Better Be Slytherin
XIV
Lucius' Bad Day
"Lucius and the others, they… They faced a bit of resistance last night, the Order among others, and Draco, I did not wish to tell you this..."
He did not often see Snape with a worried frown nor hear him speak as hesitantly. And Draco knew what he would say before he heard it.
"Lucius, as well as a few others, have been sent to Azkaban. I just heard. I understand if this is much to take in at the moment..."
Draco simply stared at him, at loss for words. He felt his entire body go warmer, his palms sweating, his heart beating fast. His mind was raking. His dad had been sent to Azkaban, he would gradually go mental, by what Draco had heard of the prison. He would officially be a Death Eater – everyone would know. They would all judge. They would look at Draco fear-struck, and see his father. His mother would not be able to cope with this. He did not know what to do. He did not see anything. He did not hear Snape's voice. He did not know what had happened, but that did not matter. His father was being sent to prison, like some common thief, and he knew why. It was all so clear now.
Harry Potter.
"...most unfortunate, but, Draco, listen to me. This will all work out. It will clear out. He has not had his trial yet–"
He interrupted his Potions teacher by turning around and walking off. Snape did not try to stop him.
He made his way to the common room, hastily, jaw clenched and unable to think clearly. He pushed his way through the common room and did not hear nor reply to greetings from team-mates. Well inside the luckily empty dormitory – Crabbe and Goyle were probably getting the same news from Snape at the moment; Zabini was off doing Merlin-knows-what as per usual, and Nott was probably having a similar episode to Draco somewhere else in the castle.
He did not know how much time passed, as he sat there on his bed, not hearing a sound. It could have been an hour, two hours, he did not know. He stared at Goyle's trunk, just stared. Everything would be so different now. He was not only worried for his father; he was worried for his mother and himself as well. His father had always protected them, what would happen now that he was gone? He would have to replace him as lord of the house, his mother would be devastated, and he didn't know if he could handle it. He wished time would pause for a while so he didn't have to take the train home for summer holidays. It would all be much easier if he just stayed in school, his only bothers would be school work and prefect duties – he had a gnawing feeling all that would change as soon as he came home to the manor.
An image of cloaked figures sucking parts of his fathers' soul out of him in Azkaban hastily went through his mind, and he shuddered. They would not just toss him in there, they couldn't!
He wondered what had happened at the Ministry last night, he had read about it in the Prophet – Fudge finally outing the news he'd already known through his father for a year, that the Dark Lord was back. Draco had known that for a year, naturally. But he did not know what had happened, why his father and the Death Eaters had been there. He wondered what would happen now; would his father get a trial in front of the Wizengamot? The shame. Would he have to witness their looks at him, like he was a filthy common thief. He angrily wiped his sleeve over his face and eyes.
It was so unfair. And he would show them all. He would set their honour straight. He would not let his family's reputation rot away behind bars along with his father.
An hour or so later, Theodore Nott finally appeared. Draco's eyes flew to the door when it opened and revealed the scrawny boy as he entered the dormitory. They locked glances for a second.
"I suppose you've heard?" Draco asked.
Theodore sent him a dark glance that answered his question very well.
Draco nodded, clenching his teeth.
"Where've you been?" Draco then asked his classmate, who had turned his back to him, moving towards his bed. Theodore didn't answer.
Draco supposed he was angry, and didn't give it a second thought. "The bloody git. Potter that is. Always sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong! How'd you reckon he'd take it if we sent one of his parents to that godforsaken place? Right, he doesn't have any so he thinks he can just go round doing whatever he likes, is that it?"
Theodore finally answered, having lain down on his bed. "Don't think that's why he did it, really," he commented shortly. Draco was frowning at him from the other side of the dormitory.
"You're actually defending him, are you?" he spat. Theodore rolled his eyes. They were silent for a while. Draco hated how Theodore made him feel. Unsuperior. He was the only one who was able to do that. If it were anyone else, he would not keep talking to them if they clearly ignored him or answered him shortly, but for some reason, he would with Theodore. He didn't like himself for it, but he couldn't stop it.
"Do you know what happened last night?" he asked.
"I know as much as you, I would suppose."
Draco clenched his jaw. Ruddy Theodore Nott. "You don't have to be so bloody rude about it."
"Draco, shut up, will you."
Draco looked up, shocked. Theodore had snapped at him and the look he sent him was dark and sent an uncomfortable feeling through him. He had never been spoken to in that way, especially not from a fellow Slytherin.
