Chapter 12: Old Scratch and the Dragon
Draco was falling and falling through darkness, his eyes huge with fear as he fell. Out of nowhere, he abruptly froze in place, now suspended above a small and flickering image below him, one that kept coming closer to him like the headlight of an oncoming train. He felt an overwhelming sense of deja vu and gaped as everything came into sharper focus and a familiar scene unfolded in front of him.
The room was huge and dark, shadows swallowing the corners and giving off the illusion of a bowl-shaped space as a small enchanted light sat upon a small bedside table next to a severe, sharp angled four-postered bed slung with drawn dark velvet curtain on three sides. There were high, thin windows in the room, but the light from the moon outside only shone through in tiny slits that did not do anything to dispel the thick blanket of night. The sheets on the long, thin bed were such a dark green that they appeared black and in the gloom, the small boy sitting in the bed almost shone, his white-blond hair loose around his head and his eyes huge with a nervous fear.
Young Draco Malfoy would never tell anyone that he was terrified of the dark. He'd been taught better than to show his true feelings, even though he was only eight years old.
He slipped his fingers in through the slip of the pillowcase in a familiar way, stroking the remains of a small silk blanket, the one that his father had thrown in the fire the week before, stating that he was getting too old for such infantile things. It gave him a small modicum of a simpler sort of satisfaction, but it was short-lived as the tall door at the end of the room swung open with a slight creak and a shadow appeared holding something at its side.
Lucius Malfoy did not like reading bedtime stories, but his wife had insisted, and while he was a proud man, he also knew that there was no arguing with Narcissa when she got into a mood. The boy shrank back at the sight of his father's proud nose and stern, haughty eyes framed by long white-blond hair as he approached the bed. The boy's soft young features betrayed an underlying shadow of scorn, hinting the ease with which he would follow in his father's mannerisms if only to escape his wrath and his obsession with pure blood and status.
"Draco," the man acknowledged the boy, his voice curt as though speaking to a stranger.
"Sir," his voice turned hard in a way that a child of his age should not have known to use.
"Tonight," the older Malfoy continued with a serious glance at the book he carried, "We read an important story about-"
"Dragons?" the word escaped Draco's mouth before he had realized that he had wanted to say it. Dragons were his favorite creature, not simply because of his namesake but also because they were hedonistic, monstrous creatures with hearts full of formidable magic, long lives, tough hides that could rarely be penetrated by even the strongest weapon and wings to afford themselves soaring freedom in the skies. In short, they were everything that would protect and free him from the terror he felt from his father's wrath and disapproval. He wished he could strip his stupid, childish emotions away and drown himself in the instant delights of his favorite food and drink, the sweet whisper of power, the deference of his lessers in bowed hands to his greatness. He imagined himself, scaled and winged, breathing hellfire on his enemies and could not help but pull his lips up slightly in the ghost of a smile.
Lucius glared then, thinking the boy's expression was proof of some gleeful disobedience.
"One more outburst like that, and no Evenlight tonight I think," he smirked snidely, inclining his head towards the small lamp-like object glowing at the bedside table.
Draco's eyes went wide with a desperate fear and he shrunk back into his pillow silently.
"Now," his father continued, opening the book slowly, "Tonight's story is called 'Old Scratch and the Dragon.'"
"There was a time in the distant past when dragons found it useful to speak the tongues of Man. For Man was prideful and proved an invaluable ally in doing the hard and thankless work of amassing the exact sorts of indulgences that even a young dragon could then snatch away with ease. A dragon can live for hundreds of years, its heart full of power but hard against superfluous emotion, its hide is stronger than diamond, and some say its fire can burn hotter than the flames of the Underworld.
The dragons considered themselves superior to all other forms of life in the world, and slew many innocents in their lust and greed for frivolity and wealth.
There was a young boy who grew like a noble bloom amongst the rocks in the harsh land of the Wyrmking- a massive and ancient beast of great intelligence whom even other dragons feared. His father had been murdered before he could remember, his mother stolen with countless others in the surrounding to serve the massive creature in its mountain chambers, for the Wyrmking loved to relax in splendor and kept only the most beautiful consorts as his palace servants, devouring them once they had served their purpose. Orphaned and defenseless, the boy had been grudgingly raised by the tangled village that eked its meager existence through endless toil in service to their razor-toothed overlord. Some say that due to the tragic circumstances that had befallen him at such an early age, the earth itself had blessed him with its protection, and this is why the boy had the ability to bend the magical arts to his will.
His task of service to the Wyrmking was to tend to the personal gardens of the beast, as he had a particular talent for cultivating life even in the poorest soil. One day, when all was still other than the snores of the great creature as they gently shook the mountain, he stripped a small branch of Elderwood from the central tree in the king's garden and fashioned a wand to funnel his own power into word and deed.
There was a girl, too, as there often is in tales like this.
