A.N: Quick apology for not updating sooner, I have been on a two week holiday. Also, a reminder that this story has almost absolutely nothing interlinked with The Cursed Child. I have yet to read that book, though I promise you it is sat on my bedside table as we speak. I fear I don't know the storyline quite so well, and this particular story is not about Albus, or Scorpius (to an extent) but my own character, and a few you will certainly recognise.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, unfortunately.
11th of August, 2020
Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, U.K.
I dreamt about death again.
Screaming, shrieking, blood, pain, suffering. It was the same every night. Jets of emerald green and vivid reds soar past me, as I walk aimlessly through a battlefield, or watch the life seep out of countless bodies, or hear the eerie cackle of somebody actually taking pleasure in the surroundings. There's nothing I can do. I want to help; my fingers are itching to curl around my wand, but of course, I don't possess a wand. Nobody in their right mind would ever sell a wand to a Malfoy nowadays. How Scorpius managed it . . .
Then I wake. I wake tangled in my sheets, a cold sweat encumbering my entire body. I'm at a loss for breath, and my same fingers are trembling. I don't dare close my eyes, afraid the images will flood back, so instead I fixate my vision on a portrait across my room, a portrait of a jewel of a boat struggling on treacherous seas. It's moving, of course, father wouldn't 'besmirch the great and noble House of Malfoy with muggle art', despite my many pleads that he shouldn't be so pretentious.
My journal is on the bedside cabinet, and I reach for it without hesitation. The lavender scented candle in my room had long been extinguished, however dawn was fast approaching, a warm, apricot glow peeking through the curtains I'd once again forgot to close. Flicking to the page marked by a single swan feather, which was revealed to be a quill. Dipping the tip in the small supply of ink I had also on the cabinet, I scribbled away, in messy, chaotic scrawl, using notes only I understood, making it truly only decipherable by my own eyes.
Contained in these pages, these crisp, cream pages, tainted with ink blotches and innumerable stains from tea, tears, and due to the occasional paper cut; blood, were the secrets woven through my mind, corrupting and contaminating my sleep. Anything I could remember from the moment I regain consciousness, I record.
An hour or so is how long I'm writing for, noting down every detail. Unfortunately, I never see faces, so I can never pin down who's who in my dreams. Just when the ink starts to run thin, a crack! fills the ethereal silence. I flinch, despite being just as familiar with that sound as I was with my own breathing. However, though the noise takes me by surprise, the sight doesn't. At the foot of my queen sized bed, stood a dishevelled looking house-elf, with pointed ears larger than her tiny doorknob sized face, and glassy silver eyes. Adapted to fit her tiny frame was a tattered cinnamon brown sack that once carried apples instead.
"Good morning, Io," I say, wiping the weariness from my eyes, looking up from my journal for the first time since opening it that morning.
"A very good morning it is, Miss Malfoy," she beams. It's an oddly adorable kind of smile, one that only Io could pull off. She walks forward, on her bony little legs, and procures from behind her back a poorly wrapped gift, no bigger than the palm of my hand. The recycled piece of string tied carefully, but messily, into a bow on top, reminded me of what today was. "Happy birthday, miss."
A wave of sickness washed over me at the thought of turning sixteen, though as quick as it appeared, it disappeared, when Io smiled once more.
"Thank you, Io," I told her, truly meaning it.
I opened it, aware of Io's bright, brassy eyes following my every move. Nails tearing at the paper, paper I recognised as a drawing I had created some twelve years before, which I had gifted to my father. I hold it out in front of me, looking upon a picture of four year old me, clapping as my father protrudes snow to fall out of his wand. It had been crumpled, torn apart, and then stuck back together with spellotape.
"Where did you get this, Io?" I ask, glancing over at the house-elf, feeling tears prick the backs of my eyes.
