Chapter 10: Falling
There had been no one at the manor this year to receive him when he returned for Christmas except for a few house-elves fawning disgustingly over his luggage and cloak until he had chased them all away by ordering them to sterilise their filthy hands with boiling water.
Drawing his cloak closer (it was too ridiculous – Father was so rich, surely they could afford some heating), he walked swiftly up the grand spiralling staircase with his bags trailing behind him like meek puppy dogs, and slumped down on his bed, ignoring the tutting sound his mirror had made at his disgracefully sloppy entrance. But it was impossible to rest comfortably – there was something rustling and sticking at his back. With a put-upon sigh, Draco rolled over and closed his hand over an envelope.
It was addressed to him, in neat slanted writing, and sealed with the Malfoy crest.
Swallowing nervously, Draco slit the envelope and read the note spelling out the exact message he had been dreading all term.
Draco,
I would like to see you in my study tonight after the Christmas feast. I trust you have not disappointed me this time.
Your Father
The note burst briefly into a bright green flame and littered his robes and the thick carpet with a few fine white ashes.
Draco stared blankly at what had been a solid piece of paper only moments before, and lifted his pale fingers to his eyes, the whitish tinge of dust absolute proof of his damnation.
Face suddenly contorting in anger and disgust, he stood up and stomped off to his own private bathroom across the hall. A sharp twist sent a jet of ice-cold water from the serpent-head faucet gushing into the black marble sink. Grabbing a brush from the shelf before it could start cleaning his nails on its own, he forced it roughly against his skin, chafing against the tender pads of his fingers and his dust-stained palm viciously until they were red and raw, numbed to the pain by the chill of the water. With a muffled growl of frustration, Draco threw the brush against the wall.
Back in his room, Draco cradled his stinging hand in his nap, welcoming the harsh awakening brought by the pain of broken skin. Packed carefully in one of his bags, wrapped carefully in layers of satin and silk, was a pensieve, holding a record of the memories of every conversation he had ever had with Kera, conversations where he had sometimes forgotten his duty – had felt emotions running freely like a river suddenly unfrozen. Conversations that held every bit of information she had willingly or unwittingly revealed to him.
All he had to do was to hand the pensieve over – a pensieve that, he had realised belatedly, did not allow him to remove information he had put in – and if it held anything of use, he would be rewarded duly. He had experienced a very unMalfoy-like panic attack the night before, and had tried desperately to extract some of the memories but to no avail. Trying to get Crabbe and Goyle to "accidentally" smash the thing hadn't worked either, and at any rate deep within the recesses of his mind held an exact same copy of these conversations (and more), and he knew Father would have a way of getting at them if it came to that. If only he could somehow forget all of it…
But the problem was – he didn't want to forget. He just wanted them tucked away safe and sound, the way an obsessive collector might preserve delicate fragile collections too precious to expose, and categorise them to admire and marvel at later – things that had made him laugh, things that had made him sad…things that had made him feel.
He felt the tears of frustration welling up and blinked them away angrily, though he would have let the petulant tears fall and to hell with Malfoy dignity, if the mirror hadn't been snickering softly. Father would not be happy if he broke another mirror in a fit of what he called "wasteful, weak and childish tantrums". Although he could always blame one of those clumsy house-elves for it of course.
But he wasn't in the mood to deal with insolent mirrors just yet. He needed someone to talk to, even if they wouldn't really be able to help. And if he sat here babying his hand any longer, he just might be desperate enough to end up grabbing one of those gibbering house-elves up for a chat.
Mother.
True, he hardly spoke to Mother, and she certainly never showed sign of affection for him – no hugs, no caring words. But he'd always had faint memories of a lady singing a lullaby in a strange language as she soothed him to sleep (he had always assumed that that lady had been Mother, for he knew very well he had had no nanny or wet nurse) – and he had held on to that memory.
He glanced at the clock on his desk – the dinner guests would be arriving any moment now. Changing quickly into the dress robes that had been laid out for him, Draco quickly tidied himself, cast a simple healing charm on his hand, and made his way to his mother's room, walking as fast as he dared to without incurring a reprimand from one of the portraits.
The door was ajar. Why was it ajar? Mother seldom left the door unlocked, and most certainly never left it open. Perhaps one of those annoying house-elves was tidying the room and had forgotten to shut the door.
He wasn't particularly interested a spot of house-elf hunting at the moment (it had been a favourite pastime when he was a child – roaming about with Pansy to try and catch one, and making them shut their ears in the oven for being seen) but he figured it might take his mind off this whole ridiculous Kera thing. A sense of loss engulfed Draco as he sighed and pushed the door open, certain that Mother was not in.
But she was.
Her hair was undone and flowed down in loose tresses the colour of pure moon-spun silk. Strewn across her dressing table was a mystifying array of potions and powders, and the room smelt very strongly of the scents of expensive flowers. A dark velvet robe had been laid out – tasteful embroidery done in silver-thread generously and painstakingly woven in, and jewels scattered almost carelessly in the design. Her dressing gown hung off one pale shoulder, a thin satin wrap that caressed her form ever so gently.
