Always Home: Alone In Your Mind
Both Malfoys were silent as they sat across from each other. House elves carried food in, carried picked-at courses out, bustling with the quiet efficiency that such creatures possessed. Not a word was spoken.
And then there was a choking, gasping sound, as Lucius Malfoy grabbed a retreating house elf by the back of his soiled pillowcase. "You. Tippy."
The elf let out a squeak, turning slowly to face his captor. "Yes, Master?"
"You want to escape us, Tippy." This statement was made in a simple, matter-of-fact tone that sent a shudder of fear through the hapless creature. "You know that even being paid to work would be better than serving the Malfoys, do you not?"
"N-no, Master, Tippy is only wanting to serve you!" the elf shrieked, his huge, blue eyes growing rounder with fear.
"But you remember why you work for us, do you not?" The knell of that last word, almost a tolling sound, drove the elf to his knees. "You remember that we saved you from the Dark Lord, do you not?!"
"Yes, yes sir, Master, Tippy remembers, Master!" Tippy's sobs echoed through the dining hall. Another house elf—Minby—took away Draco's plate.
"And you remember what it was like under Voldemort?" The four elves in the room flinched in unison at the name. Tears were running down Tippy's face now, but his voice was more composed than it had ever been.
"Yes, sir. Tippy remembers." A resigned sentence. "Tippy remembers."
Lucius put the elf down. "Good. Don't think of escape. Whatever befalls you in here, it will always, always be worse out there." He adjusted the rumpled pillowcase that his servant wore, offered a morsel of meat from his plate. "Here, Tippy. Why don't you take the night off?" Lucius' smile was kind, fatherly. Tippy looked up at him in awe, bowed quickly, and edged out of the room.
Draco took a sip of water from his goblet. "Father, why did you do that?" he asked.
Lucius flashed the same smile on Draco that he had turned toward Tippy. "I thought he deserved some recompense for being shaken up like that."
Draco stared for a moment, and then engrossed himself in his food. Better not to ask. Better not to wonder.
Mother didn't worry about family pride, or killing, or Muggles. Mother was a woman who abhorred other people. She couldn't stand crowds or social events. Sometimes, Narcissa Malfoy locked herself in her room to keep her family away. Even house elves could seem too close, too personal.
Draco often wondered if his mother had ever stayed long in Saint Mungo's.
But Narcissa never asked questions. She hid from other people, spending most to all of her time reading. The library had been exhausted in a matter of weeks. And still Narcissa read and reread her precious books.
When Narcissa wasn't reading, she daydreamed. Draco had learned not to touch his mother when she got that preoccupied look on her face; she had once screamed and spun on him like a beast.
Narcissa heard her son walk up to his room, though his footfalls might have been silent. She called a greeting and good night from behind the locked library door. Draco replied in kind, and then went to his room.
Draco ran his fingers over the brand in his forearm. Even now, it still stung. Burned. The ember ache was duller, now, but the pain was very much alive. Perhaps it would never die. Did his father's brand still throb, even after so many years with it? Was it something that had to be lived with? Would it ever die away?
As midnight hunched over the dark, brooding moors, a pale boy woke with a jolt. It burned! Oh, God, it burned! He almost screamed, but if he started screaming now he'd never be able to stop…Draco remembered what the pain in his arm signified. He was being summoned to his new lord. But he didn't have an Apparation license! How would he reach Voldemort without splinching himself?
Would he prefer to be splinched, or to feel this pain until it killed him?
The darkness enfolded him, and a screech echoed across the moor.