Tainted Love
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and Warner Bros. own all recognisable characters and storylines.
Tainted Love
Chapter Seven: Curses & Celebrations
The great, emerald train sounded its shrill whistle and emitted a blinding puff of smoke and steam that filled the whole platform. The carriage doors opened and the passengers disembarked. Once the way was clear Draco stepped onboard and then turned around to wait for his mother to catch up with him.
But Narcissa had stopped.
The smoke lingered like a mist around her. She was staring, fixated, at a shadowy figure standing at the other end of the platform. Draco froze and waited for the smoke to clear.
Narcissa gazed intently at the dark outline of a man: tall and broad, and unmistakably familiar. The smoke lifted, taking with it the haze that had somewhat clouded her mind recently, leaving the poised fangs of a snake in its wake.
"Father," she spat, speaking to herself. Draco made an attempt to return to his mother's side, one foot was onboard the train, the other back on the stone platform, but Narcissa moved to stop him. "Get on the train," she demanded.
"No! You're always pushing me aside!" shouted Draco angrily. Narcissa turned her back on the dark-haired gentleman, who was fast approaching them, and rounded on her son.
"This isn't a game!" she hissed quietly. "Don't make me force you onboard," she threatened. Draco looked suddenly uneasy and took a step backwards onto the train. Narcissa quickly slammed the carriage door shut so that it stood as a barrier between them. "Thank you," she nodded insincerely.
One of the station guards wandered by, checking that all of the doors were secure. Narcissa's father was drawing ever nearer.
"I'll Apparate and meet you at the other end, at the village station," she told Draco quickly, as she glanced over her shoulder.
"Why can't you come now?" he asked sulkily, as the guard gave the train driver the all clear.
"Because I can't," replied Narcissa unhelpfully.
Draco scowled blackly and stomped off down the carriage without so much as a backwards glance at his mother. The train juddered forwards and pulled out of the station. The guard and all of the lingering passengers left with speedy efficiency. Narcissa held her body taut. The fine hairs on the back of her neck were standing up on end. The man, her father, had reached her side.
"How did you know where to find us?" she asked coldly. She kept her gaze on the now empty train track and refused to look at him.
"A friend told me," replied Mr Adrian Varvara cryptically.
"So you thought you would ambush me here, because you dare not come to the Manor?" laughed Narcissa derisively. Her father refused to answer this question.
"Stay away from my wife!" he spat instead. "She doesn't need you filling her head with stupid ideas!"
"I have no intention of returning to St Mungo's," confessed Narcissa carelessly.
"I know it was you who poisoned her mind against me!" he ranted. His face became contorted in an ugly sneer. "You made her refuse treatment just to make me look bad!"
"No, she made the decision all on her own," retorted Narcissa mockingly. "And as for poisoning her mind against you, you managed that all on your own." That much was true, for all her vain attempts Narcissa had never succeeded in fully turning her mother against her father. Elaine Varvara may have been prepared to die to escape his violent clutches, but the poor woman couldn't stop loving him.
Adrian grabbed his daughter's arm, spun her around and marched her backwards, until her back was pressed up against the wall of the platform's little waiting room. He released her momentarily, but then slammed her forcefully against the brick wall, failing to notice the glint in her steely eyes. When he released her again she ducked passed him quickly and slipped into the empty waiting room.
"I would stop doing that if I were you," she spat as she heard him follow. She had her back to him, so that he couldn't see her pull out her wand.
"You cannot hide behind the Malfoy name forever. It does not scare me!" snarled her father maliciously.
"Then you are an ever bigger fool than I'd thought!"
"Your threats are empty! Fifteen years and not so much as a scratch!" he laughed mockingly.
"Let us amend that then, shall we?" She turned around, her wand was drawn, her face pernicious. He reached for his own wand in surprise; he was not used to people fighting back, but he was too slow in doing so. "Crucio!"
The Cruciatus curse, one of the three Unforgivable Curses, could earn the wizard who had cast it a life sentence in Azkaban. This rational thought was not absent from Narcissa's mind, merely overpowered by the all-consuming desire to hurt her father. He fell to his knees and writhed on the floor, twitching and shaking uncontrollably, but no scream tore itself from his open mouth; his pain went far beyond that. Her revenge lasted only seconds, but she would never forget the image of her father robbed of all power and dignity. She broke the spell and stepped over his shaking body, which remained curled up on the floor, rocking gently from side to side.
