Click, click. Click, click.
The heels of my boots strike the stone as I stride through the corridor of my ancestral home.
Click, click. Click, click.
Softer, the echoes call back to me from the icy walls, reminding me that someday I shall be Lord of this Manor.
Black envelops me neck to foot. Boots, trousers, robes, gloves. It's forever chilly in my home, but today has been positively frigid. On checking my visage before leaving my sleeping quarters, I noticed what little flesh I've left exposed has tinged a pale blue. I can't be bothered to cast a heating charm.
Click, click. Click, sssssss….
The diamond adders cupping my earlobes have hissed their warning. I almost pause. My eyes slide to the left.
Dolohov.
My chin lifts slightly in acknowledgement as I continue my trek.
I'm grateful that Father hasn't restricted the show of my jewellery when on Malfoy grounds. As of late, I've been forbidden to wear them on patrols... or missions.
My body cringes unwillingly at a recollection before I shake it off.
At least my dignity can be moderately spared as I display my worth here. On my own property, I can be reminded of who I am, or at a minimum who I am supposed to be. I can, and do, pretend I am still revered as the Heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House in all of wizardom.
In my imaginings, I am marching forth to remove the monstrous interloper who has dared impinge upon my drawing room and disturb the peace of my home.
Outside of my daydreams, the monster is my master, who has summoned me as a servant to do his vile bidding.
As I approach the threshold to what was once an entertaining room for guests, I pause before the doors sense my magic to open before me.
I remove my earrings and slide them in the pocket of my robes.
At least the doors still know where their allegiances lie. They welcome me as I prepare to meet the hostage.
xoxOxox
I wonder what the probability is that I am going to die today. Surely, my captors wouldn't see me as valuable enough to kidnap, only to dispose of me moments later.
Perhaps they plan to torture me for information? It would surely be telling of what a weak position they hold if they could only procure the daughter of a newspaper editor to squeeze information from while the Boy Who Lived and his friends are at large.
I take in all of my surroundings, especially the human elements. The hearty Eastern European man with the many tattoos who was guarding me is gone now. In his place is a strangle-y fellow with unwashed brown hair and an outdoorsy smell. He is fidgeting with his collar as if it's two sizes too small and filled with tiny needles. Probably all the wrackspurts he has nibbling on his aura. It's a pitiful little aura indeed, muddy and dim and full of uncertainty.
The walls are a dull shade of brown, lit by only a low burning torch every few meters. I had honestly expected more glory and grandeur from the inside of the Malfoy estate. At minimum polished wood on the panelling. I suppose the atmosphere is meant to feel ominous, but truly it only proves to be a poor decision in tactics. Why would one want to hold court in such a dimly lit space? Surely it would make for a needlessly difficult chase should chaos ensue.
I hold my head up because it's bound that way. Invisible chains bind my wrists, shackle my feet, and pull my chin high. A tactic to make me feel subconsciously weak no doubt, as my neck is thoroughly exposed.
Quite entertaining, that; for I'm feeling quite strong given the circumstances. Whatever they decide to do with me, it will end eventually, just like their reign of terror.
Mr. Fidget, as I have begun to call the guard in my mind, pulls on my restraints. He is leading me to the centre of the room. I go quietly, not putting up any fuss. Perhaps if they think me to be a docile little captive they might show me some leniency with these bindings.
I sigh. Apparently not. The guard kicks the back of my knees so that I fall face forward.
I land on a cushioning charm. Interesting.
A voice I remember - from school of all places - fills the corridor. It's low and drawling and positively full of menace. True menace. Not the watered-down, exasperated kind he shows the students.
"In. Tact. You blithering idiot." booms from the front of the room. "The Dark Lord has specifically requested the girl to be in an immaculate disposition to ensure utmost usefulness. Tell me, Karkaroff, what would have happened to the imbecile who broke the knees of the Dark Lord's leverage?"
Oh good! Martyrdom is off the table for me today! Can't be utmostly useful if I'm dead, now can I?
