Chapter 37
Wow, I'm moving again!* bounces * Thanks to everyone for the reviews. . .Ambrosius, Blonde Ditz, Sleepy Tee. . .and those to come, hopefully! Dido seemed appropriate for Draco here. . .
Staring at the same four walls, have you tried to help yourself? The rings around your eyes don't hide that you need to get some rest
~ Slide, Dido. ~
Hate. Oh, and Pity.
What happened to him after Snape had. . .made his announcement. . .Draco could barely remember. He vaguely recollected being hauled out of the room by his mother, and immediately taken home, where he was duly lectured and shouted at. The words had made no impression on him, and nor had his angry mother's face. Somewhere in his mind, he swam in a dream, a lake of jumbled thoughts, trying to comprehend what Snape had said. . ."Draco, you told me you loved me. You told me many times, but I never replied. But that doesn't mean I don't." So that meant he did, surely? Surely. Crack! His mother's hand sliced across his face sharply, leaving a stinging pain. "Draco! Listen to me, you bastard. . ." "Yes mother," he murmured, sitting up in his chair. They were in Lucius's study. Draco's study. She'd hit him? That had never happened before. . .wouldn't have either, if Lucius was still alive. . .his cheek stung. "Seneca's coming round. You are to tell her everything. EVERYTHING," she snapped, and turned, leaving the room, taking her noise and aura with her in a rustle of cobalt silk. In the silence left, Draco stirred himself. Seneca. From all of his mother's friends, hers was the only name that stood out. Seneca. Tall, dark, hypnotic. . . blue eyes, her long raven black hair. . . Draco shivered. Her liquid manner, and her easy liquidation of thoughts. She scared him more than anything he had ever come across. Why did his mother want him to talk to her? he thought dumbly. He didn't need to search for the answer - it was close at hand in his mind. Because she could change his mind. The confusion and emptiness, not to mention the guilt, left him in an onslaught of single emotion. Hatred. Of his mother, of her friends, and of himself. Of the jurors. Of the judge, of Snape for not telling him. . . But no. Not even Snape any more. For him Draco felt no hatred, but burning desire mingled with leaden guilt, weighing him down. He looked again at the portrait that hung on the wall opposite, as he had been doing for the hour or so, mindlessly studying the empty frame. The portrait's occupant had been absent for many years. Apparently, according to the story his father had told him, she had fled on the night of his engagement to Narcissa. . . he had told him this, and they had laughed, joking that it was an omen. Draco sighed. He felt ridiculously old. He stood up at last and moved lethargically to the door and left the room, closing the door firmly but quietly behind him. A face peeped fearfully into the frame of the picture, red eyed and worried.
Out in the hall, Draco walked calmly down towards the living room where he knew his mother would receive Seneca. On a whim, he stooped outside the door, and pricked his ears. Inside, he heard his mother's voice, mid welcome. ". . .I know it's such an inconvenience, Seneca, dear, but you have heard about the boy's outburst at the inquest?" "Yes, of course," answered the honey tone that could only belong to Seneca.
"Nightmare, an absolute nightmare. . .he won't listen to me. I want you to talk to him, and tell him not to think of it. You did the jurors?" There was soft laughter from the other woman. "Of course I did the jurors. There's no way in hell he would have been taken down with the evidence. .. not to mention Dumbledore's interference. I did it well, I'm sure you'll agree." "Yes, wonderfully well. And now I want you to do the same on Draco. I can't have him going around under what ever spell Snape. . .Severus, sorry, put him under. Any idea what it was, by the way?" "I have not, and will not, consider it," Seneca replied, her voice icy. "Of course," Narcissa said, hurrying to make amends. "I just wondered, seeing as your. . . skills. . . are so much more than mine. . ." "Quite. The price for the boy's mind being fixed will be high. I dislike doing this sort of thing on children." The words struck him harder than a curse. He tuned out of the conversation as it turned to money. . four figured amounts of money at that. The mild indignation he felt for her referral to him as a 'child' was drowned out by the deep seated horror of the thought of his mind being 'fixed'. How? Why did she dislike doing it only 'children'? Would it damage him? His mother's train of thought was obviously running along the same lines, as she asked next, "Why do you dislike doing this kind of thing on children, if you don't mind my asking?" Her tone was light, and she ended the question with her high- pitched falsetto laugh. She fooled no-one as to her concern. Seneca's reply was cool and unemotional. "The process is fairly uncomplicated in itself; merely a matter of taking enough blood to leave the subject bordering unconscious, and then implying through words or actions what ever needs to be said or done. Subliminal adjustments take place and the body generates more blood, thus the subject recovers. He or she remembers nothing of it, other than dizziness and perhaps my presence, but nothing