"Now you have glimpsed what it is like to be helpless, to be a victim of such pain that you long for death," she paused, savouring each word. "But it does not end here."
With that final threat spoken she Disapparated, appearing almost instantaneously on a tiny little platform that belonged to the railway station in the village of the Manor's parish. Narcissa stood still and waited for the adrenaline rush to subside, for her heart to stop racing and her hands to stop shaking. Weary exhaustion would take its place. The Cruciatus curse required a great deal of magic and energy. All the same, she hated to be reminded of the limitations of her body!
Westbury-on-Severn's tiny train station was utterly neglected. The Muggles never used it and very few wizards ever needed to pass through the pretty riverside village, unless of course they were visiting the Malfoys. Narcissa brushed the cobwebs off a wooden bench with peeling green paint and sat down. Again she waited, for guilt or grief, elation or liberation, but none of those emotions came. Instead she prepared to go over the day's events, in an attempt to make sense of everything that had happened since receiving her mother's letter. Unwelcome and unbidden her mind's eye saw another, much older letter, which she had received as a girl of just seventeen…
The heavy parchment was black, the bold script silver. Narcissa rushed from the hospital wing, her cuts and bruises hidden, dressed in her finery, all ready for the evening's celebrations. Yet she didn't make her way to the Great Hall, where things were just beginning to get underway. Instead she made her way down into the abandoned dungeons of the castle. She walked purposefully through the damp corridors until reaching a small, locked door, which she knocked on three times.
"Hurry up, it's me," she hissed in a low, excited whisper.
The door swung open slowly. The tiny room beyond was littered with all manner of concoctions. Brews and potions filled rickety shelves that lined the walls. A cauldron sat bubbling gloomily in the centre of the chamber, while behind it stood a Hogwarts pupil. He was in the year below her, but there was only a few months difference between their ages.
"Come to gloat?" sighed the boy indifferently. He had very pale swallow skin, which was framed by lanky black hair. He could hardly be bothered to pull his gaze away, from the simmering blue liquid before him, to look at Narcissa.
"About what?" she asked with annoyance.
"Your hospital visit from the heir to the illustrious Malfoy dynasty," he sneered sarcastically.
"How do you know about that?" she asked, genuinely surprised.
"Everybody knows about that."
"Really?" smiled Narcissa smugly. "But anyway," she said, refocusing, "that's not what I wanted to talk to you about, Severus." She pulled the unusual letter out of her pocket and handed it to him. Severus Snape read it slowly, while Narcissa waited impatiently for him to finish.
"So, Lord Voldemort wants to meet you."
"But, do you think it's genuine?" she asked anxiously; this was what she really wanted his opinion on. He was her fellow conspirator, although she was not his. She trusted his judgement, he knew things; things a boy of his age had no right to know.
"Undoubtedly," he replied easily.
"You're sure?" Narcissa seemed to waver. "How do you know?"
"Because I delivered it." The shock apparent on Narcissa's face made her confidant give a slippery smile. "I left it by your bed in the hospital wing when you went to change."
"You?" repeated Narcissa, in somewhat of a daze. She recovered quickly however. "Then you deal in more than just blackmail and theft nowadays?"
"It would seem so."
"Why me? Why now?" she couldn't help but ask.
"I have a certain duty if you like, to spread the Dark word to those deemed suitable," he replied slowly, and then returned his attention to the bubbling potion that he was brewing.
"And I'm suitable?" pressed Narcissa.
"He thought so, after I told him about your latest attempt at patricide," Severus replied idly.
"But I failed."
"Intent - that is all he needs." Severus was still holding the letter. "You'll go?" She nodded resolutely. "Then you'd best dispose of this," he said, tossing the letter into the fire beneath his cauldron. "Hadn't you better go and enjoy the celebrations?" he asked contemptuously; as far as he was concerned everything that needed to be said had been.
"Aren't you coming?"
"No!" he snorted. "I have more freedom when certain members of this school are otherwise engaged."
Narcissa turned to leave, but something else occurred to her, something entirely removed from the Dark Lord, or so she had then thought.
"I may need your help with something, Severus. Depending on how things pan out that is," she confided in him carefully.
"The black-haired witch?" he asked with superior smugness…
…Isabelle Zabini. Narcissa eased away the frown that had formed on her face. That woman had always held too much sway over her thoughts. She had realised years ago that she had been young and naïve during their first encounters, but she had still won. Narcissa glanced down at her left hand, at the shimmering ring on her finger, for proof of her victory. Nevertheless, she had been waiting her entire marriage for their rematch.