"At least your daddy can buy his way out," Theodore continued hastily, not able to conceal his anger, Draco felt it radiating out of Theodore's face towards him.
He looked back at Theodore, mouth slightly open, speechless. He swallowed and Theodore finally averted his murderous eyes and lay down on his bed. Draco kept looking at him, realising it was probably the first time in his life he was speechless after someone countered him.
Theodore finally snapped his bed curtains shut.
For the first time, Draco realised, there might be someone else who had it worse than him. He rolled over and tried to go to sleep even though it was only around nine and none of the others had come up to the dormitory yet. He did not want to look at Theodore more at all; it made him feel very uncomfortable. Best to turn his back.
The next day was sunny and warm as ever; Draco felt like the weather was messing with him. As soon as they woke up after a night of very bad sleep, he Crabbe and Goyle left the dormitory. Draco did not want to be near Theodore Nott after last night's conversation (luckily, he was still asleep when they left). Although, he did not have an appetite, they went for the Great Hall – he would show his face around the castle, he would show them that he was not scared and that they would not get to him that easily. And he hoped to run into Potter. He thought that an encounter with his enemy would probably be the only thing that could get him to stop shaking from anger. And soon enough, as he, Crabbe and Goyle came up into the large Entrance Hall from the Slytherin common room, he spotted Potter at the end of the head staircase, heading the same way as them. His jaw clenched. The spectacled git made his blood boil. He was alone.
Draco stopped dead, so did Potter. Their eyes locked. Potter looked defiant. All they could hear was the sounds from outside, laughing and talking; the Hall was empty expect for the four of them. Draco cast a glance around him, looking for teachers, and then he spoke in a low voice, giving Potter a murderous glance, "You're a dead man, Potter."
Potter raised his eyebrows and replied, cocky as ever: "Funny. You'd think I'd have stopped walking around..."
The comment made Draco's mouth twitch. He was furious. Potter knew how to push his buttons, and that was one of the few reasons he hated him. "You're going to pay. I'm going to make you pay for what you've done to my father..." He tried to muster as much threat as possible into his tone.
"Well, I'm terrified now," said Potter sarcastically. "I s'pose Lord Voldemort's just a warm-up act compared to you three..." Draco reacted hastily to the name, and he noticed his two friends doing the same by his sides. " – what's the matter?" continued Potter. "He's a mate of your dad, isn't he? Not scared of him, are you?"
Who Draco's father was friends with had absolutely nothing to do with Potter, and the self-righteous bastard should respect them all more than to dare ask things like that, Draco reckoned. "You think you're such a big man, Potter," he snarled. "You wait. I'll have you. You can't land my father in prison—"
"I thought I just had," said Potter coolly. Draco snorted.
"The Dementors have left Azkaban. Dad and the others'll be out in no time..."
"Yeah, I expect they will. Still, at least everyone knows what scumbags they are now—"
Reaching his limit, Draco went for his wand quick as a wind, ready to curse Potter into oblivion, seeing the latter to the same, when professor Snape's voice was heard, echoing through the Entrance Hall. Draco noticed Potter's features immediately growing angrier. "What are you doing, Potter?" said Snape coolly as he came up to the four of them.
"Trying to decide what curse to use on Malfoy, sir," said Potter heatedly.
"Put that away. Ten points from Gryff—"
He was interrupted by Minerva McGonagall, and Draco felt it was time to evacuate. She ordered Crabbe and Goyle to carry her bag up to her office, while dismissing Potter and himself to go outside. Draco scowled and simply turned his back.
He did not enjoy having to walk out of the castle by himself. There were a lot of students outside because of the unusual, nice weather. He felt uncountable scowls and glances, and he heard them whisper. Clenching his jaw, thinking of Potter, he walked down the hill towards the Quidditch pitch, thinking he might as well go for a fly, clear his thoughts, when he heard a voice calling out his name behind him. He turned, irritated – what was it this time? – and came face to face with Pansy.
"What do you want?" he muttered. They hadn't spoken in more than a month, so why had she chosen to bother him now?
She rolled her eyes. "Always so charming," she commented, smiling crookedly with one of the corners of her mouth and sending him a look. He rolled his eyes and turned to continue down the hill towards the pitch. She hurried to go along. When she was next to him, she chose to speak: "You all right?"
He snorted, not looking at him. "'Course I'm not fucking all right," he snapped. She was so bloody stupid.
"Do you want a Liquorice Wand?"
He turned to her, frowning surprised. "What?" he said, taken aback and forgetting to be irritated.