Mr Fidget, Karkaroff I suppose, grits his teeth audibly. He must be biting down his reply to my looming professor. It really wouldn't do much for his aura to crack teeth. Tooth pains are awful and terribly difficult to repair.
He must have thought the same because he growls a reply.
"You'd do well to bite your tongue on your cheeky remarks, Snape!"
My professor interrupts.
"I would do well, Karkaroff, to act as the Dark Lord commands. Since he has commanded that I am responsible for intelligence, for which you possess none, it would behove you to silence yourself when speaking to your superiors of matters you know nothing about."
Karkaroff's lips melt together as he tries for a retort, and he lands writhing on the floor. I close my eyes as his screams are muffled behind what used to be a mouth.
I never have quite understood Professor Snape. He comes off dark and foreboding, degrading those he has power over, but his aura tells the story of a different man.
It glows blue, bright as day, with just a tinge of despair lining the rim. Only a Slytherin would feel the need to hide it. I suppose he must have a decent motivation to. He doesn't mention it, I don't mention it; I always pass his class.
Looks like I am going to pass today too.
He releases my bindings. I know it was him because Karkaroff's screams have gone silent and two men in black robes are levitating what is left of him off the floor.
"Ms Lovegood." my professor intones. "You may stand."
I open my eyes and oblige, rolling my shoulders and my neck a bit. Being shackled in one position for hours is dreadful on the muscles. I nod mutely towards Professor Snape, and a spark of pain shoots up my neck.
Boots tap a rhythm on the stone behind me. Turning around is my instinct, but I suppress it to look into my Professor's black eyes.
Expecting him to invade my thoughts, I call to mind his calming blue aura. Maybe if he knows that I know… maybe something good will happen.
He doesn't. He has turned to stone, an immovable statue, another obstacle to surmount.
The footsteps behind me stop. Whoever is there is so close I expect to feel their body heat. Instead, an oppressive chill seeps into my bones and I fight back a shudder. This person is either a vampire or could sorely use a blanket.
"Draco." my Professor quips.
"Godfather." is returned from behind me.
"Your task is to ensure our leverage is secured at all times. Do not leave her without your presence." the professor instructs.
Leverage? I was right. They need me for something. A pity, on one hand, a blessing on the other I suppose.
Professor Snape looks at me, even as the cold emanating from Malfoy draws closer.
"Ms Lovegood, during your… stay… with us, you will be under a compulsory communication charm. You may speak to The Dark Lord, Draco, and myself only. So long as your father cooperates with us, no harm will come to your person. My godson will ensure such." He levels a dreadfully piercing glare assumedly towards said godson. I deduce that my person will indeed be harmed if my father does not follow orders. Best wishes, dad. Snape continues,
"Ms Lovegood, while on these grounds, you will obey the Dark Lord's commands. Be they from the Dark Lord himself, Draco, or me. You will refer to He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named as the Dark Lord at all times. Any deviance from these orders will result in your immediate execution. Am I understood? You may speak."
I haven't used my voice in days. I clear my throat to answer.
"Professor, if I may clarify," I begin hoarsely, wanting to make sure orders which may result in my execution are completely understood, so I can subvert them accordingly. "Will there be anyone else who may direct the... Dark Lord's orders to me? Or only the three of you?"
"No one else is to direct you."
"Then yes, you are understood, sir."
"Very well. Draco, you will keep her where you wish. Your mother will ward the rooms of your choosing. You are dismissed."
A black glove grasps my elbow and I attempt to turn my head. My neck is still too stiff, so I shift my body towards my schoolmate-turned-prison-guard.
I was not prepared for what I saw.
xoXOXox
I've been relegated to guarding hostages. Brilliant.
I suppose there weren't any Snatchers available who could ostensibly handle a teenage girl? No, I suppose not. Not with half of them dead or in the dungeons for buggering up missions. Our best brigade couldn't manage to capture an elderly wandmaker. That was completely their fault, too. They didn't see the bludger coming as it were, which allowed the old man to escape. Good on him. I for one could sorely use a bludger at the moment.