She too hailed from the village, her hair shining like the light on water, with a gentle heart that did not begrudge him for the tragic circumstances of his birth. Her smile was a flash of lightning, and it struck his heart.
He was not a boy anymore, yet not quite a man. He had been sitting at her side in a grove of scented spring within the walls of the magical garden weaving petals from great magnolia blooms into the likeness of butterflies, sending them to her with a wave of his wand. Beating their whispery wings, they gently kissed her skin in a way that he could only long to do himself, for he was still ignorant in the ways of romantic love. Her laugh was musical and, in its own way a secret sort of magic, sweetly cast into the air around them.
Without warning, the great smoke stirred around the mountain in a billowing ring. The Wyrmking had been awakened by that laugh as it carried on the crisp spring air, and it stirred the greed that lay within him, and he wanted nothing else but to possess whoever had uttered such a sound. The beast poured from his keep, blotting out the sun with his massive wings, claws and teeth glinting dangerously in the false twilight.
The young man attempted to shield her using the magic of his wand, but the creature knocked him to the side, rending flesh with claw, removing his prize gently with a serpentine tail wrapped possessively around her fragile body. Being still young, the young man did not yet know the fear of death and in his foolish lust for revenge, he pointed his cracked wand at the creature and muttered the darkest curse he could imagine. The blast rebounded against the scales of the Wyrmking uselessly, striking him and he screamed in pain and rage and futility. The beast glanced back as though noticing an annoying insect and then with a sickening roar, turned its hellfire on the small figure still struggling to stand and fight.
But that's not where the story ends, oh no.
His wrath was like a lightening rod for the magic deeply running in a current within the earth, for nothing is more powerful than a sacrifice made out of love. The power harnessed the flames as they licked against his form, preventing him from crumbling to ash. As the magic infused his entire being, the deep red clay of the earthmagic that had infused his body also stained his skin a permanent deep and angry red. The raking claws across his chest and face faded magically into white-hot scars, his eyes burning like flame itself as he magicked the dragon's fire into his belly with a tongue as slick as molten gold.
The magnolia tree had blackened into a gnarled dark shape behind him, but the magic had touched it as well. Instead of falling to ash at his touch, it had hardened into a substance as hard as black diamond. Summoning the power within him, he snapped a small branch, feeling the power of blackest rage fill him the wand claimed him.
He took to the sky, then, free of wing, the heat in his heart burning terribly, following the shadow of his mortal enemy. The Wyrmking had retired to a massive throne room, a hoard of impossible size within the massive mountain. He had placed the girl in a crystal cage with a special high golden collar that amplified the sound of her tear-streaked song of sadness and loss, for she had seen her dearest childhood friend murdered simply because she had dared to translate her inner joy into sound.
He knocked at the entrance of the throne room and entered without fear, servants gasping in fear at his shocking appearance. The Wyrmking was intrigued at the sight of the creature before him and asked him to sit at his table for supper, asking the peculiar visitor his name.
"It's Scratch," the strange visitor replied graciously with a voice as soft as silk as he bowed deeply, and when he looked up, his eyes burned up at the massive slitted eyes of the beast, "Old Scratch, at your service."
The Wyrmking was charmed, never having been graced with such nonchalant and fearless regard. For as much as he relished being feared and afforded his every whim, it had also bred the seed of discontent at the ease with which he subjugated all those he set to control. He found, as the gracious stranger Old Scratch continued to entertain and converse with him, that he hadn't even known that he had been missing such meaningful company.
As the evening wore on and food and drink were filled and refilled, the Wyrmking's eyes began to close in a warm and sated stupor, and when he was at his most vulnerable, Old Scratch proposed a wager.
"As we all know, great kings such as yourself are the strongest and most powerful beings in existence. A lowly being such as myself is as nothing before your magnificent countenance. So you must forgive me for suggesting such a thing to you, as you are sure to best me within moments. Still, I wish to provide you with some fleeting entertainment and the opportunity to gain something precious and rare," The man's mouth grinned as he bowed low again, a soft puff of heat escaping his lips.
"And what might you be proposing, Old Scratch?" The Wyrmking was intrigued as he grinned cunningly in return.
"Well, you see, I have heard of the great magic known as dragonsong. I consider myself a bit of a musician myself and, while I have minute magical ability compared to yours, I would like to propose a duel. We shall both play our best song and whomever brings the other to tears first shall win the power of the other forevermore."
The dragon roared with laughter, for dragons are not known to to shed tears lightly, and began to reach for his wine, "And exactly what do you have that is remotely similar in value to all that I have amassed in my great hall?"
"I offer only my eternal servitude, my intimate and dizzying conversational skills, the endless novelty of my mind and meager powers for your amusement. For there is only one Old Scratch in this world," he flourished his hands from his sides, pulling his wand and spun orbs of wine from the king's carafe on the table into the air, changing them into the form of a flying dragon and guiding the liquid to the lips of the beast in a grandiose fashion.