Sheepishly she looked down at her feet, shuffling, fiddling with the hem of her sack. "Io hopes you won't think bad of Master Lucius, but Io found the drawing in the bin a couple of months ago, with many others. Io couldn't bare to see Miss Malfoy's work wasted, so Io took them. Io didn't mean to disobey - ".
"No, no, it's alright Io," I mutter, smiling despite my despair. "Thank you. Really."
Io grins, and for a second she looks not like a house-elf, but a child. I turn my attention back to the present in my hands, and notice that it was a teabag. I'm taken aback by it's plainness, and simplicity. The eagerness in her expression told me that she had chosen this particular gift with care and precision; she knows I love tea, so she gifts me with a teabag. It's exactly what I want in the mornings, which she would know, as every morning I'm awoken by a mug made by her.
I don't say anything for a while, and this worries her. She squirms anxiously again, and reaches across me to take the present bag, fearing that I do not want it. "Io is very sorry, Miss Malfoy, she thought that you would like it. Io can't afford much, nothing really . . . "
Instead of letting her take the gift back, I kneel down to the floor, and wrap my arms around her tiny frame. There's nothing she can do, as her own arms are already outstretched. Burying my face into the crook of her neck, I hold Io close. "I love it," I whisper.
Breaking away, I can see tears welling up in Io's round eyes, and I stretch forward and dab them away with my thumb. She smiles, tilting her head, and is about to say something, when we both hear my father's voice echoing throughout the manor, calling to our house-elf. She disappears in an instant, leaving me alone on the floor in my room.
Getting back up to my feet, I cross the room to my window. Looking out at our grounds, the vast amount of green laid out before me, I'd never felt so suffocated. Green, green, green. A constant reminder of our heritage, of what being a Malfoy entails. Resourcefulness. Ambition. Cunning. Self-preservation. All traits that, in my family's case, required putting your own flesh and bone first, with disregard for anybody else. It was daunting, knowing that when it came down to the wire, my father chose to put his faith in a man so purely evil, he decided that in his quest for world domination, he'd risk splitting his should into seven - ultimately eight - halves. What kind of megalomaniac does that?
I suppose this is why I wasn't looking forward to turning sixteen. A teabag may not be the most thoughtful gift today, it may be the safest. For my brother, he received a Dark Mark. The same can't be asked of me, of course, but I never know what to expect when it comes to my family, besides the worst.
Walking over to my closet, I see that I'm only in an oversized black knitted jumper that only emphasised the silvery blonde hair I possessed. I run my fingers through it, sighing. It was long, down past my chest, and wavy. Not straight, like father's, but curly and winding, untameable. It fell about my face, bouncing. Mother liked to remind me that though my locks were blonde, a trait I almost certainly developed from my father's heritage, the curls were well and truly those of a Black. In particular, my late Aunt Bellatrix. My eyebrows were a chestnut brown colour, to add to the frustration of it all. My skin was porcelain, almost, not exactly the colour of milk, but pale enough.
Slipping on a silk, ivory gown, instead of dressing appropriately, I make my way over to the door, and throw it open, and descend the stairs.
Awaiting me at the foot of the steps were two people I adored more than most, and that was my brother and my nephew. Each of us bearing the same trademark Malfoy hair colour, and the same sterling, iron-wrought eyes. Draco's hand was coiled over Scorpius's shoulder, but he retracted once I greeted them, to allow Scorpius to throw his arms around me. The two year age gap between us meant that I had grown up more like a sister to him, than an aunt. Last time I'd seen him was Christmas, and that was eight months ago now. He was just as tall as me now, perhaps even an inch taller, a fact he was eager to flaunt.
"I knew it! I knew I'd be taller than you Cassie!" he jested, with a wide grin that extended to his eyes.
"Yes, well, I'm still the better looking Malfoy, won't you agree Draco?" I teased, biting my lip, as had become a habit over the past few years.
Draco smirks, planting a kiss on my forehead. "You'd like to think so, wouldn't you little sis?" he retorts, his voice soft, and playful.
