Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I do own my right to fantasize. See what I did there?
Chapter Six – Aftermath
.
"Do you fear death, child?" Voldemort asked Theodore Nott who is kneeling beside me.
"N-no, my lord." He says with a tremble.
"We shall see..let us test your resolve. Did your father tell you the pain which occurs once you pledge your loyalty to me?" The monster asks Theo with a predatory grin.
"Father told me that, as soon as I receive the mark, fearing death under your command will make me feel immeasurable pain." Nott answers innocently.
As soon as Nott answered, the dark lord takes his arm and cast his spell that will forever haunt his followers. Theo screamed in pain, feeling his arm burn along with the rest of his body. His vaguely covered anxiety is now showing in public by the way his body wretched from being branded.
"What your father told you is true. As soon as you take the mark, disloyalty will be endless torture." Voldemort confirms, watching coldly as my fellow Slytherin now openly writhe on the floor. "Since your body is in so much pain, you obviously have more fear than the recruits before you." The lord concludes.
"I am s-sorry my lord, forgive me. Please spare my life." Theodore begs as he tries to control his eyes from watering. But the pain was too much, and eventually tears started to fall from his feverish face.
"A boy who cries in front of me does not deserve pity. Don't you agree? Draco?" He asks me with his disdainful eyes, waiting for me to answer politely.
.
A commanding voice calls out to me, urging me to answer.
I try to identify where the voice is coming from, but I see nothing.
"Syn.."
"Syn.."
"Wake up, Syn.."
"Wake up.."
I sense myself breathing heavily, a gust of cold wind tickles my left ear. The window is closer, and I do not smell the strong scent of chemicals. Slowly I open my eyes, to find light coming from a brick fireplace attached to polished grey walls. The bricks look warm and elegant, unlike the bricks in Azkaban.
The room smells old, like the smell of weathered soil after the rain.
I am not in the same white room where I first regained consciousness.
When I shift to my right side however, I am startled by the same old man who was conversing with me a while ago. Only this time, instead of wearing casual clothing, the old man wears a customized suit which exudes quality. The old man glares at me with critical eyes and an arrogant raising of his bearded chin.
But his judgmental stance was instantly transformed as soon as he offers a smile. Or at least what I thought his expression would be. His smile was not at all comforting, the expression reminds me of the dark lord's nefarious grin. It is a smile that expresses satisfaction over the success of a meticulous plan.
"You slept for three days at the hospital. We thought you were in a coma or dead. But on the fourth day, you woke up started thrashing about like a mad man. Apparently you were having hallucinations. You told the hospital staff that you are a death eater." The old man informs, observing my reaction.
Consciously, I grab my marked arm. The death eater mark started to sting.
"W-what..what kind of hallucinations?" I ask.
"You tell me. The nurses said that you were screaming about killing everyone in the building. Apparently you wanted to kill them before the other death eaters arrive. What are these death eaters?"
I didn't bother to reply, I am too disturbed that I would do such a thing at a public place. From the corner of my eye, I see the snake on my arm writhe. I close my eyes tightly and look at the mark again, the mark does not glow or burn. The snake does not move, the skull's mouth is silent.
"Seeing as you were making such an embarrassing display in the hospital, I had no choice but to bring you home for the rest of your recovery. The doctors told me that feeding you through tubes for a long time can ruin your health, so you had to wake up sooner or later. So syn, do still have hallucinations?"
No. I am sure that I am not experiencing a hallucination right now. But it is possible that I am experiencing bouts of insanity..short episodes of hallucinations that will haunt me in random times. Perhaps these hallucinations will last a year or two, maybe even decades. Perhaps they will worsen.
"Do you still want to kill yourself?" He continues to question, smoothing out his beard.
No. I do not wish to kill myself, but I might have such thoughts again if these hallucinations will be a habit. If they get worse..if they evolve into something I cannot control..I mean, I don't even remember making a public display in the hospital. I don't remember shouting or threatening the lives of strangers.
Does that mean..does that mean I am having hallucinations even though I am unconscious?
No..no..no. I need to get this out of my system. These..nightmares will be a plague.
"Oi, Mal'chik. I am talking to you. The most respectful thing to do is to answer."
His authoritative voice causes me to shiver uncontrollably. He notices.
I need to get used to the idea that the dark lord is dead. No one, nothing is calling me.
This mark on my arm is just a ugly scar, the dark lord is not calling for me.
No one can tell me to do anything anymore.
Voldemort is dead. Voldemort is dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
"None of my men dare to ignore my inquiry…Tell me child, do you fear death?" The old man states.
The old man's question is so similar to the question that the dark lord asked Theo back in the war. Automatically I raise my upper torso, despite feeling aches and bruises, and then I crouch low enough to be regarded as a decent bow to authority. I keep my eyes away from the man sitting by my right side.