She gave a slight smirk, reaching inside her robe. She held out her hand, giving him one, and started biting on one herself.
"Thanks," he muttered and they kept going down to the pitch, chewing on their Liquorice Wands.
She kept talking to him about casual things, about how annoyed she was with Greengrass at the moment, about how bothered she was that Dumbledore was back as Headmaster, joking and giggling as they made their way into the boys changing rooms, into the broom cupboard. He fetched his broom and she finally started to wear him down as they came out to the large, green pitch. The stands were completely deserted and the sun was shining down at them, almost blinding him. She told him about how that night a couple of nights earlier, the night it had all happened, when Potter and Granger had led their professor Umbridge out into the Forbidden Forest, there really had not been a weapon at all.
"And apparently, or so I've heard, she was attacked by a fat load of Centaurs - and, listen to this, that oaf Hagrid's brother, a big old troll. In the Forest! Apparently he's been hiding him in there all year, can you believe that! Anyway, I wonder how Potter and the lot managed to escape – beats me. Filthy half-breed, that Hagrid."
She actually managed to produce a small grin from him, however reluctant it was. Seeing this, Pansy giggled. He still hadn't said one word to her, but he was glad she tried keeping his mind off everything, not that he thought she did it knowingly.
"Well, you're dad's behind bars," she said boldly, finally addressing the subject, "and that's... I'm sorry... and everything."
Draco gave out a single humourless laugh, and speaking for the first time, he said: "Yeah. Great."
"But you know, he's not even had the trial yet, has he?" she went on, her tone still light. "Your parents'll sort it out in no time, I'm sure."
He looked away. He wasn't as assured.
"Do you want to come up to the dorms and share a bit of Ogden's finest?" Pansy smirked then. She started giggling. "I promise I won't pour it all over you like last time!"
It actually made him laugh and he agreed, forgetting all about his broom.
Not only was he so full of rage, anger and wrath – he had never felt anything similar in all of his life. It was bubbling inside him, wishing to get out but unable to. He had never been one to have to handle anger in any way – especially not physically, but Theodore longed for nothing than to, not using his wand, punch and punch until he felt blood on his hands. It did not matter who. Anyone would do.
He was not accustomed to all this wrath. He was usually calm, radical, logical, clever. Now all of that had gone out the window and been replaced by something impulse-driven and aggressive.
Theodore was ashamed of his classmates – and they were supposed to be Slytherins? Slytherins were supposed to be clever – but he had been surrounded with hysterical Malfoy, incredibly dull Crabbe and Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson and the likes for five years now. Theodore was ashamed.
He would show them all one day, how you were a proper Slytherin.
He would show the world that he was not just another dim Slytherin – he was the real one, the only proper one left. And they could do whatever they liked to him – throw his father in Azkaban, take away whatever friends he had – it would only make him stronger.
The Great Hall was buzzing with the sounds of the students around him chatting on about meaningless things. He sat in the midst of it all, silent, staring at his goblet of pumpkin juice with hate. Nobody noticed him.
However much he detested Malfoy at the moment – it would all sort itself out easily for Draco wouldn't it, not for Theodore – he came to his senses just a little bit. They had become better – in lack of other words – friends during this year. Even though they had known each other practically all their lives, it was not until now that Theodore had actually found something interesting about Malfoy and found it all right to spend time with him. In fact, while Malfoy had been prancing around with his Inquisitorial Squad all year, Theodore had stayed in his armchair with his books, observing. He had not had any reason to get involved with Malfoy before – but now they had something in common. Harry Potter – and revenge. He wondered what he had ever done to Harry Potter and how the latter found it so easy to ruin a fellow student's childhood and take his only parent away from him. Perhaps he wanted everyone to be orphans, because he himself was – well, he managed that, didn't he, Theodore would be an orphan if the trial went according to Mr Potter's expectations and hopes.
Perhaps next time he saw him, Theodore should ease up a little on Malfoy, even if he was a stuck-up prat.
During the following few days, the last days of the summer term, he managed to calm himself down, and he and Malfoy imagined they became better friends – there was a slight solidarity between the Slytherin boys – himself, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle, something Blaise could not understand, because all of their father's had been imprisoned and Blaise did not even have one so he could not know how it felt. Theodore was, therefore, inclined to spend more time with the trio.
And along with that came Pansy Parkinson. He somehow got used to her though. In a way, he wanted her to like him even if he had never liked her. He found it odd. One time in the common room, they spoke fleetingly, and when she grinned, she suddenly did not seem as mean and frightening anymore, and he tried grinning back, and it actually did feel all right.