At least it's Godfather presiding over this humiliating development. I couldn't bear the sting of Father's particularly acidic brand of mortification. The man's eyes alone can make me feel as insignificant as a flobberworm when he's been disgraced by my actions.
I would know.
I often wonder if that's why we have the Mark of Malfoy bloodline spell on our hair. So Malfoy fathers must attempt full-heartedly to make a proper scion out of their heirs before disowning them.
Not that Malfoy fathers have historically had full hearts to attempt with.
Case in point: Here I stand, effectively a prisoner of a hack regime, in my own home, ordered to guard a captive which most likely will gain us little ground in accomplishing our stated goals of killing Potter and installing a soulless dictator to power. The irony is a bitter potion indeed.
Hasn't he all the power he could ever use? He controls my ancestors' wealth, my country's Ministry, my Father, my freedom. That would be enough power for me to get drunk on for eternity.
My parents, flawed though they are, did well by me in ensuring I inherited their Occlumency. At least I have power in my own mind.
My Godfather calls me forward, threatening me with his black stare. He tells me to keep eyes on the hostage at all times. I am not to release the girl from my sight.
Wonderful, Godfather. Should I take to snorting dragon fire ash to stay eternally awake? Shall I sit on the lavatory floor to ensure I see her feet as she relieves herself? His offer to imprison her where I choose must be my recompense. It would be a dreadful waste of daylight to be surrounded by the dank unpleasantness of the dungeon floor.
Don't blow this, Malfoy. One misstep and your head will roll. Is implied in his gaze.
I've been running the strategy over again in my head for two days, and I lament that we can't plausibly lock the girl in the dungeons without me. If the guards down there are so uncouth and inept they can't be trusted with a young witch upon threat of torture and death, why are they not disposed of? Truly, if she is to remain alive and unscathed, my work is required. A dreadful predicament to be sure.
As we are dismissed, I grasp the girl's elbow to lead her away. She turns to me.
It's the lunatic who was the year below me in school. Crazy, unpredictable, Lovegood.
Despite her derangement, I've long believed her to be the most intelligent of Potter's outcasts. Insanity, I have found, is quite a cunning guise for those who would like to do as they please without restraint. I have a strong suspicion she has been pulling the wool over the lesser beings she associates with, and I do not intend to fall victim to her mental toying.
Nonetheless, her presence necessitates pause.
Her face is beautiful. Mockingly so. The most lovely I've seen since being forced away from my studies to be surrounded by brutes and swinish degenerates. Porcelain skin is framed by golden curls falling to her waist. Her lips are a perfect red, not pallid as would be expected of her complexion.
But her eyes, her eyes are what startle me.
They are coloured a captivating, sparkling blue. Heavy lids set them deep within her face, and yet they're so wide I'm certain I could fall into them and stay lost forever. The white wisps of her lashes brush her cheeks, calling to mind gentle snow that may have fallen just for her.
This, she, is my charge. Oh, how unkind the Fates can be in their wrath.
As I stare longingly, I'm baffled at myself. It must be the stress of it all and my body subverting my authority. Even my own flesh betrays my confidence. To be fair, I've not been kind to it as of late.
She speaks first.
"Hello, Malfoy."
xoXOXox
"Or is there a more respectful title I should address you by? Do you all have a ranking system I should be aware of?"
I correct myself hurriedly as to not offend someone who may enjoy seeing me broken to pieces for pleasure. For a moment, I forgot Malfoy and I are surrounded by the bloodthirsty.
Draco Malfoy looks to be deceased. His lips are blue, as is the tip of his nose. The skin of his face has paled to off-grey; a macabre sheet stretched tight and thin. The once angular bones are starkly presenting themselves in the deep caverns holding his dead eyes. They have almost exactly the same luminance of a frozen lake on a cloudy day. The muscles of his jaw are frighteningly exposed by the hollowness in his cheeks, and I can see the spit working down his throat as he swallows. I wonder if they have been keeping him locked in the dungeons as well.