The Ministry of Magic's offices were situated on the outskirts of the City of London. To the Muggle eye they simply looked like derelict office blocks, but if you could see passed the enchantment they were quite simply breathtaking. There were three blocks, positioned in the shape of an isosceles triangle, connected by glass tubes, big enough to walk through, which crisscrossed between the towers, each of which was twice the height of Big Ben.
Nearly on the top floor of one of these building, in an office with one large window, stood Lucius Malfoy. He was gazing out of the window; beneath the Ministry, scurrying around like ants, were hundreds of Muggles. How he loathed them! He took a silver Sickle from the pocket of his robe and played with it absently. If he opened the window and dropped it from this height it could easily kill a passer-by below. He knew; he'd tried it before.
Lucius left the window and strolled over to his bureau, which was covered in papers and gave the same appearance of organised chaos as his desk at home. He sat down and picked up a yellow form on his department's expenditure, which he had already started to falsify. Lucius had discovered that wizards had an infallible trust in numbers; they were completely non-magical and mundane, and therefore believed to be utterly trustworthy. Lucius smiled slyly. Still, it was dull, time-consuming work, so he laid the paper aside for a moment and pulled a pile of files towards himself instead.
He was flicking through these when he noticed a report on 'Muggle-Baiting and The Jinxing of Timepieces'. Lucius curled his lip in disgust. It had obviously been misdirected; there was only one department that dealt in such pathetic matters!
A few minutes later Lucius stood outside a door labelled 'The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office'. He pushed it open and stepped into the room beyond without bothering to knock. Perkins, an old warlock, and the only other member of staff employed by the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office apart from Arthur Weasley, looked up from his desk. He was slightly deaf, but insisted categorically that he wasn't.
"Can I help?" he barked gruffly.
"Is Arthur Weasley in?" asked Lucius, in his typical cool drawl. He glanced around the cluttered office disdainfully.
"What?" Perkins shouted. Lucius' blue eyes flashed.
"Arthur Weasley," he repeated firmly, in a slightly raised voice. "Where is he?" he asked, but Perkins continued to look at him as though he was speaking a foreign language.
Cursing under his breath, Lucius marched across the little office to the only other desk in the room. He snatched up the little name plaque that was sitting there proclaiming Arthur's name and then slammed it meaningfully down in front of Perkins, who didn't appear to be in the least fazed.
"You're looking for Arthur?" Lucius worked very hard to restrain himself to a stilted nod and a glare. "You've heard about his big win then?" Perkins continued affably. Lucius raised an inquisitive eyebrow and felt his fury begin to ebb away. "He's only gone and won the Daily Prophet's Grand Prize Galleon Draw!" exclaimed Perkins enviously.
"Really?" breathed Lucius with a sly smile, just as Arthur appeared from a back room to find out what all the commotion in his office was about. "I hear congratulations are in order, Weasley?" he said silkily, while Arthur hurriedly dropped a yellow rubber duck that he'd been carrying. "You've finally got your hands on some money?"
"What are you doing in my office, Malfoy?" demanded Arthur sharply, although he looked rather flustered. Lucius casually lifted up the report on Muggle-baiting.
"I can't imagine anyone needs that money as much as you," Lucius went on, knowing Perkins was deaf to his attack. "Perhaps the people at the Daily Prophet just felt sorry for you and fixed the results?"
"Men like you have always, and will always, place to much emphasis on monetary gain!" spat Arthur Weasley, who was practically shaking with rage.
"Yes well, I'm sure my sentiments would be exactly the same if my financial situation was as precarious as yours, Weasley," replied Lucius lightly. Arthur went a deeper shade of red, and he seemed to be struggling to find an adequate response, so he settled for a rather churlish one.
"Get out of my office!"
"With pleasure," smiled Lucius, dropping the report onto Arthur's desk.
Lucius wandered back to his department feeling rather pleased with himself. He had been in a foul mood all day, triggered by the unexpected arrival of his mother-in-law's letter, but the day looked as though it might turn out all right. He was just approaching his office when a junior-assistant, he hadn't bothered to learn his name, rushed over to him.
"There was a woman here to see you, sir."
"What?" Lucius frowned.
"Only she wouldn't give her name and I couldn't get her to stay," bumbled on the assistant.
Lucius simply strolled passed him to his office door, which he opened, walked through and then shut dispassionately in the young man's face.
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