"Y-yes, my lord." I reply without thinking, conditioned to respond when asked to do so by the bane of my existence. I couldn't help myself, just like the dark lord, the old man exudes authority. And like any foolish death eater, I want to confirm and make sure I am spared. I bite my lip until I draw blood.
I am well aware that this old man is not the dark lord. And yet I agree with his inquiry without pride and complete abandon. I could not believe I said those words so easily without contempt or hesitation.
"My lord? Where did you come from? The middle ages?" The old man asks, ending with an insulting laugh and a hard pat on my back. "I heard that the magical world was a strange realm, but I did not think that people of that realm would be so old fashioned." He says so casually, I almost forgot a crucial detail.
"You..you know the magical realm? You know where I came from?" I ask, now looking at him in the eye.
"Of course I do, you idiot. Why would I take you if I did not know you? Stupid." The old man impatiently answers, planning to take me by the arm with his large hands. But before he could grab a hold of me, I recoil my arm and move away. I look at him warily, more attentive with his presence than before.
"Then you know about the war?..about..about the dark lord?" I question.
"I do not know about this dark lord..all I know about is Voldemort, and his group of death eaters. You stated that you are a death eater. Dark lord is what you call this Voldemort? Your leader? " He replies.
A heavy feeling surrounds my chest, slowing my heart for a few seconds.
"You know about V-voldemort." I state, forcing myself to say the name which I was conditioned not to mention. "Then..then you know what a death eater is?" I cautiously ask, looking at him critically.
"Yes." He admits.
"Then why were you asking me to define what death eaters are?"
"Ah, so you were listening." He says with a grin, glancing at my branded arm and gave me a nod. "As soon as I saw that mark, I've had my suspicions. Your mother did not explain further details, but she gave enough information for me to realize why you were sent to Azkaban in the first place."
"So..you know what I have done? The things that I did to..to muggles?" I ask.
"Well, yes of course. Again syn, would I be in this room if I do not know who you are and where you came from?" He answers, looking at me like I am an uneducated dunce for not considering the reason why he is present in the first place. Now that I think about it, his presence is a rather odd circumstance.
"How did you get my mother's letter? Who gave it to you?" I question openly, in his presence.
"Enough with the questions Drako. Come, let us get dinner." He states, attempting to take my arm with his hand again. But having heard him say my first name, I avoid his hold with a shove.
"I am not going anywhere until you answer me." I tell him, gathering remains of my obstinate nature.
"The rest of the family is waiting for us. As the head of the family, I should be present. And you, should be introducing yourself. You should take time to know them. Ne bud'te gruby, mal'chik." He states.
"I said I am not going anywhere!" I shout, surprised I have the energy to do so.
"I have offered you a place to live and food to fill your stomach. And yet you doubt my kindness. Ya ne bol'noy chelovek! Didn't your parents teach you well enough to act proper?!" The man scolds. He then further retaliates from my rude suspicions and protests, by forming a fist that is aimed at me.
Instantly I try to protect myself with my arms and hands which covers my cringing face.
As soon as he sees my defensive composure, he lowers his raised fist and sighs loudly. "I don't know everything about you, boy. But I can already tell that you were raised a coward." He comments. Perhaps he expected me to further retaliate, or at least put up a good fight to match his demanding persona.
He looks at me with impatience, but chooses to adjust in his seat and bring his outstretched arm to rest on his knee. He sighs and regards me with an air of hesitant control, choosing to abide with my inquiry. Obviously he is not used to controlling his temper for the likes of someone like myself, but he obliges.
"How do you know my name?" I ask. I then paused, and revise my question: "Who are you?"
"You were just a child, you wouldn't remember who I am. But I remember who you are, Drako Malfoi." He says. "My name is Vladimir, son of Alexander and Anastasia Malfoi. Grandson of Faustus and Valentina Malfoi. Father of Valentina and Konstatin Malfoi." He tells proudly, with artic grey eyes.
As soon as I noticed his eyes, I pause my thoughts to take a good look at the man before me.
His skin is worn out, decorated with wrinkles, scars, and what appears to be hidden tattoos under a fancy dress shirt and loosened silver cufflinks. His arms or legs do not have pronounced muscles, but one could tell that his extremities are maintained from decades of hard labor, fighting, or being beaten.
Unlike myself and the rest of my family, he has a strong and stocky build. He also does not have platinum blonde hair which all Malfoys from my father's side share with pride and arrogance. And unlike most Malfoys who have elven-like appearances, his face is square and blunt, not at all long and pointy.
Despite physical appearance, the color of his eyes suggest that I may be associated with him somehow.