The days went past in a blur. Not only was he angry, he was – and he for once admitted it – afraid as well. What would happen to his father? Would he really be thrown in Azkaban? They had never had the closest relationship, but he was Theodore's father, and the only parent he had. They had always been distant – his father had always been a bit too old to have anything to relate to Theodore, and Theodore felt the same. His father was stern, they often ate in silence, and Theodore had often got the feeling that the blame of his mother's death was being put on him – he did not know why – but after her death, the two of them had drifted further apart inside their gloomy house. He had often, hiding behind the doorway and peeking out, found his father by the old chest of drawers in his bedroom, pulling out one of them, and with shaking hands taken out a piece of fabric, carefully bringing it up to his face and inhaling it, eyes closed. It had always made Theodore sad and uneasy.
His logical, radical thinking had now come back after a few days had passed, and he almost cursed himself for it. This would mean he would have to face the real consequences of his father's imprisonment – it wasn't really Harry Potter's fault; Malfoy was still a twat; and Theodore would be forced to live alone, at fifteen, probably.
"In this time, in these circumstances, it is of utmost importance that we stay together. Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and Slytherins. We're all Hogwartians."
The Great Hall was filled to the rim with students and teachers – not one person missed this meal. The sky above was scattered with stars, and they along with the ghostly-gray moon and the glimmering of the torches lining the walls, were the only light-sources in the massive room. Every single face was directed at the Head table were Dumbledore stood.
He had just informed them all of the events of the previous evening. That the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord had made an appearance at the Ministry of Magic. The Minister had apparently even confirmed it. The speech about maintaining a strong solidarity to fight the "evil powers" was in Blaise Zabini's opinion, propagandist.
However, what not many people noticed, was Theodore Nott, shaking with anger in his seat. But suddenly, Blaise's head yanked in his direction, because he noticed movement in the corner of his eye. A gasp went through the hall when suddenly, breaking the intense focus on their Headmaster, a bench was pushed out and someone rose from one of the long tables.
In a second, everyone was looking towards the Slytherin table, and Dumbledore trailed off.
Theodore Nott had risen to his feet and started walking down the row between Slytherin and Ravenclaw table. He was moving towards the exit, towards the big wooden doors leading out to the entrance hall.
He was walking lightly and confidently, head held high, shoulders back and eyes staring coolly in front of him. He passed Malfoy who turned to follow him with his eyes. As did the rest of the Great Hall, in dead silence.
The only sound was the slight clipping of Theodore's heels on the stone floor. He finally reached the big oak doors and he pushed them open with both hands, and simply walked out, the sound of the large doors closing behind him echoing through the room.
Everyone was completely stiffened, and slowly turned to each other, and then a low murmur of whispering started spreading.
"What the bloody hell does he think he's doing?" Pansy who seemed to be the first one to speak out loud, hissed to the nearest part of the Slytherin table, as the other Houses mumbled within each other and glanced uncomfortably at the Head Table where all the teachers looked just as reckoned Pansy basically summed up what everyone was thinking in that comment.
Dumbledore was still standing with his mouth open, but he was frowning, and Blaise did not know whether it was out of anger or… worry. He would've guessed the second alternative.
He looked around at the empty, abandoned, silent room around him. It was nothing special, and yet he could never have pictured it like this. The house had been unimaginable until he actually arrived. The wooden floorboards creaked underneath his shoes as he slowly stepped inside. It was completely hollow. Dust circling the air, lit up by the slight light of the window, and a thin, frail metal bed with faded light pink blankets.
Theodore dumped his trunk on the floor by the bed.
So this was his new home. At least for now. The ministry had set up a temporary accommodation for him with a kind enough family that would take on a Death Eater's son. He snorted at the thought that the Willoughby's probably were feeling very noble for doing it. He did not need their charity. When he had burst out of the Great Hall just days earlier, the first thing he had done had been to march down to the dungeons, spit the password at the entrance to the Slytherin common room, practically run down the stairs to the boys' dormitory, adrenalin pumping through his veins, slammed his belongings into his trunk and grabbed his toad, Margaret, from the bedside table hastily and decided – he was really leaving. It was not a big deal, because the other students would take the train home within days anyway, but he could not stand to stay another day in that prejudiced pit of judging faces.