His appearance, however, is not the most unsettling part.
The shining halo of his aura that has always been a vibrant green is now desolate tones of orange, red, and most disturbingly, black. A cold fire. A dying man.
How interesting it is, that moments ago I had been thinking I might come here to perish, only to discover the one truly in danger is him.
xoXOXox
Ranking system? What the hell is her problem? Is she being cheeky with me, or does she seriously find herself trying to impress me with etiquette and niceties? If she is scared and yearning to appease, she certainly isn't showing it. Her head is high and there is a ghost of a grin on her lips. Typical. As if she just happened to see me in passing on the way from Potions. Whatever Godfather is up to, he owes me for throwing such a firecrab of a hostage my way.
"My name is sufficient," I say, without inflexion, as intended. "Come."
I coax her to exit the drawing-room. The lingering ogles emanating from the perimeter disgust me, and my adders are hissing a riot in my pocket. I pull Lovegood's elbow into my ribs, simply to feel that she is there. As I drag in air, I feel her sharp bones dig into my connective tissue. Perhaps I am rough in my handling, but I would rather her be tucked close to ensure no incidents prematurely rob me of my assignment.
The ancient doorway booms shut in our departure. Finality. This is my life now.
As I return my jewellery to its rightful home, I can see platinum fangs shut and barbed tongues slide away into hungry mouths. Lovegood looks on with unfettered curiosity, but says nothing. It's a fine bit of charmwork they're graced with, if I dare to boast of myself. I'm sure I'll be the only one ever to do so.
Well, perhaps one other human still considers me decent.
"Mimsy." I call. The dumpy little creature materializes before me.
"Yes Master." it says.
"Fetch my mother. I'll be waiting near my quarters."
"Yes, master." The being gets out of my sight.
Lovegood and I continue walking. I generally enjoy the long walks to and from wherever it is I'm going. It's meditative. One foot to the front, over and over. Left, right, left, and so on. Walks give me time to strategize. Not to mention I should probably be seen "handling" my "charge" as it were. As degrading as this pursuit may be, it is a duty nonetheless, and one these idiotic sycophants couldn't perform if they were drawn a moving picture.
This organization could have used more Ravenclaws. Perhaps, in my younger days, I should have recruited the one standing next to me. Now, it is a challenge to revive myself for the task.
Idiot-Gryffindor-Nobody-Snatcher #44 or some such yells something crude in my direction.
He whistles. "Oi, Malfoy! 'Bout time ye got yerself a bloody shag session! Give 'er 'ell mate!"
Swine. The lot of them. Roguish, intolerable, despicable excuses for fire kindling. If I held any real power on this estate, I'd slay them all broad-sweep and the peacocks would feast spectacularly.
She speaks.
"Oh no, you're mistaken. I'm the leverage."
The idiot looks confused. It must be the communication charm. Only I can hear her, and her lips appear to be standing still as she stops and stares at him.
I would laugh if I remembered how.
"Lovegood. Come." I command. "No use attempting to lecture wild hogs. Their only practical use is wand fodder." I speak the truth, loud enough for the idiot to hear.
As much as I wish to not communicate with my dearest sire, my father may indeed need to hear about this. I will not be spoken to in such plebian regard on my own territory.
We continue walking. I remind her of the communication charm. She nods.
xoXOXox
I'd offer a heating charm, but since I've no wand at the handy and wouldn't want him to think I am pandering, being the docile prisoner and whatnot, I attempt a conversation.
"You look dead."
That must have startled him. We stop marching.
He turns to me, ice grey orbs freezing straight through my defences.
"Perhaps I am." he says in the same finite tone.
My turn to be startled.
"Please don't be." I reply.
He doesn't respond, except to squeeze me impossibly closer to his breathless lungs.
We must be approaching these "quarters" he spoke of, as Narcissa Malfoy stands looming in the distance.