Book 3: Astoria Greengrass and the Legilimens of Hogwarts
Song rec: "Until You're Reformed" by Chevelle
Sunday had gone by without giving Draco anything fresh to worry about. Each time he had the privilege of falling asleep whilst it was still dark out, he breathed a little easier and dreamed a little less. His open windows showed only blackness, and the sound of the shy rain whispered of sleep. There was no way he could have heard the whispering on the ground floor from the comfort of his quarters. His eyes closed and he fell asleep, but lately, the world had been trying very hard to disappoint him.
The thing dubbed Rodolphus announced itself at the bedroom door, slamming its hairy fist against the wood and growling keenly about somebody in the drawing room who wanted to see Draco. Since nothing that Rodolphus was eager about was ever good, Draco wriggled out of his blankets panic-stricken, thinking the inanest thoughts about the Lestranges having brought back his grandfather as an Inferius. That was impossible, though. Despite the ritual of cremation being reprehensible in the Wizarding community, all thanks to the Muggles' witch-burnings, Abraxas Malfoy had been one of many of late who was committed to an urn to ensure that he would never become the shame that was the Inferius. Even with that out of the question, Draco's theories were no less frightening as he donned his dressing gown and slippers. His muddled, waking brain formulated a horrific scene in which his ever-blood-traitorous friend Astoria Greengrass was being tortured by the Lestranges downstairs.
"The Dark Lord does not tolerate tardiness, Malfoy," snarled Rodolphus as he grabbed Draco's collar and walked him to the staircase.
The Dark Lord? The Dark Lord? It was about time that he was going to break Draco's father out of Azkaban! If only he could have done it when it wasn't the middle of the night.
The younger of the two Lestrange brothers, but by no means the lesser of two evils, was storming up the staircase. His overly sweaty face shone inches from Draco's before he pushed him down the stairs. Draco caught himself on the railing and stood as quickly as he could.
"I'd keep my thoughts to myself if I were you, shitwit," Rabastan said nonsensically. "If you continue to affront the Dark Lord, I will scalp you."
"That won't do this time, Rabastan," Rodolphus barked, trying to get round the snarling poodle he called his brother. "The Dark Lord specifically requests this boy."
"This boy's sympathies do not lie with our Master, Rodolphus. I can nearly grasp it."
"Get the hell out of my way," grumbled the older brother, retrieving Draco as if he were nothing more than a poorly aimed flying disk. "I was told to get this kid downstairs, and I won't keep the Dark Lord waiting whilst we listen to your psychic nonsense."
"The Dark Lord personally educated me in the ancient art of Legi—"
"You and Bella, I know," Rodolphus said resentfully.
The drawing room was so near that Draco had no time to prepare himself. If this wasn't a nightmare and the Dark Lord was really in there, what could he want with Draco when he had the full set of Lestranges ready and waiting for any order?
There were three figures already in the room. Draco's mother, in the likeness of a disused wind-up toy, remained rigid in her seat. She had been commanded to stay, otherwise she would have been the one to retrieve her son or at least wrap an arm over him as Rodolphus pushed him toward the Dark Lord. Bellatrix was free to move, it seemed, because the Dark Lord knew she would not cause much disturbance prostrated on the floor. He was not facing Draco, but he knew well of his arrival, perhaps, in part — though it seemed mad — due to the colossal serpent draped over his shoulders who was doing most of the looking round whilst its master stared at nothing of note. The hem of the heavy, hooded robe worn by the Dark Lord was being clandestinely reached for by Bellatrix. Her white fingers barely brushed the black fabric, and for a moment, she seemed to flinch, but her face spoke only of rapture. The Dark Lord ignored this wild action of hers entirely. Draco, who had been addressed by nobody, stood with a wilting backbone, trying to get a glimpse of the face of the Dark Lord in the mirror above the fireplace and indeed wondering if there would be a reflection to see. The body was there, but the face was obscured. The snake raised its head; it wanted Draco to look at it. It followed each direction in which Draco turned his head. It hissed, not menacingly, but conversationally, in the ear of its master. Draco's mind flashed to a scene of old: a scene of Harry Potter hissing at a snake, a ludicrous noise that would have been worth a laugh if it had not been real dialogue.
"Draco Lucius Malfoy."
For as imposing as the Dark Lord appeared, the voice that sounded from beneath the hood was high, shrill, and somewhat cracked. Draco coughed; it felt like the uncomfortable voice had skidded across his own inhaling breath.
"Bella, perhaps you should remind your nephew of his manners. He seems unsure of what to call Lord Voldemort."
Draco winced at the name. He pondered the irony; the words had come from the wizard himself, who was fear incarnate compared to those mere syllables which iced Draco's skin. Bellatrix sprang upward from the floor, lunging herself at Draco, stepping on his feet.
"Draco," she said in an embarrassed jeer, "the Dark Lord earns our highest respect. You are to address him as 'My Lord,' 'Your Lordship,' or—" she tittered — "Master."
Draco nodded and coughed again, for it was very difficult for him to address somebody in those self-belittling ways.
"Your Lordship requests… me?" he tried to say with a sense of dignified procedure, but it came out as an honest and pitiful question.
"Ah, Draco, Draco…" said the Dark Lord with false familiarity. "I have a proposition for you, you see."