The common room still empty, he had hurried back, taken the secret passage-way behind the painting of Gregory the Smarmy and found himself in Hogsmeade. From there it was easy to summon the Knight Bus, pay the conductor, and wait his turn to finally jump off at the end of his muddy lane in Norfolk, to find his childhood home somewhere straight ahead in the foggy night-air. As the Knight Bus up and left with a roar of light and sound, he glanced around. Now all was silent again. One lantern was lit outside the house before him. No other lights were lit anyway in the close area; after all he lived in the country-side. For the first time, it felt spooky coming home. The sheep was outside in the meadow below, nobody had been there to take them in at night-time. The grass leading up to the house was longer than usually.
Theodore knew that all that awaited him inside was a cold, empty house, with a distinct smell of old groceries coming from their pantry; his father's gaping bedroom with the dresser full of his dead mother's old clothes; a pile of Daily Prophet's on the door-mat, with headlines of The Dark Lord being back and which Death Eaters who had been taken capture at the Ministry of Magic...
Five metres before the house, he stopped, his trunk at his side, flipped over and began vomiting.
That night had been sleepless. He had lain on his back on the gangly old bed in his room, which did not feel like his room anymore, and looked out the window. His only company had been Margaret, who mostly sat on the window pane, or else had a jump around the room. He was grateful for her company and did not undervalue it. He probably would have gone mad without her there, staring at the meadow outside and the sun rising in the distance, filling the sky with light orange and pink streams, as his eyes grew dry and tired. As dawn and morning came, he had not slept one minute – he had been afraid of having nightmares about Dementors and his father – although they could not get much worse than the waken nightmares he had constantly. Yet, he dared not sleep. Neither did he throw away rotten bread or root crops, or toss the newspapers by the door.
He did however feed his rabbit, Walter, who had his cage out in the grass behind the house. And then the door-bell had rung.
That was how he had ended up here. One parent dead, the other recently incarcerated, apparently that was when you could not live alone. Damn the Ministry, he thought bitterly, his jaw clenching. Yes, it had been no joy coming home but to live here – among Bloodtraitors who thought they were doing him a favour. He felt as imprisoned as his father.
Apparently, Blaise Zabini and his mother had attempted to let him stay with them in London, but Mrs Zabini had obviously not been the best candidate as the Ministry kept a close tab on her and her several husbands who always died suspiciously. They did not find her suitable.
Not that he would have wanted to stay there either – he did not want to be anyone's charity case, let alone his only friend's. He heard the muffled sounds of the Willoughby's voices from downstairs. He wondered what they were saying. The two children probably did not know, but the Mr and Mrs was sure to have read the Prophet about the Dark Lord returning and the Death Eaters incarcerated. He wondered if they felt a slight paranoia having a Death Eater's son in their house, or if they were of that naive sort who reckoned they could "save" him. He could not deny it feeling nice to receive a warm meal of pie and mash on his arrival, followed by a cup of tea. Some of his bodily warmth had returned, which he had thought he lost when he heard his father was being sent to Azkaban. But still, a meal and a good night's sleep would be all. Tomorrow he would work on a plan of getting to move back home, but first he tumbled into a world of dreams as soon as he lay his head on the cold pillow.
When they had arrived to London by the Hogwarts Express, Pansy had been forced to tell Mrs Malfoy and Mrs Crabbe that their sons were lying inside next to several trunks up on the luggage rack, enchanted to look like snails. Draco could guess the look on his mother's face when Pansy delivered the news. And very correctly, when Mrs Malfoy angrily had finished their enchantments off and they had climbed down the rack, she immediately dragged him out of there and demanded their house-elf Binky to bring his trunk.
Draco hastily said his goodbyes to Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy, and then they made their way out from the train station, his mother furious and anxious, bashing Harry Potter to no end for both sending her beloved Lucius to prison and then personally humiliating and possibly physically harming Draco! As if Draco needed any more.
Draco just agreed.
They hurried to a safe spot, him, his mother and their house-elf levitating his trunk along, and from there Disapparated from London to turn up on a broad lane in Wiltshire. They turned right, into a wide driveway that led off the lane. The high hedge curved with them, running off into the distance beyond the pair of large wrought-iron gates. Draco felt a warm, comfortable feeling of being home, before he realised it was not as much home as it usually was, without his father there.
"It's preposturous, is what it is! That Potter boy needs to learn some sense. What place does he think he has, accusing Lucius in that way! He's the real reason behind all of this," Narcissa Malfoy went on, as she hurried down the straight drive, towards the large manor house, and Draco hastily following her. They passed the great fountain behind the hedge in the garden and made their way up the grand staircase to the door.
