"You look dead."
Honesty. It's a shocking feeling, truly. Not one I get in daily interactions. I'm initially unsure of how to respond.
Brilliant, beautiful, insane. At least presumedly. I remind myself. Easy enough to repeat, and I find quite simple to play along with. Crazy is as crazy does, and if the life I live hasn't prepared me for this, it is an impossible feat.
I chance a glimpse into her wide irises and catch myself before I dive headfirst, drowning in them - in her.
"Maybe I am." I tell her stoically.
These words ring with more reality than I dared believe they could at my mere age. Ironic, that the truth can sound so foreign to my own ears as to be mistaken for mental incapacity. I can see how this lifestyle choice could be alluring.
"Please don't be." She remarks, as freely as if she were asking me to pass the salt.
Her response is so effortless, it was nearly automatic. As if begging others to live is a skill she's well-rehearsed in. She has every conceivable reason to lie to me. To flatter and appease; pull every foul tactic to ensure my good graces. In her eyes, I'm one of them. The haunting menace in an evil mask, appearing under the guise of night to spirit away young girls and slay innocent victims. I'm part of the "we" who leaves skulls in our wake.
I am what nightmares are made of.
If this is manipulation, she is playing on a higher level than I've achieved. Being reared my entire life in a den of snakes, I can confidently say this doesn't feel like traditional swindlery. Then again, what is traditional about Lovegood? Taking into account she may be leagues superior in intellect, I cannot be too cautious with my generosity.
But gods I don't want to be.
What I want is to genuinely believe in something - in someone. I yearn to say with full confidence
"Yes, yes I'll do that for you, Lovegood, if you'll do the same for me. Let's both try not being dead, at least for a time, yeah?"
Alas, I can't fool myself anymore. Longing pierces through me.
We continue walking. I see my mother, prompt per usual, standing at the threshold.
"Mother." I greet. Just saying the word melts the tension in my shoulders, and I feel my grip relax on Lovegood's arm.
"Draco." she returns, standing on tiptoe to place a kiss on my cheek. I tower above her, she keeps me tethered to the ground. This is our dance. A beautiful, heartbreaking step.
"Ms Lovegood." Mother greets. My charge nods her head.
Mother doesn't question my choice to keep the girl imprisoned in my personal quarters. She knows this is where I exist. Only she knows where I roam when not being summoned.
I need my non-wand hand, so I let loose the girl for a brief moment. Although she stands stock-still in the same position, her absence is palpable.
Blood wards have coated the entrance to my quarters since our unwelcome house guests so rudely invited themselves to occupy my residence. The first thirty or so times I parted the wards, my palm healed well enough. Apparently, splitting one's flesh repeatedly has residual effects after some time. After fifty, there was a scar. At seventy-five, my nerves started to tingle. This is event number one hundred and twenty-three, and I can no longer cut my palm, for all feeling but fire has abandoned it.
So I find alternatives.
I know better than to let blood from my wrist in front of my mother. I can't stand to see her cry. The one unbroken person I have must remain so. I will not be the straw to crush her countenance.
So being, I take out my folding blade and cut the top of my hand. The veins there still hold fast, unlike their unwilling counterparts in my fingers.
My blood isn't red anymore. Not truly. It's the colour of dark, rich wine - the type of wine that used to leave emboldened guests tipping over and vomiting on my mother's imported carpets at our celebrations. It's thick and gelatinous, congealing even as I endeavour to extract it, as if it's begging me to allow it to remain at peace in its cosy veins.
Fortunately, I've become more than immune to pleas for mercy.
Finally, I coax the fluid out of my hand to smear over the doorpost. The wards welcome me home.
Mother waves her wand to heal my wound as we flow through the threshold. I'm never so grateful for her prowess. Her healings take better than mine ever could.
Lovegood touches my hand, so softly a man with more fortitude would miss it.
xoXOXox
"Malfoy, I'd like to be careful how I say this, but being careful with my words is new to me, so I'll likely bugger it up."
I'm cautious with offering advice to my captor, not knowing how volatile he might be in such a situation. Even so, the situation is insane in the highest degree, and such, I won't allow myself to cower.
"Get on with it." his voice is dry. Bland like stale bread. He doesn't seem upset, so I continue.
"Unless you need a lot of blood to unlock the wards, there's a much easier way to do it."
I take his hand palm up. The scars there are hideous. Tiny marks, two to three marring each bloodless appendage. A long gash of silver coats the centre, as if it had been poured onto him to replace the lines there. I imagine he must spend quite a bit of time in his room, or other places only Malfoys dare to tread.
He's listening; I can feel it. I go on.
"Have you ever heard of a needle, Malfoy?"
"For sewing? I believe the house-elves use them."