Draco's mother gripped the arm of her chair. The Lestrange brothers eased their way further into the room, curious as to what their great master would have to say to a sixteen-year-old boy.
"There is someone at Hogwarts who is a nuisance to me."
"Harry Potter," Draco produced upon hearing the word "nuisance." All three Lestranges gasped. Draco evidently had no place to insert words into what he thought was supposed to be a discussion. But the Dark Lord's shoulders rose and fell in a breathy chuckle, causing the snake to seek stiller comfort on the floor.
"Harry Potter," the Dark Lord hissed slowly, "as you may have guessed, Draco, has been more than a nuisance to me, for only the most absurd of reasons. One of those reasons is that he suckles on the strength of the one of whom I speak."
Dumbledore.
The Dark Lord turned, and the blackness beneath the hood drew in the image of the loosely-connected family. He stared at Draco, though Draco could not find a face to meet in return.
"You know the man."
"I-I believe I do, Your Lordship… Albus Dumbledore?"
"'My Lord' will do just fine, Draco," said the Dark Lord slickly.
He wanted Draco to submit.
"My Lord," Draco repeated reluctantly, "I do not know everyone at Hogwarts, but if it is whom I think…"
"It is," said the Dark Lord. Then he paused. It seemed like he wanted Draco to speak next, but Draco had stopped being sure of himself for his own protection.
"Rodolphus," said the Dark Lord, and the addressee fell to his knees. "There is another in this house: the son of our most gutless. I think it would be in order to retrieve him, since…"
The Dark Lord moved his body in a half-circle, facing the fire again, seeming to make even the flames cower.
"…Since Lucius's son here will tell him everything regardless."
Rabastan slinked forward, rubbing arms with Draco. He seemed very self-satisfied, and Draco knew at once that his own mind had been invaded by both Rabastan and the Dark Lord. Rodolphus did not waste any time in getting Theodore; he raised his wand and clenched his jaw in concentration. Shouting sounded throughout the house until Theodore's sleepy form flew in and crashed onto the floor of the drawing room. He scrambled on the floor, and when he spotted the snake, he screamed and made to run. Rodolphus punched him in the stomach, sending him to the floor once more.
"What is — who is — oh, OH! My Lord, Your Brilliancy, I beg your forgiveness; I was not aware—"
The Dark Lord snorted, "You must be proud to have your father's name, Theodore, since you are so like him. Get up. Sit in that chair nearest you. Not another word."
And soon, Draco could barely tell that Theodore was there at all.
"Now, Draco," said the Dark Lord with annoyance, "You know well that with many of those who styled themselves 'valuable' to me either in hiding or imprisoned, it would be practical to utilise what is available. You, Draco, can enter Hogwarts without arousing suspicion, and you, Draco, can attempt to remove some of the shame which Lucius has cast upon this household. Therefore, my proposition is that you rid me of my nuisance entirely."
Draco's mother and aunt gasped. The brothers stifled laughter. Draco didn't know what to think. "Kill Dumbledore" — was that really what he was saying? Oh, sure, if Draco could do it, it would be great news for the family, great news for the pure-bloods who were ready to reap the harvest. But Draco had to agree with the Lestrange brothers and think of it as a joke. Dumbledore was about a century older than he was, and though that might work in Draco's favour, it also meant that Dumbledore had that much more experience.
Well… it was hard to believe that only one curse stood between the old warlock and death, but if it was true, Draco could do it as well as anyone else could… providing he wasn't killed himself.
"Oh, yes, Draco Malfoy, you're the one," said the Dark Lord… perhaps a trace of sarcasm in his cold voice. "By the end of the year, will you bring to my feet the body of Albus Dumbledore?"
It was not a question or request.
"Yes, M-My Lord."
The people around Draco started to stir, mostly his mother.
"Is it 'hopeless,' Rabastan, is it hopeless?" the Dark Lord suddenly screeched into the silence.
Rabastan lay on his stomach in an instant. His mind had been invaded.
"Do you think that you — you, whose wanted poster decorates even the dirty, Muggle buildings — can walk into Hogwarts and kill the man who expects you‽ Which opportunity do you foresee, Rabastan, of which Lord Voldemort is unaware?"
"Master, I was foolish… I was shocked… I merely know this boy's nature to be…"
"You know nothing! You have spent fifteen years as dementors' fare! Malfoy, come forward!"
Draco propelled himself toward this mass of anger he so wished to avoid.
"Your arm, Malfoy!"
Draco knew which arm the Dark Lord wanted. He wanted the left arm. He wanted the sleeve out of the way.
"Do you swear your loyalty to me, Malfoy? Do you swear not to hide from me as so many of my followers have — as so many of my followers wish they could do?"
There was no choice.
"I swear, My Lord."
"Do you accept this first mission Lord Voldemort has bestowed upon you?"
Maybe he could do it.
"I accept, My Lord."
"Your arm, Malfoy!"
Draco must have put it down…
The Dark Lord showed only his veined, white hands hovering over Draco as he drew a wand of yew. The Dark Lord uttered "Morsmordre," his wand sinking into Draco's forearm like a massive needle, injecting something black into it that burnt terribly. The wand was withdrawn, and something moved of its own accord inside Draco's skin like a huge parasite. Draco did not need to look at the faces of his company; he knew they were all astonished. He only looked at the faces of the skull and the serpent on his pained arm. And they looked back, laughing at him.