"Come along, Elf!" Narcissa called, without turning. Binky unlocked the door and let Narcissa and Draco pass, before joining them in the hallway with the trunk. The hallway was large, dimly lit, and sumptuously decorated, with a magnificent carpet covering most of the stone floor. The eyes of the pale-faced portraits on the walls followed the two of them as they walked past.
"We should get you some food," Narcissa mumbled as she went into the drawing room, the large sitting room they used the most – with dark purple walls filled with portraits, a large crystal chandelier, a long ornate table and a lovely marble mantelpiece. "Elf!" she called, just as Draco took a seat in an armchair by the fireplace.
"The duck, I think, in Elf-made wine sauce. Thank you." Binky left for the kitchen to prepare the meal.
"I'm not that hungry," Draco mumbled. Narcissa sighed.
"Come here, let me look at you," his mother asked of him. He turned so she could see his face, but that did not satisfy her as she held out her hand for him. He rose and went over to sit on the sofa with her. She stroked his face.
"This mess with your father will be sorted out in no time, I hope," she whispered. For the first time now, when her anger had calmed, he saw the fear and worry in her eyes. It sort of strenghtened him, because it mirrored the same fear he felt. At least it was the two of them, at least he was not all on his own, like Nott.
"Draco, there is something I need to tell you," his mother's soft voice warned. He closed his eyes – his father was in Azkaban, the entire wizarding society would now look at them as if they had the plague – what more was there?
"Yes?"
Narcissa shifted. "You know how we are an old Pureblooded family, of course you do. And by we, I mean my side of the family, not just your father's side."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Of course I know the Black's are an old Pureblooded family, mother. Even the Mudbloods know that."
She ignored him, seeming stressed. He realised she must be under loads of pressure, her husband in prison, worrying about her son, and now this seemingly unspeakable issue. "There is something important I have failed to let you in on. We, as in Lucius and I, did not find it relevant at the time... We decided when you were a baby to not let you in on this information... However, unfortunately it has become less irrelevant..."
He turned to look at her, frown on his face. "What are you—"
A sillouette appeared in the doorway, blocking the light from the hall outside. Draco flinched – he had been certain it had only been him, his mother and the little house-elf in the house, and this sillouette was definitely larger than a house elf's. There stood a tall woman, with large black hair and dark, intense eyes, for some reason, he felt as if the room went chillier. There was something unsettling about the look of her. Before he knew it, she gave a shrill exclaim: "Ickle Draco! Why don't you come give your auntie a cuddle?"
They ate at a long dinner table in the fine-dining room, with family portraits gazing down at them. The duck felt like sandpaper in his mouth, even though it would probably be delicious if the circumstances were different. The shock had started to settle, yet the room was filled with a tensed silence, between the three dinner attendants – himself, his mother and his long-lost aunt. The thought and realisation that this was his mother's sister was difficult to comprehend. Purely looks-wise it was hard to grasp – his mother was fair and blonde, beautiful and balanced. His aunt was dark and wild, and seemed mildly deranged – he supposed the years in Azkaban had taken their toll on her. For about an hour he had had everything explained to him – about Bellatrix Lestrange, a name he had learned when he was little – at the same time he had learned she had been dead, about her loyalty to the Dark Lord and her escape from Azkaban and staying at the manor since January. It ashamed him – knowing his parents had lied to him for so long – he felt almost humiliated, confirming his beliefs that his parents did not confide all in him. How much did he really know about his family when something like this came forth after almost sixteen years of his life? What else did he not know – what more enormous family secrets were there? His thoughts unsettled him quite deeply.
He glanced at the portraits covering the walls, trying to find a resemblance to Bellatrix in his ancestors.
"Lucius hasn't really enjoyed me staying here since January, has he" said Bellatrix, studying her silver fork with a piece of duck on it, "fancy that."
"Why is that?" Draco asked, directing the question more at his mother.
"But he too understood that Cissy's loyalty lay with me, naturally, even though my own nephew had no knowledge of my existence, I am family."
"Naturally," Mrs Malfoy agreed. Cissy? Draco had only ever heard his father call his mother by that nickname. He had a feeling Bellatrix was the one with the power. He had never seen his mother in that position. Narcissa raised a trembling hand for the bottle of red wine and poured herself a large glass. "Bellatrix has been in hiding since the break-out from Azkaban, as you can imagine," his mother said, adressing him.
Draco, who felt cheated, couldn't help but to ask: "Well, why haven't you told me? And what about when I was home for Easter?"