"No, not those," I reply. I use my finger to illustrate, pricking his hand with my nail. "A small tube with a pointy end that can suck the blood out. I'm sure you could make one. It would hurt a lot less. You could use a lot less, and from different spots, if you like."
He nods appreciatively.
"I'll look into it." he concludes. I lay his hand down on his robes.
Narcissa is much smaller than I remember her to be, but her aura is enormous. It is a plethora of pinks and corals, reds and blushes. All love and thanksgiving. It reminds me of the rose gardens outside the manor walls. Perhaps she commissioned them.
She sets to waving her wand to restructure the wards. I watch attentively as she constructs my new cage.
xoXOXox
It is said the wards of Malfoy Manor are stronger than those surrounding the Ministry. I believe it whole-heartedly. Some have been in place since our earliest ancestor, a contemporary of Merlin himself. The most recent ones, the ones that have been constructed during my lifetime, have mainly been woven by my mother.
Not to be mistaken, my father is an excellent ward-smith in his own right. He intricately laid the security around the vaults, pantries, and ironically, drawing-room. I watched him do it as I toddled about, adoring the man who stood tall to protect our family.
But my mother, my mother has no equal in this arena. Not even Aunt Bella can contend with her.
I don't want to think about that vile witch, so I shove my recollection of her heartily into my Occluding room and slam the door with ferocity.
My mother and I warded my entire quarters a few months back, and the endeavour we are now undertaking sends unwilling remembrances reeling to the front of my blessed mindscape. More unbidden reminders to stuff my Occluding space to the brim with. It's becoming quite incommodious in there, and I'm deeply afraid one day the unsettling memories will all burst forth, running slipshod over my divine sensibilities while conquering my life as their own.
As my mother works her magic, I step out to the balcony for a bit of air. Mother's rose gardens sit directly below my quarters, albeit a few flights down. When the wind catches just right, I can inhale the sweet fragrance and remember the summers we spent there.
The ward lining my balcony comes in from the edge a bit. It's not constructed of Malfoy blood, but Black.
My mother came here to see about me a few months back, following the headmaster's demise.
She caught me peering over the railing, staring longingly at the ground.
She politely reminded me it would take a seven-floor jump to kill a muggle, much less a wizard, and as we are three floors from the earth, I would only end as an embarrassing wreck of shattered limbs that she would have to knit back together.
I remarked that the Astronomy tower was at least 30 floors up on a low day.
She held me as I cried into her silken gown.
No, not cried; sobbed. The kind of woebegone mournful wretching that turns my face red and causes water to come pouring from my nose. Sobbing that wrenches animalistic sounds straight from my gut and causes my ribs to quake in their cage.
The same lamenting circumstance caused my mother to slap my father with all her might clear across his preening angel face. The echoes of the resounding hit are etched eternally into the walls of the Manor. The reverberations from them will be felt for as long as I shall exist, and as long as this ward stands in place.
Mother appears before me now.
"It is finished."
xoXOXox
"Come." she requests to Draco.
I've always found it quite entertaining to find life's little duplicities. Those who surround me truly are fortunate that I am easily amused rather than quick to enrage. I know, objectively, I have every right to be outright violent towards my captors. Truly, I understand. I doubt any rational witch or wizard would fault me for killing them wholesale for the atrocities they have committed. But violence has never suited me. I don't enjoy it, and so I don't.
I try not to do anything I don't enjoy so much as I can help it, and so not being the vengeful sort, I don't take vengeance. I educate. I entertain. I enjoy.
Back to the duplicities -
He may come, but I may not. He may go, while I am commanded to stay until released. Narcissa can speak to me, but I'm forced to nod like I've taken a vow of silence. Which, for the record, I have not.
I have a bit of a secret, however.
What a person can do, and what they cannot, not what they may and may not, are the only true limitations.
The may nots only get irritatingly in the way.
So yes, while I am bound here, used as a bargaining coin to force my father to bend his morals to the fickle wishes of a mad-man (mad-snake-man?) and company, I will find my cans. Cans are everywhere if you pay attention.
xoXOXox
One facet of this unfortunate arrangement I hadn't fully considered was the lack of my personal privacy that will be suddenly thrust upon me.
Being that my parents saw it fit to produce no siblings, (since I am practising honesty for my role as hostage keeper, I shall admit in the confines of my mind that one Malfoy scion should have been plenty to appease the pair of them) I have always slept alone in my quarters.
Of course, I roomed with six boys during school for several years, how different could it be to take housing with a female?
Which reminds me, I must ask my mother's advice. I cast a muffliato.
"Mother, what shall I do when she takes ablutions?" I gesture to my charge. "Godfather requires I constantly observe her. How shall I sleep?"
"For sleeping," she replies, in her elegant matter-of-fact tone "I've seen to it that your bed is warded specifically."
She floats a feathered quill close to the canopy surrounding the posters. It catches flame and turns to ash in an instant. Brilliant.