The Wyrmking, dazed with drink and utterly bemused by the unique curiosity of the small figure before him finally cracked a scaly smile.
"I will agree to this proposal," he said, deeply, his voice rumbling the hall as he spoke, "But I must warn you, I shall not hold back simply because I find your company amusing. And I shall go first."
"Of course. I would not expect any less from a great being such as yourself," Old Scratch bowed and scraped, appearing more and more servile.
"I look forward to adding you to my collection," the great dragon boomed greedily.
The dragon beckoned to the girl in the cage and she fell silent.
"You girl, you will mediate this duel," he said, "You will count to three and drop your silk handkerchief to begin the match. We shall both duel with our hearts in song and whomever brings the other to tears first shall be the victor."
She nodded wordlessly, and raised the handkerchief.
"Know your foolishness, friend," the Wyrmking snarled deeply as the handkerchief dropped to the floor.
The dragon reared up on his hind legs, speaking in an ancient, alien tongue, and power rolled over his scales, pulling the giant plates on his chest to either side, and revealing a massive ruby-red heart, the strings of which he ran heated breath over and vibrated like a harp across his breast.
A piercing, sorrowful sound filled the air, fiery and full of loss. The Wyrmking's heartstrings ran together in a complicated and sorrowful melody the thick string in the middle forming words that echoed deeply into the heart of everyone who could hear. His servants were unable to stop their tears from flowing, and even the girl in the crystal cage found her eyes stinging, though no tears fell.
When the last note finally fell silent, Old Scratch clapped gently.
"Well done," he congratulated the massive beast, "But I graciously request that I try my luck."
With a small flourish, he drew his black wand across his own chest and, with great effort, pulled out a deep red instrument with strings of its own. He brought the base of it to his chin and ran the wand over the strings like a bow, playing a wordless melody of such bittersweetness that the music itself seemed to cry out.
Everyone who heard Old Scratch play that night remembered the lyrics differently, but all of them were reminded of the things that they'd lost and regretted the most. But it was the sound soaring above the stringed instrument, rising in intensity as it built towards a climax that pushed the impact of the music into an almost physical force. It was the high, clear sound of the girl in the crystal cage, her voice echoing and splitting into many facets like melancholy symphony of loss itself following each note that Old Scratch played.
The great beast choked back a sob and great tears poured to the ground echoing wetly as Old Scratch finished drawing his wand over his instrument, and he nodded politely to the girl in the cage, bowing deeply to both of them.
The great Wyrmking, with great effort, his eyes steaming as his tears evaporated, pulled back his scales, showing his heart in submission, and Old Scratch took the thickest, central string from the heart-lyre and placed it in the core of his midnight wand. With the string, he had taken the dragon's consciousness and from that day forward, it became a dumb beast for him to control as he desired.
With his magic and using the remaining strings in the dragon's heart, Old Scratch fashioned wands from the trees in the royal garden. Each wand chose its partner from the many hundreds of former servants of the mountain castle, whose blood had been saturated with the power and purified by the magic of the earth from having lived in the mountain in the service of the Wyrmking for many long years.
For his bride, he took the girl with the shining hair, disappearing with her deep into the mountain, but legend has it that the sound of their eternal duet can still be heard on the wind by those who stop to listen when the spring winds blow.
Lucius closed the book, running his hand through his hair in exasperation.
"Well then, Draco, why do you think I read you that story?" he said, allowing just a hint of warmth into his voice.
"I'm not sure, sir," Draco replied, looking a bit bewildered.
"This story is about how wizards and witches came into being. Only certain bloodlines can be traced back to the original magical people, and the more we dilute the power we gained by interbreeding with….muggles….the less powerful we become. Sure, some people can come from non-magical bloodlines and still use magic that they've somehow absorbed from the earth itself, but they will never be able to use it to the same end as you or I, which is why it is so important that we keep bloodlines pure."
"But what about the dragon?" Draco said, irritation seeping into his voice.
"The story simply goes to show that the power of a pure-blooded wizard will always trump that of mere beasts that think themselves equal, no matter how intelligent they may appear," Lucius replied evenly, and he placed the book on the end table next to the Evenlight.
But long after his father had left the room, Draco lay awake in his bed, rubbing the satin corner of his burned blanket between his fingers and wondering if his father had completely misunderstood the point of the story.
With a sharp intake of breath as though returning from a very long way away, Draco awoke in a cold sweat upon his still-made up bed. Something told him that the memory was important, but he couldn't figure out why. As much as he resented his father, he couldn't bear to imagine the horror of being locked up in Azkaban, so perhaps it was simply his foolish and sentimental mind playing tricks on him. His eyes burned with unshed tears and his stomach flipped with a sick lurch at the thought of what he had yet to accomplish. He was ashamed in his fear, but he still couldn't help it.
He reached into his pillow case and rubbed his fingers against a small, faded and partially burned corner of silk and soon dropped into a dreamless sleep.