"We could hardly write it in the letters, could we?" snapped Narcissa and nonchalantly took a sip of her wine. "What with the Ministry snooping around. And as for Easter—"
"I was abroad," Bellatrix smirked, her yellow teeth showing and her eyes glimmering. He suspected this meant she did something for the Dark Lord, but he dared not ate in silence for another minute or so, before Draco spoke up.
"When will father have his trial?"
Narcissa, sipping her wine, glanced at her sister for directions. He was reminded of his mother's independence – now that her husband was gone, she was leaning onto another strong figure. Bellatrix snorted.
"It's not of importance. He serves his purpose for the Dark Lord, and the Dark Lord will reward him. There is no need to worry – Lucius will be out when the Dark Lord wants him to. He's just biding his time."
"Well, why don't the Dark Lord bring him out now, then?" Draco asked. "Everyone already knows he's back now, might as well stop hiding and make it very clear."
"You're thinking selfishly, Draco," his aunt claimed. He frowned. Who was she to...? "Lucius is playing his part in the whole, as will you."
He felt as if time paused. What did she mean by that? Did that mean what he thought it did...?
Narcissa shifted uncomfortably. "Don't say that, Bella!" she said, her tone anxious. "I don't want my little boy involved in any of this!"
"Why wouldn't you?" Bellatrix almost spat. Draco just looked from one of them to the other, slightly irritated at being called "little boy".
"I fear the Dark Lord will try to punish Lucius for failing to retrieve that prophecy properly."
"The Dark Lord will surely want to test Draco, yes," his aunt retorted, "but as for punishment – isn't that exactly what Lucius is getting in Azkaban as we speak? The Dark Lord may want to test Draco..."
Draco's head peered up. "Test me? What will he have me do?" He could hardly believe it, did she really think the Dark Lord wanted something with him? He would definitely do whatever he could to help mend their reputation with the Dark Lord, if Lucius had worsened it. He would do anything to help his father. And, naturally, for own glory as well.
Home was different without Lucius, the manor felt empty and abandonded. And it was all Potter's fault. Draco seethed with rage at the mere thought of the boy. He definitely felt ready to join the Dark Lord – excited to do it even. The shock of finding out he had an aunt – his mother had always said she had died in the first war – made him feel distanced from his mother. How could she lie to him so easily, for so long? And why should he be truthful to her then? A sense of irritation bubbled up at the thought of his mother. A closeness to his father flowered instead, and a willingness to be nearer him, albeit, he realised, perhaps a naive one.
That night he felt unsettled sleeping in his own bed, he had felt safer at Hogwarts the night before, he reluctantly admited to himself. He supposed the Ministry would start searching their house again – they had before for only a false accusation towards his father, and now they had even more reason to: Lucius had been caught at the scene of the crime, as a Death Eater for the Dark Lord. Draco had no choice but to hope the Dark Lord took over wizarding Britain so that his father would be set free from prison.
The next day Bellatrix was gone when he woke up. She arrived later that evening for supper. Draco found himself slightly disliking the whole thing – but he could not show it, obivously he could not disrespect his own aunt who also happened to be a very highly appointed Death Eater. The annoying thing was – where she went, trouble followed. She came over for dinner and swigged down an entire bottle of their finest elf-made wine and loudly trashtalked Lucius at the dinner table. It made Draco's blood boil – how dared they come to Lucius Malfoy's house and talk in that way about him? She also spoke about how she had talked with the Dark Lord and how he was "certainly disappointed" with Lucius, making Narcissa shine with worry. As he glanced at his mother, Draco realised she was even paler than usual, looked very tense and had an even larger glass of wine in front of her than the previous night.
"I don't want you going back to Hogwarts this autumn."
Bellatrix was in the drawing room with a glass of Fire Whiskey, and Binky was balancing plates and crystal wine glasses in high piles in her tiny little arms. It was after dinner, and Draco was just leaving the high ceilinged dining room when his mother's slender fingers grabbed his arm. He turned to look at her, thinking he must have misheard her low whisper.
"What?" Her anxious face told him he had not misheard after all. "Why not?" he asked. She held up her index finger in front of her mouth and nodded towards the drawing room. Draco frowned.
"Think, Draco, the Minister of Magic has declared the Dark Lord back. Yes, we've known about this for a year but the rest of the Wizarding society has not!" she hissed. "And not only that, but on top of that your father has been sent to Azkaban. Just imagine the negative attention you'll receive from your fellow students. I fear for you," the last words she added with a softness.