"If she has the audacity to attempt to harm you." Mother reaffirms. "Once you fall asleep, an identical ward shall lock around her, so she cannot escape."
Why didn't the gods-damned guards think of that? My ire is palpable. My mother takes note. She knows this development could have avoided the whole situation! If Mother didn't mention it, I infer I should not either. I remain silent.
"For bathing and such," she continues, ignoring my festering anger "surely it would raise questions. Summon me daily. I'll make myself available to be with her and provide an explanation for you to Severus. There's been a bit of a learning curve during this particular instance of negotiation on his part."
My mother's eyes widen a bit to imply there is more to this story she is not telling. The Dark Lord has us afraid to even mutter our truth underneath the protection of a silencing charm. The situation is abhorrent, but we communicate what we can when we have the opportunity nonetheless.
"Thank you, Mother." I say with every drop of conviction I have left in my bones. I throw my arms around her tiny shoulders.
'I couldn't do this without you.' remains unspoken, but understood between us.
"You're always welcome, dear." she holds me tightly.
'I'll be with you until my dying breath.' her embrace implies.
"I love you, Mother." I tell her softly.
'Please be alive come December. Please stay with me.' is ingrained in every sound.
"I love you too, Draco. More than all the stars in all the skies." She repeats the soothing consolation from my childhood.
'I'll never forgive myself for letting your father do this to us. I can never be sorry enough.' is what she means by it.
I squeeze my mother one last time, breathing in her rose perfume, taking in the shine of her hair. Every time I see her I recapture her features in the trenches of my memory. I want them to be strong should she perish abruptly.
She turns to part, acknowledging the girl with a wave. Lovegood nods in return.
As the door shuts and the wards seal closed, we embark into the unknown to settle into our confines together.
xoXOXox
Draco calls his room his "quarters". How sophisticatedly Pureblood of him.
It's certainly much nicer than the dungeons or drawing-room.
He has a large four-poster bed with shiny deep-blue curtains drawn around it. The wards apparently incinerate anything that comes near to it. Makes me wonder if the shiny curtains might be flammable, and if I should mention it.
There's a large writing desk with implements in a corner. There doesn't appear to be anything sharp there, but I would assume there has to be some tool to break open scrolls with. I wonder if the drawers are locked.
The floors are dark wood, and a massive window takes up an entire wall leading to the balcony. The view is beautiful, overlooking the well-kept grounds.
It's not as beautiful as the view from my room at home.
I wonder how dad is doing with the new orders? I trust him to do what he should, whatever that may be. In the meantime, I know he will trust me to do what I should as well. Which I will, of course.
Back to the room -
It's incredibly quiet, save for Malfoy pacing about and moving things around. His wardrobe is left open, and I'm thoroughly impressed with how everything is neat, not tousled about as I would assume of a boy. House-elves, I suppose.
This kid needs some colour in his life. He owns way too many black things. If I had my wand, he would own far more yellow and green. I think they would suit him better.
Narcissa wasn't playing around when she constructed the wards. There are no sizeable gaps, no loose threading between them. She must really want Draco to stay in here. Well, me too I suppose, but I was definitely an afterthought.
She told me that when Draco sleeps, I'll be locked into a ward wherever I happen to be. I asked her if I would be bound like I was in the dungeons, and the face she made was priceless.
She scrunched her little nose up and said "Good Circe, of course not!" as if that was something I should have assumed. It's very entertaining to see a woman of her stature curse. I like her.
She said I'll have space within the ward to roll around in, which is good, because my body will make me sleep eventually, and I tend to sleep quite rough when exhausted.
Speaking of sleep, Draco has called one of his elves to bring me a bed. This is an interesting development. She comes back with a team of elves to set a giant mattress into a huge frame. I sincerely hope the wards are that large, or I might burn to death. Not quite the end I have in mind for myself.
I chance Draco's reaction to grab a quill and parchment from his desk and scribble "thank you" to the team of elves before they can apparate off. Manners go a long way in life, and I truly am grateful. The head elf, Mimsy, looks confused. Perhaps she can't read. I tried.
Draco looks confused as well, but I know he can read. He made some of the highest marks in his year. Oh! I know what it is.
"Thank you as well." I tell him.
I really wasn't expecting such hospitality after having been stuffed in a damp cell with dirty-aura types keeping me in chains. I suppose being leverage and useful and such has its perks. I shall endeavour not to take them for granted.
He rolls his eyes at me and slumps down on a settee by the window.
"Let's talk about this needle of yours, Lovegood."
xoXOXox
I regret to admit the girl has piqued my interest. Her modus operandi appears to be one of usefulness and acquiescence, so I shall respond to her in kind. If questioned, it will sound brilliant of me that I have created rapport with the hostage. Perhaps a slap on the back from Godfather will get them to leave me in peace for a time.