His cold grey pupils, which expresses anger and disappointment, reminds me of my father.
"Yes, syn. You and I, we are related. A true Malfoi will always have the eyes of Morozko." He confirms before I could even openly conclude my assumption.
"Morozko?" I ask.
"In the old country, a Morozko is a powerful being of the frost. Known as a being with silver eyes and cold dead heart. It is a mythical entity that is dangerous and powerful yet very intelligent."
"The old country? What country?" I ask, wanting to know his country of origin from his obvious hint.
"Russia of course, all Malfois are from Russia." He simply states.
"My family was not from Russia." I reply.
"But you have heard of my country, yes?" He asserts.
"Of course, I spent a few winters in Moscow when I was five or six years old." I answer.
"And why is that? Hm?" He hints.
"I..I don't know. It was a long time ago."
"Why did you and your family go to Moscow, knowing that you would be venturing to the Muggle realm? Your parents must have a good reason to do so, correct?"
"We have spent holidays in other muggle countries before, I thought nothing of it." I tell him.
"And yet, of all the holiday destinations in the muggle realm, your parents chose to spend your holiday at such a cold and dire place. Don't take me wrong, Russia is beautiful. But the land is as cold and unforgiving as any area that is constantly plagued with winter. Brutal, especially during the holidays."
Feeling a growing headache, I decide not to comment further.
"You and your family went to Moscow in order to pay my family a visit." He finally explains. "Your father and mother were not thrilled with the idea, but your grandfather insisted that they spend winters at the manor of my family. Your grandfather Abraxas, wanted to keep his ties with my grandfather Faustus."
The old man stands and walks slowly towards a small table which carries a variety of what appears to be chilled wine and spirits. He chooses a small decanter and pours himself a small glass which he then takes with him as he returns to my area. He sips on his drink lightly, savoring the dark liquid with a sigh.
"I don't remember such a gathering, and I have never heard of Malfoys residing in the muggle realm. You have to understand, members of my family would never consider living in the muggle world unless..unless they were.." I lose the initiative to continue my explanation, realizing a crucial fact.
No Malfoy would consider living in the Muggle realm, unless they were exiled by the family.
"My grandfather, Faustus Malfoy, decided to marry a muggle when he was younger. Of course his father, our great grandfather, did not approve of such a union. So my grandfather was exiled, and traces of his existence was most likely erased or removed by your great-grandparents as soon as he left."
"Oh..I am sorry. Pureblooded families tend to be..unreasonable." I tell him, a poor form of condolence.
"There is nothing to be sorry about. He may have been exiled, but grandfather lived a happy life. My grandmother, Valentina, was a beautiful and strong woman who loved him dearly. They were made for each other. And to my knowledge, rarely do pureblooded Malfoys marry for love." He tells me.
This old man knows more about my family than I give him credit for. Apart from his logical explanation of our relations with each other, there is no denying the fact that the color of his eyes is a distinct Malfoy trait. Not wanting to delve further on pureblood practices, I decided to change the topic.
"So you are..Uncle Vladimir? The uncle that my mother mentions in her letter?" I ask humbly.
"Yes. Your father Lucius, the arrogant prick, is my first cousin. I am your first cousin once removed, but that is too complicated. Just consider me as your Uncle. But do not call me that in front of strangers." He explains. "If we are among my men, those which I employ, you will always call me Pakhan." He states.
"Why?" I ignorantly ask.
"Pakhan means boss. Although you are related to me by blood, you will be working for me. You are not going to reside in my house and eat my food for free, you will earn it. By the time I am finished with you, you will know how to make a proper fist and be more resilient to pain or fear. I will raise you well."
"Are you..are you actually following what my mother wrote to me?" I question in disbelief.
"Although my family have been brought up differently compared to yours, we Malfois still hold the same respectable values. We believe in loyalty within the family, we take care of our own, regardless of sin." He informs religiously. "Our blood will always come first, beyond our past, and the wars of our fathers."
His cryptic offer for sanctuary astounds me.
Hearing his statement made me look at him. Really look at him.
Beyond his stubborn character and his relations with me, this old man is cunning just as he is wise. He knew who I was, before he decided to take me into his home. He knew what I went through, far more than what was written in my mother's letter. He knows the war, about Azkaban, about Voldemort.
He knew. He knew all along. He knows me.
And yet he accepts me for who I am. He accepts what I went through.
He may appear dominating and authoritative, but this man shows morals and empathy.
Can I really ruin the life what appears to be a decent man?
I look at a painting at the wall behind him.
The painting depicts the man with his family. His family is beautiful.
I cannot ruin him.
He does not deserve my aftermath.
.
The car in front's not moving
And I still can't see
I fall into a dream
And I wish that I could be…
- Tom Felton