his earned right. When his father died it had felt like an end, and he had grieved properly and tearlessly, but he had known what it meant. It was an end to two lives – to his father's stay on this earth and also to his own; the beginning of his permanent stewardship of his family's legacy. It is his reward, his quid pro quo after years of a job well done. But it doesn't fit. It is what he has, but he can't say for certain it's what he wants.
A quiet knock on the door brings him out thoughts. He places the quill on its stand, puts the cap back on the inkwell and lifts the book off his lap. "Yes?" he calls. A flick of his wand unlocks the door with a sharp click and Rasalas peers in, clearly hesitant.
"I'm not disturbing you, am I?" he asks, slipping inside and shutting the door quietly behind him.
"No, no, of course not." Scorpius sits back against the leather cushions of the chair, stretches the crick from the side of his neck. "I was just going over the books for last month, keeping things up to date."
Rasalas grins a little, stepping further into the study and out of the dark corner by the door. The candles that hover above his desk flicker a bit at the sudden cross breeze. "They have spells that do that for you now, you know," Rasalas says uncertainly. "All you have to do is list the numbers. Or if you're really old-school, there are always such creatures called 'accountants.'" He makes circles out of his hands, brings them to his face. "Little men with bald heads and big glasses. They thrive on the work that drives any other magical creature insane." He chuckles at his own joke, eyes his brother watchfully.
Scorpius inclines his head, brings up the tight corners of his lips. "Thank you, but I prefer it my way. Besides, it cuts out the middleman," he parrots.
Rasalas grimaces. "Of course," he replies and edges himself down on one of the many fat, cushiony couches that line the study. Scorpius' smile softens into a friendlier, less formal variation of itself. He sends a candle over across the room, and his brother's face is lit with the same shifting glow that surrounds his desk, drawing him into the little circle of light. Rasalas smiles and ducks his head, acknowledging. He shifts his shoulders, deliberately spreads his feet and folds his hands, trying for all his worth to look a little more at home.
They sit like this for a moment. Rasalas fidgets with the edge of his shirt and keeps his face unnaturally at ease. Scorpius can't think of anything to break the silence other than canned formalities, and it seems a little strange to ask after his youngest brother's health. Finally, Scorpius clears his throat. "Is there something I can help you with?" he asks. Rasalas looks about idly, eyes settling on everything but his brother's face.
"Ah, not much," Rasalas says. "It was just that I was thinking about the whole 'Ancient and Most Noble House of Black' business." He hesitates here, pulls an overstuffed pillow into his lap and begins to fidget with it, twiddling its tassels around his finger. "I mean," he begins, stopping; Scorpius waits patiently for him to start again.
"I don't really know," he concludes abruptly. "I just don't understand it. I know that the last of grandmother's family died in the last Wizarding War, and I know the Blacks are a really old, really great family but it's just –" Rasalas slides his hands through his hair, huffs a bit and looks away, a wry expression overlaid upon his profile. His brother looks like he'd badly like a stiff drink, Scorpius notes; but of course he'd never ask, and Scorpius would never presume to offer.
"It's just, why me, Scorpius?" Rasalas finally looks up, eyes wide and fatally earnest. "Why not you, or, why not Arcturus?"
Scorpius looks back at his youngest brother and is genuinely shocked. He has honestly no reply. It's Rasalas, he thinks, faintly bewildered. Rasalas, who, with his black hair and blue eyes, has always been different, has never looked a thing like any of them. Rasalas who hadn't been particularly good at any subject in school, who lacked even any great personal failings to speak of. Rasalas the baby, who had enjoyed the light of their father's attention and the warmth of their mother's love from afar, where the intensity of it that had burnt and smothered his brothers had dissipated to a mild glow. Rasalas who always did a little less than what was expected of him – who was nominated for prefect, who was an alternate for the quidditch team – who, despite having gotten into Slytherin, has always lacked a certain hardness associated with that House, whose determination has always come off a little less like ambition, and more like curiosity.
Scorpius has no answer, and can't begin to imagine why he'd want one. So instead, he says, "I guess because Malfoy Manor has been recently fireproofed, whereas if Father had given the House of Black to Arcturus, he'd have burned it down and himself with it by next Tuesday." Rasalas looks indistinctly hurt by his brother's flippancy, scowls petulantly with his mouth rather than his eyes.
"I mean really, Scorpius," he says.
"So do I," Scorpius replies, voice suddenly harsh. Rasalas looks at his brother in surprise, but his expression has not changed, still mild-mannered and impeccably considerate. "It doesn't matter the reasons why, Rasalas," Scorpius continues, voice carelessly light again. "This is Father's gift to you, not to me, or to Arcturus, so why don't you stop whingeing like a child and make the most of it?"
Rasalas' expression freezes into a tight mask over his face. Scorpius notes that his fingers have balled in to his palm, and that his nails must be cutting shallow groves into his skin. "You don't have to be a complete arse about it," he says, getting stiffly to his feet. "I just thought you'd know better what to do about it, that's all."
You have no idea, Scorpius replies in his head. You've never had to. You can't even begin to know what it's like.
Rasalas makes his way slowly to the door, the gradations of darkness swallowing him whole until he is just another flickering shadow against the wall.
"I was going to ask if you'd help me Apparate some of my things, but I think I can manage. Sorry for bothering you. Really." The door opens again, the pale light and tinny noises of the world outside filtering into the room before Rasalas steps out and shuts the door behind him as he goes, considerably louder this time.
Scorpius, incidentally, is being a complete arse. He knows it but, around the hard, tight ball of anger in his chest, finds it hard to care. Delicately, he adjusts his glasses over the bridge of his nose, trails his finger down the page until he finds the spot where he left off. Rasalas has never liked being the youngest, but that's always been the case; none of them would choose to be anything of what they are, but these things are beyond the control of a mere individual. They've all had to make the best of their lots in life, and Rasalas is more than old enough to join that party.
Next update: 10.11.08