more. Unfortunately, with children as young as the boy, the body generates blood much more quickly than it does with adults, therefore allowing them to come out of the semi-dazed state needed much more quickly. Time is essential. When I first started, I did a boy of about Draco's age. He came out of the trance too early and ended up in a state much like the state of a Dementor, the only difference being was that he had a soul, but no mind. Dementors, on the other hand, have minds but no souls. " Draco felt the rising panic inside him and tried his best to concentrate on taking deep, calming breaths, and listening intently to the conversation in hand. His mother must have nodded, as Seneca spoke next. Draco somehow doubted that his mother had actually understood any of Seneca's explanation, but. . . and then, suddenly, Draco's mind crashed. What had she said? What had it been? " . . . merely a matter of taking enough blood to leave the subject bordering unconscious. . ." Taking blood. Blood. Conclusions and accusations leapt into his mind. Seneca was a vampire! He stopped and forced himself not to bolt from the Manor there and then, and make it back up to the school. His heart pounded and his head spun. My gods. . . "Right. I'll get the agreed amount tomorrow from Gringrott's. . .meanwhile, when can you . . . a-ha. . . 'fix' Draco?" "Whenever you like. Preferably after a few days. If you under feed the boy, it makes my life easier." "As you wish. Call in on, say, Thursday, and we'll do it then?" "I will do it then," Seneca corrected coldly. "Yes, that's fine. I will be here for nine-thirty." "Splendid. I say, it is rather late now, isn't it? Would you like a room for the night?" Business completed, Narcissa's hardened tones fell back into their customary affected politeness. "Yes, thank you, I think I will." "Oh good. I'll call a house-elf to arrange it all for you. . ." Draco's eyes widened in horror as he saw the door handle start to turn, and he bolted half way down the hall, to the safety of study. He made it as far as opening the study door, when his mother emerged from the living room. "Draco, where are you going?" she asked sharply. "To the study, mother. I want to take a look at the accounts before I go to bed," he lied. Her face relaxed into a smile "Very well, dear. Just like your father, always on top of things. . ." and with that, disappeared from view round the corner to fetch an elf. Why she didn't just ring the bell, Draco didn't know, Probably that she didn't like Seneca's disturbing company more than anyone else did. He slipped into the safe recess of the study, understanding for the first time, what his father had meant by it being the most useful room in the house. He could make perfectly acceptable excuses to come in here, such as to 'look over the accounts' as Narcissa had as much knowledge of the running of a house as the average clergy man does on running a brothel. Not much. Hers was not a mathematical mind.
He sank back into the leather chair behind the desk in relief. He pulled the accounts book out for show, and left it open on the desk. His eyes returned to their former occupation of staring at the empty portrait frame while his mind wandered to what to do next. He had a vampire in his house, a vampire who his mother was paying good money to brainwash him. He had managed to assure Snape 25 years' imprisonment. He doubted that Dumbledore would help, seeing as it was he who had put him there in the first place. . .wasn't it? Mother had said something about the jurors. . .and Seneca. She had probably paid to have it 'fixed' so that the jury would send Snape down, whatever happened. He sighed.
~ * ~
Hermione crept from her dorm down to the Owlery. She shivered to herself, and reached out to the wall to guide her, her other hand occupied with an envelope adorned with her own rather small handwriting. She shivered again, and slipped into the dark Owlery with its feathery dwellers. She squinted up at the rafters where the owls perched. Only three there. They must be out enjoying the night, she thought. Spotting her, one of the remaining owls, a rather plump brown one which had the distinct look of a chicken about it, glided down to perch near her. Hermione smiled at the owl, relieved. "Thank you," she whispered, tying the letter to the owl's outstretched leg. "I want this to get to Malfoy Manor quickly. . .take it straight to Draco, the boy. Don't let anyone see you!" The owl Looked at her, in as much of a suggestive way as possible with a beak. Hermione scowled. "No, nothing like That!" she hissed. "It's something quite different!" her indignation made no effect on the owl, who merely ruffled her feathers knowingly. Hermione sighed in exasperation. "For heavens sake! Draco Malfoy is the most annoying boy I have ever met! He is arrogant, pigheaded, cold hearted. . ." The owl gave her another Look which seemed to say "Oh, really? And you like that in a man?" Hermione gave in and sighed "I'm only doing this because I feel sorry for him, NOT because I love him! And why I have to explain it to you, I don't know," and turned heel. The owl hooted amusedly, and took off, gliding silently into the still night. Hermione watched her go in relief. Really, she though later in bed, thinking that I had any feelings for Draco Malfoy other than hate. Hate. Oh, and pity.