Truthfully, all I want at this moment is for my magic-forsaken hand to work properly.
...and perhaps I don't enjoy torture and needless unpleasantries.
More to come on that bit.
At present, she sits on my lounge chair, appearing for all intents comfortable and at ease. She seems to have taken spectacularly well to our new living arrangements. Annoyingly so. She pulls out the sheet of parchment and quill she has brazenly stolen from my desk, returns to said desk, and begins illustrating. This witch will drive me mad yet; I know it. As fervently as I pride myself on my intelligence and wit, I'm beginning to consider whether madness may suit me even better.
'Oh, that's just Malfoy. Do excuse him. One too many drops from the broom, if you will.'
Sounds like freedom if you ask me.
Her artistry is mesmerizing to watch. She gets entranced, explaining to me what each piece of the contraption does as she draws them, along with how they work together and how they can solve my problem.
This is why Ravenclaws and Slytherins get on with each other. Even during manipulation, they can't help but be incredibly explanatory. Utility is in their makeup, as much as cunning is in ours. They can't stand the illogicality that flows freely in our world and thus must correct it.
She fashions a slim little tube - metallic it seems from shading - with a point and a few drops dripping from the end. Attached to the top is a cylinder of some sort, and a… little round table of sorts stoppered in it. Fascinating.
She is still explaining.
"...this is the plunger, and it will create a vacuum when you pull it upwards. It's incredibly strange for the picture to not be moving, so a bit of imagination is necessarily involved," she rambles "but this will allow you to get the exact amount of blood you need for the wards and no more. All with a much smaller wound."
She puts down the parchment and looks at me. I tighten the edges of my Occlumency shields as she speaks.
"What do you think?"
"Seems plausible. Easy enough to transfigure." I drawl with much less awe than I am currently feeling.
A masterful artist has effectively solved a half-year long problem with an illustration of genius. I'm entitled to my dumbfoundedness at this development, which leads me to ask,
"Did you create this?"
xoXOXox
My drawing is pretty dull. It's so strange not having the tools at my disposal to animate it. I suppose it does look like a syringe, and I am trying to explain it in detail so he will get the premise. There really is no need for him to keep slicing himself like deli meat every time he goes to hide in his room.
"Did you create this?" he asks.
"Oh, no. I respond "It's a mug-" I stop mid-statement.
Circe. What have I said?
I smile because I can't help but be amused by my own stupidity when I put myself in danger. An idiotic tactic, but I can't help it. It's the way my mind works.
"No." I correct myself. "No, I did not create the original idea."
xoXOXox
She is smiling. Smiling. The cat who caught the cream, as it were.
"Lovegood," I imitate Father's scolding voice to the best of my ability. It's a mockery of the original, but I continue. "if this is a muggle artefact, that is pertinent information. I could be killed if I'm found using it, which means I won't be here to guard you." I sit as straight as my battered back will carry me, looking down my nose at her. It feels wrong, but I truly need her to understand the seriousness of what I am imparting. "I trust you understand the implications."
She nods.
"We could illusion it, then." she states. "It wouldn't be out of the realm of plausibility to think the Malfoy's have spells they don't share, would it?"
"No, of course not." I reply. "That just might work Lovegood."
"Good." she says, tangibly relieved. "If it's all the same to you, I'll give you instructions for the dimensions, and you can do the wand work. You'll need a piece of your hair to start."
xoXOXox
We work for hours getting the machinery just right. I transfigure my hair into the pointy bit and an empty inkwell into the cylinder. Then the table-stopper bit, the "plunger" I believe she called it, gets created from a broken candlestick.
When it's time to test, the creation works splendidly. It still hurts, but much less than the blade. A world and a half less than the blade. It's more like an insect bite. I'm thoroughly impressed.
"Lovegood, this is phenomenal." I tell her sincerely.
"Your blood shouldn't be that dark, or that thick, Malfoy." she responds. "I could give you a thorough explanation of why if you would like. I'm pretty good with healing spells. Maybe we could fix that too." she offers.
See what I mean? Ravenclaws.
We just "fixed" an inconvenience in my life. Let us conquer the world now, shall we?
No, we shan't. I'm thoroughly exhausted, and now, I will partake in my evening ritual.
It occurs to me that Lovegood has indeed been of significant assistance to me today, woeful as the circumstances surrounding said day have been. Perhaps she deserves a reward to ensure her loyalty?
I dip down to the compartment below my desk, careful to remain with my side turned to her, so I can clearly see her out of my periphery. One can never be too diligent to ensure one's back is not turned to a captive.
I pull out my tray of deviancy, my delightful assortment of concoctions to whisk me away into my dreams for a while.
"Lovegood, tell me," I ask, purposely draining all the malice from my intonation "do you fancy potions?"
xoXOXox