"You have to see what we got you for your birthday," Scorpius told me, grabbing my wrist and dragging me into the lounge. "Don't listen to dad, I chose it myself. He was going to get you some stuffy old suitcase, but I reminded him you were turning sixteen, not sixty."
I chuckle, turning to glance at my brother over my shoulder. I couldn't help but notice how weary he was looking, how exhausted. "Eh, sixty. That's your next birthday, isn't it Draco? Sixty or seventy, I always forget," I joked, effortlessly causing him to smile. I couldn't do much to help, locked up inside the manor, but I could make him laugh, and I always believed laughter was the best medicine.
"I was forty in June, as you are well aware of, Cassie, seeing as you were the one who convinced Scorpius to chip in and buy that zimmerframe for my birthday gift," Draco recounted, pursing his lips, though I was fully aware of the grin threatening to spill.
"Ah yes," I nodded, as Scorpius and I shared a look. "Next year it's that mobility scooter." I winked at Scorpius as he snorted with laughter, Draco rolling his eyes at the pair of us.
"Don't listen to your aunt, Scorpius, she doesn't know what she's saying. Being cooped up inside has done funny things to her mind."
With that, Draco twirled his finger around his ear, motioning to his son that I had indeed lost my mind. Of course, it was all in good nature, and I loved the back and forth repartee we three shared. It was uniquely our own, and something I longed for, in the times I was alone in this manor.
"Only thinking of you, big brother," I sighed, kissing his cheek, as Scorpius searched for my present, checking his pockets over and over, with a furrowed brow. As my nephew was distracted, I reached out and squeezed Draco's hand, comfortingly. You alright? I mouthed, to which he merely nodded. It was short, and courteous, and proved to me that he certainly was anything but alright. Liar, I replied, but left it at that. I knew the last thing he wanted to do was discuss his current feelings, in front of his son. They'd both lost someone they held so very dear the previous year, and it had left deep scars on both of them, in completely different ways. Scorpius found solace with a friend from school, and buried his time and thought deep with work. Draco, however, didn't have that luxury. The war didn't leave him with many friends. Astoria had been his little slice of happiness.
"Here's one of them!" Scorpius cried, holding up a little gift box, wrapped far more delicately than Io's had been.
"It's certainly not a suitcase," I say, with a grin, as I take the present from him, shaking it almost comically.
"I told you, it's better," he assured me.
Before I could open the gift, the door to the lounge swung open, and there stood my parents, looking happier than I had seen in a long time. My mother, she had tears spilling across her thin face, a face that had aged gracefully. They were tears of joy, I hope, as she crossed the room to plant two kisses on my cheeks. My father was stood behind her, arms folded, with a grin decorating his lips, lips usually stern and stiff. He seemed far too pleased for it to be anything good.
"My darling little girl is sixteen today," mother cooed, holding my face in her hands. She had turned sixty-five earlier this year, but her good looks remained in tact. Her eyes, a striking teal colour, softened only when she looked upon the three of us younger Malfoy's. I suppose she maybe had looked at father like this, once upon a time, but that was a long time before I was born. "You know, I thank the stars everyday for giving us you. My sweet Cassiopeia."
I kissed her cheek, lingering for a while, until I pulled back, and wiped away somebody else's tears for the second time that day.
"Morning father," I said, turning to the greying man in the corner. My tone had clearly cemented, colder, even, but I doubt he even noticed, let alone cared.
"What a morning it is, Cassiopeia," he replied, remaining where he was. I didn't mind; I was well trained not to expect physical contact from the man. "You not going to open your presents?"
I glanced over to where a small, and I stress the word small, pile had been created, more than likely by Io, of gifts. I counted five, six if you counted the box in my hands, and seven if the teabag is included. One more than last year, I'm quick to realise. Who's the new one from?