Wow, I'm moving again!* bounces * Thanks to everyone for the reviews. . .Ambrosius, Blonde Ditz, Sleepy Tee. . .and those to come, hopefully! Dido seemed appropriate for Draco here. . .
Staring at the same four walls, have you tried to help yourself? The rings around your eyes don't hide that you need to get some rest
~ Slide, Dido. ~
Hate. Oh, and Pity.
What happened to him after Snape had. . .made his announcement. . .Draco could barely remember. He vaguely recollected being hauled out of the room by his mother, and immediately taken home, where he was duly lectured and shouted at. The words had made no impression on him, and nor had his angry mother's face. Somewhere in his mind, he swam in a dream, a lake of jumbled thoughts, trying to comprehend what Snape had said. . ."Draco, you told me you loved me. You told me many times, but I never replied. But that doesn't mean I don't." So that meant he did, surely? Surely. Crack! His mother's hand sliced across his face sharply, leaving a stinging pain. "Draco! Listen to me, you bastard. . ." "Yes mother," he murmured, sitting up in his chair. They were in Lucius's study. Draco's study. She'd hit him? That had never happened before. . .wouldn't have either, if Lucius was still alive. . .his cheek stung. "Seneca's coming round. You are to tell her everything. EVERYTHING," she snapped, and turned, leaving the room, taking her noise and aura with her in a rustle of cobalt silk. In the silence left, Draco stirred himself. Seneca. From all of his mother's friends, hers was the only name that stood out. Seneca. Tall, dark, hypnotic. . . blue eyes, her long raven black hair. . . Draco shivered. Her liquid manner, and her easy liquidation of thoughts. She scared him more than anything he had ever come across. Why did his mother want him to talk to her? he thought dumbly. He didn't need to search for the answer - it was close at hand in his mind. Because she could change his mind. The confusion and emptiness, not to mention the guilt, left him in an onslaught of single emotion. Hatred. Of his mother, of her friends, and of himself. Of the jurors. Of the judge, of Snape for not telling him. . . But no. Not even Snape any more. For him Draco felt no hatred, but burning desire mingled with leaden guilt, weighing him down. He looked again at the portrait that hung on the wall opposite, as he had been doing for the hour or so, mindlessly studying the empty frame. The portrait's occupant had been absent for many years. Apparently, according to the story his father had told him, she had fled on the night of his engagement to Narcissa. . . he had told him this, and they had laughed, joking that it was an omen. Draco sighed. He felt ridiculously old. He stood up at last and moved lethargically to the door and left the room, closing the door firmly but quietly behind him. A face peeped fearfully into the frame of the picture, red eyed and worried.
Out in the hall, Draco walked calmly down towards the living room where he knew his mother would receive Seneca. On a whim, he stooped outside the door, and pricked his ears. Inside, he heard his mother's voice, mid welcome. ". . .I know it's such an inconvenience, Seneca, dear, but you have heard about the boy's outburst at the inquest?" "Yes, of course," answered the honey tone that could only belong to Seneca.
"Nightmare, an absolute nightmare. . .he won't listen to me. I want you to talk to him, and tell him not to think of it. You did the jurors?" There was soft laughter from the other woman. "Of course I did the jurors. There's no way in hell he would have been taken down with the evidence. .. not to mention Dumbledore's interference. I did it well, I'm sure you'll agree." "Yes, wonderfully well. And now I want you to do the same on Draco. I can't have him going around under what ever spell Snape. . .Severus, sorry, put him under. Any idea what it was, by the way?" "I have not, and will not, consider it," Seneca replied, her voice icy. "Of course," Narcissa said, hurrying to make amends. "I just wondered, seeing as your. . . skills. . . are so much more than mine. . ." "Quite. The price for the boy's mind being fixed will be high. I dislike doing this sort of thing on children." The words struck him harder than a curse. He tuned out of the conversation as it turned to money. . four figured amounts of money at that. The mild indignation he felt for her referral to him as a 'child' was drowned out by the deep seated horror of the thought of his mind being 'fixed'. How? Why did she dislike doing it only 'children'? Would it damage him? His mother's train of thought was obviously running along the same lines, as she asked next, "Why do you dislike doing this kind of thing on children, if you don't mind my asking?" Her tone was light, and she ended the question with her high- pitched falsetto laugh. She fooled no-one as to her concern. Seneca's reply was cool and unemotional. "The process is fairly uncomplicated in itself; merely a matter of taking enough blood to leave the subject bordering unconscious, and then implying through words or actions what ever needs to be said or done. Subliminal adjustments take place and the body generates more blood, thus the subject recovers. He or she remembers nothing of it, other than dizziness and perhaps my presence, but nothing more. Unfortunately, with