Draco, who felt a slight irritation with his mother after finding out about the massive secret she had kept from him his entire life, only said shortly: "We'll speak about this later." Just then, Bellatrix called out for them from the drawing room. Draco noticed a hint of hurt on his mother's features before he went ahead of her, and she hastily followed.
Bellatrix had been right. The Dark Lord himself came to the manor that evening. It was the first time Draco had met him in person. He could not deny admitting it – he was intimidating; larger than Draco had expected, and less human-like. He had never seen anything like it. He felt as if the entire room had gone cold when the Dark Lord had arrived. Narcissa hated it, she was dead worried – he could see straight through her, although he did not think any of the others noticed – he knew his mother well; and she did not show it at all, but just simply tried staying out of the way, which he supposed had always been her role when it came to matters concerning the Dark Lord. Lucius had always been the one to handle it – now it was Draco's turn.
"Any Mudbloods in your classes, Draco?" had the low voice of his future master – he supposed – hissed.
Draco basked in the attention he was receiving. However, the question also gave him a slight sense of discomfort, but, alas, he pushed it away.
"Well, sir, there's Dean Thomas... Gryffindor... and that Justin Finch-Fletchley... and Hermione Granger, of course." The last name, he said with a roll of his eyes. Bloody Granger.
"Yes," came the chilly voice of The Dark Lord. "Harry Potter's friend, if I'm not mistaken."
"That's right, sir..."
For a split second he wondered if he had just sold their lives.
It turned out that Bellatrix had been right. The Dark Lord did want to test Draco, now that the senior Malfoy had ended up behind bars. When he heard about his trial assignment, it sent a tingle of excitement down his spine. He would be able to show himself just as his father once had. He would be able to mend the family's reputation, help his father with ranking within the closest circle (obviously he had fallen to bottom of rank now after the fiasco at the Ministry, which the Dark Lord made sure to point out), and he would help his mother from falling from grace – he would pick their entire family up.
"I want to give you a chance to prove yourself, Draco," the snake-like voice hissed, and slightly unsettled Draco. Yet the meanings of his words enthralled him severely.
He moved closer. "Thank you, sir."
"The task I have for you is to help me dispose of one particular enemy..." The room went silent; Draco studied Voldemort, waiting for further instructions, while Narcissa had a difficult time keeping a worried frown off her face from one of the corners of the drawing room, and Bellatrix was occupying one of the armchairs in front of the glimmering fireplace, leaning forward seemingly subconsciously in what seemed to be a longing to be near him, staring at her master in awe. The Dark Lord spoke no further, so Draco decided to naively raise his own voice.
"Sir, do you mean... Harry Potter?"
Voldemort suddenly cried out in wrath, making Draco jump (although hastily composing himself). "No! Potter is merely a boy, he is no threat to me!"
"Yes, of course," Draco said hastily, "forgive me," and he added, for the first time, "my lord."
"Potter," snorted Bellatrix, "is just a minor mistake our master lets exist. He's nothing – and especially not a threat."
"Silence, Bellatrix," Voldemort said, surprisingly softly, as the large snake moved behind him, creating a raspy sound against the cold stone floor.
"I want you to kill Albus Dumbledore."
Later that night, finally in bed, Draco lay silently, his left underarm burning intensely, thinking over the evening's events. His first meeting with the Dark Lord. His branding with the Dark Mark. He was terrified naturally, but he also found it inspiring and he felt important for being assigned a task to perform for the Dark Lord. His task was to kill the headmaster, and bring the other Death Eaters into the castle, and for them all to take over control. And how hard could it be – disposing of Albus Dumbledore? The thought of actually murdering made him nauseous, but perhaps he could find another way, to make it feel less raw. To spare himself the guilt of taking a life. In fact, this was his chance to prove himself. Not only that, it was most importantly, his chance to help his family, in particular his father.
Narcissa had mentioned after dinner that she would prefer not having him returning to school for his sixth year after everything that had happened, but now he had his mission – and they had briefly discussed it after the Dark Lord had left – "how am I supposed to kill Dumbledore from here?" he had told her, when Bellatrix had retired to bed in one of the spacious guestrooms of the manor. And in the dark light of the drawing room he had seen his mother nod, and then he had imagined – or had he? – that tears ran down her face, yet he had not been sure.
He did not realise why she would be crying – if she were. This was the perfect chance to prove himself – to make the Dark Lord proud. He would show them all. And most importantly, he would make them proud. He would not have his father rotting away in jail and his mother crying at his absence.
He would make them proud.