And on that exposed shoulder, etched in black in stark contrast with the pale skin of her back, was the tattoo of an elaborate 'M', a hissing serpent with an unusually flower crushed beneath its fangs curled around it, a mark at once alien and familiar.
She turned around quickly at the sound of the door opening, and her eyes blazed when she saw who it was.
Draco gulped, shutting the door in a hurry. For about five seconds he calculated his chances of making it back to his room before his mother got hold of him until he remembered that he was sixteen, not six.
So when the door flew open, Draco was still standing by the door, fidgeting with the uncomfortable high collar of his evening robes.
"Mother, I—"
Her cold palm sent a sharp flare of pain across his pale cheek.
Without meaning to, Draco brought up his hand to his face, silver eyes wide with surprise at the slap, apology lost on his lips.
"That will teach you to enter without knocking." Narcissa said, sweeping down the hallway in her elegant black velvet robes.
"I'm sorry, Mother." Draco whispered, ruthlessly suppressing the tears that threatened to well up.
"Why are you still standing there like an idiot?" She snapped from down the hallway. "The guests are here!"
"Yes, Mother." Draco said, forcing himself it lift his eyes from the carpet, ignoring the sting that remained on his face. Pausing by a large mirror, he cast a small glamourie spell to hide the tint of redness, and swiftly made his way down to the Dining Hall, his haughty Malfoy mask back in place.
In the days that followed the haze that had been the Christmas party, Draco avoided being in the Manor as far as possible. He had not spoken to Mother since the incident at her room. Lucius Malfoy, on the other hand, had not been seen since he had received the summons late one night – and his return was a prospect Draco did not look forward to.
Today was the last day of Christmas break, and in a way Draco was kind of relieved. After all, what could Father possibly do to him under the eye of that muggle-loving ever-bumbling old fool of a headmaster? At Hogwarts, there wasn't anything particularly worrying or stressful – just the usual routine of classes and homework and trying to make sure Crabbe and Goyle didn't somehow kill him with their clumsiness. And of course, there was that special project with Kera, something he'd actually come to look forward to every Wednesday – four whole golden hours in the dungeons, listening to the soothing bubbling of cauldrons and the soft thuds of sharp metal hitting the wooden chopping boards; the slightly pungent smell of the potions and the dank smell of dark damp places that permeated from the cracks in the stone; working in companionable silence with Kera and Professor Snape, figuring out the intricacies of the properties of various herbs and ingredients, some of which Draco was certain weren't quite legal, like dragons foetuses (Kera didn't seem too bothered by them), runespoor eggs, and unicorn liver and other internal organs which Draco assumed came from the dead unicorn in the woods, back in first year.
But the subject of Kera and Snape only made him think about the pensieve and his father's tardy return even more. Perhaps, if he was in luck, Father would have delivered them both to the Dark Lord over Christmas break, and there would be no more cause for worry, Draco reflected mirthlessly as he swerved his Nimbus 2001 to miss another skeletal tree that had been looming unseen in the ever-present moor mist.
He flew and flew. It began to get darker, almost dark enough even for him to lose his way in the fog that was curling in and spreading misty tendrils around the moor, and yet Draco continued to urge his broom further from the Manor, into the marshes. It was a bit scary, the way the fog seemed to swallow him – and for a moment he faltered and panicked in the endless grey he had found himself in.
"Draco!" Narcissa's sharp voice rang out in the darkness, and Draco found himself in view of the dim candle lights of Malfoy Manor.
Draco, too relieved and by now quite used to the strange workings of Malfoy Manor which seemed both unplottable and quite able apparate and settle at different parts of the moor to care about how he'd managed to find himself back at the Manor, swooped down on his broom and gratefully entered the lighted recesses of the looming mansion.
"You called for me?" Draco asked obediently, heart still pounding, as she surveyed his mist-dampened clothes and wind-swept disarrayed hair, her upturned nose scrunched with distaste.
"Your Father has returned." She informed him curtly. "Go up to your room."
"Yes, Mother." Draco mumbled, hurriedly trying to make himself more presentable as he walked swiftly up the long winding stairs to his room.
After some hesitation, he rapped the heavily ornate door to his own room with his knuckles.
"Father?" There was no response.
Draco remained in the hallway, feeling immensely silly to be waiting outside his own room, but not wanting to incur the displeasure of Lucius (if he hadn't already done so). The portrait across the hallway, a stern old wizard who had been a great granduncle glared disapprovingly at him, and Draco scowled back. He tried knocking the door again, and getting no response, gingerly turned the knob.
There was no one in the room. Draco frowned, feeling foolish – then his eyes lighted on a longish parcel resting by his dressing table, next to the insolent mirror.
There was only one thing it could be. Fingers flying, Draco peeled the wrapping off the parcel.
In his hands, handle gleaming, was the newest Meteorite 250.
[A/N: I was writing this in the middle of my exams. Was obviously in denial.]