children as young as the boy, the body generates blood much more quickly than it does with adults, therefore allowing them to come out of the semi-dazed state needed much more quickly. Time is essential. When I first started, I did a boy of about Draco's age. He came out of the trance too early and ended up in a state much like the state of a Dementor, the only difference being was that he had a soul, but no mind. Dementors, on the other hand, have minds but no souls. " Draco felt the rising panic inside him and tried his best to concentrate on taking deep, calming breaths, and listening intently to the conversation in hand. His mother must have nodded, as Seneca spoke next. Draco somehow doubted that his mother had actually understood any of Seneca's explanation, but. . . and then, suddenly, Draco's mind crashed. What had she said? What had it been? " . . . merely a matter of taking enough blood to leave the subject bordering unconscious. . ." Taking blood. Blood. Conclusions and accusations leapt into his mind. Seneca was a vampire! He stopped and forced himself not to bolt from the Manor there and then, and make it back up to the school. His heart pounded and his head spun. My gods. . . "Right. I'll get the agreed amount tomorrow from Gringrott's. . .meanwhile, when can you . . . a-ha. . . 'fix' Draco?" "Whenever you like. Preferably after a few days. If you under feed the boy, it makes my life easier." "As you wish. Call in on, say, Thursday, and we'll do it then?" "I will do it then," Seneca corrected coldly. "Yes, that's fine. I will be here for nine-thirty." "Splendid. I say, it is rather late now, isn't it? Would you like a room for the night?" Business completed, Narcissa's hardened tones fell back into their customary affected politeness. "Yes, thank you, I think I will." "Oh good. I'll call a house-elf to arrange it all for you. . ." Draco's eyes widened in horror as he saw the door handle start to turn, and he bolted half way down the hall, to the safety of study. He made it as far as opening the study door, when his mother emerged from the living room. "Draco, where are you going?" she asked sharply. "To the study, mother. I want to take a look at the accounts before I go to bed," he lied. Her face relaxed into a smile "Very well, dear. Just like your father, always on top of things. . ." and with that, disappeared from view round the corner to fetch an elf. Why she didn't just ring the bell, Draco didn't know, Probably that she didn't like Seneca's disturbing company more than anyone else did. He slipped into the safe recess of the study, understanding for the first time, what his father had meant by it being the most useful room in the house. He could make perfectly acceptable excuses to come in here, such as to 'look over the accounts' as Narcissa had as much knowledge of the running of a house as the average clergy man does on running a brothel. Not much. Hers was not a mathematical mind.
He sank back into the leather chair behind the desk in relief. He pulled the accounts book out for show, and left it open on the desk. His eyes returned to their former occupation of staring at the empty portrait frame while his mind wandered to what to do next. He had a vampire in his house, a vampire who his mother was paying good money to brainwash him. He had managed to assure Snape 25 years' imprisonment. He doubted that Dumbledore would help, seeing as it was he who had put him there in the first place. . .wasn't it? Mother had said something about the jurors. . .and Seneca. She had probably paid to have it 'fixed' so that the jury would send Snape down, whatever happened. He sighed.
~ * ~
Hermione crept from her dorm down to the Owlery. She shivered to herself, and reached out to the wall to guide her, her other hand occupied with an envelope adorned with her own rather small handwriting. She shivered again, and slipped into the dark Owlery with its feathery dwellers. She squinted up at the rafters where the owls perched. Only three there. They must be out enjoying the night, she thought. Spotting her, one of the remaining owls, a rather plump brown one which had the distinct look of a chicken about it, glided down to perch near her. Hermione smiled at the owl, relieved. "Thank you," she whispered, tying the letter to the owl's outstretched leg. "I want this to get to Malfoy Manor quickly. . .take it straight to Draco, the boy. Don't let anyone see you!" The owl Looked at her, in as much of a suggestive way as possible with a beak. Hermione scowled. "No, nothing like That!" she hissed. "It's something quite different!" her indignation made no effect on the owl, who merely ruffled her feathers knowingly. Hermione sighed in exasperation. "For heavens sake! Draco Malfoy is the most annoying boy I have ever met! He is arrogant, pigheaded, cold hearted. . ." The owl gave her another Look which seemed to say "Oh, really? And you like that in a man?" Hermione gave in and sighed "I'm only doing this because I feel sorry for him, NOT because I love him! And why I have to explain it to you, I don't know," and turned heel. The owl hooted amusedly, and took off, gliding silently into the still night. Hermione watched her go in relief. Really, she though later in bed, thinking that I had any feelings for Draco Malfoy other than hate. Hate. Oh, and pity.