I start with the one from Draco and Scorpius. The box is green velvet, and inside it holds a beautiful emerald ring, wrought from a silver metal, and adorned with black gems. Father is very keen to point out it bears the Slytherin colours, and that I should wear it with pride. I ignore him, and smile warmly over to my brother. I then pick up another one from the table, the writing atop almost as messy as mine, and I recognise it instantly as Draco's old friend, Vincent Crabbe. It's just a card, with twenty Galleons inside. I remind Draco to tell him I said thank you, and he nodded. He knew that I wasn't a particular fan of Crabbe.
Next was a book, a Muggle book no less, from my aunt Andromeda. I had yet to meet her properly, and from the story Draco told me, that was a long time off. Apparently, her and my father do not see eye to eye, and she has kept her distance ever since anyone could remember. However, she still sent me a present every year, whether it was out of pity, or a sense of duty, I'm not sure. This year, it was Gone With The Wind. Father turned his nose up at the gift, as he did with anything that wasn't made or invented by wizards. Again, I ignored him.
The next present comes from Scorpius, and I'm pleasantly surprised to see that it's a Holyhead Harpies jersey.
"Not just any jersey, Ginny Weasley's. She's the best in the league," Scorpius informed me, but he didn't need to. I knew exactly who Ginny Weasley was. My favourite player of my favourite sport; a fact Scorpius was well aware of. I shot him another wink, and began to fold it to put beside me, when I noticed father clenching his jaw, undoubtedly at the mention of a Weasley. I was starting to grow sick of his arrogance, thinking that he has the authority to turn his nose up at my presents, and I'm going to care in the slightest about his opinion.
"Is there going to be a single present you'll approve of, father?" I ask him, bluntly, half hoping for a reaction out of him. To my shock I garnered one, but not the kind I was wanting.
"Oh, I think you'll find that the small one I gave my counsel on," he replies, with a certain smugness I loathed about him. Mother shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and refused to meet my eye. "Now, open the big one first that's from your mother and I."
Hesitantly I picked up the box that was about the size of a sink, but weighing less than a bag of sugar. Lifting the lid, my breath was taken away by the sight of a delicate, ivory lace dress. Setting the box down, I peel the dress out, gently, afraid that the subtle fabric would unravel in my hands if I moved too quick. My eyes roamed every inch of the beautiful garment, drinking in the image of what I would look like in it.
"Oh, mother, it's wonderful, just wonderful," I say, leaning over to wrap my arms around her, still holding onto the dress. "I'll go upstairs right now and try it on - ".
"Not today, Cassiopeia. That dress is for . . . a certain, special day," my father drawled, in that complacent tone of his that irked me so much.
Unwillingly, I slowly put away the dress, not wanting my fingertips to part with such soft material. "Fine. Another day. I'll just open this last one, and then I'll grab some breakfast, I'm starving."
"Again, Cassiopeia, why don't you wait to open that one later. In fact, I'm positive he'll be here to give it to you very soon."
Looking between the little box, and father, I furrowed my eyebrows. There was no name on the package, so I hadn't the faintest idea who it could be from. Thorfinn Rowle, maybe, who like father had narrowly escaped permanent incarceration. However, he hadn't been by the house in years, I doubt he'll even remember my name. Possibly Yaxley, though he was rumoured to be back in Azkaban.
"Why can't I open it myself now? I am more than capable of opening a box father, or were you not aware that I could complete such mediocre tasks without magic? I can blow my own nose too, if you'd like to see."
"Hold your tongue," my mother hissed, sharply, though I know she was scolding me before my father had the chance to. He had a far nastier way with words, and a much lower tolerance. If anything, she had done me a favour. "I'll call for Io to bring you some breakfast up whilst you are changing, our guests will be arriving shortly."
"And please, Cassiopeia, make yourself look in the slightest bit presentable? Or else you may give the impression you are in fact one of the house-elves, and not my daughter," smirked father, as I walked past him. I looked up into his steel grey eyes, only to be met with coldness and astringency.
"Oh but father, the way you treat me, I may as well be one of the house-elves."
