A/N I promised myself I wouldn't post another fanfiction until I finished one. It took me a very long time to settle down and actually finish something - and this was it. I must confess to those of you who have read my earlier works, that this is one of the least favorite stories I've written. I probably should have cut/edit this more but I had done several passes and opted to use my time to shine / write other works. I've learned a lot from the endeavor so hopefully future works will benifit.
(This work has been cross posted on ao3 site - thought I'd try something new before coming back .net)
The story is for mature/adult audiences and contains strong themes.
Chapter 1 - The Graveyard
Draco rested his back against the tombstone and slid down it until he sat on the damp grass. The water soaked the bottom of his robe, but he couldn't be bothered to cast a repelling charm.
Her death had been his fault. He'd saved himself and having saved himself, found that he hadn't been worth saving. He'd always thought himself better than others, but the truth laid bare before him. He was insignificant. Had he been the one in the ground, no one living would be here — not even his family.
Family. He scoffed at the word and the cold air soaked up the sound. They were locked away in Azkaban, finishing sentences. In half a year, his mother would take a boat to her freedom. His father… if he lived to be a hundred, he could spend the remainder of his days in the comfort of home. He hadn't seen either of them since their trials. In the brief aftermath of the sentencing, his mother had grabbed at his wrists drawing him in.
"Distance yourself from us," she'd whispered into his ear.
She'd proceeded to layer him with a list: maintain the manor, feed the peacocks, stay out of trouble and above all… bring back the Malfoy name from the mire of war crimes and filth that pride had left them with. That hadn't been her exact words, but he was entitled to some paraphrasing. He still wrote to them. Each letter he filled with lies. Like he and Pansy flirted just the same as before. Blaise stopped by for dinner just last week and tomorrow they planned to catch the latest quidditch match. Greg was the same as ever. The reality: he hadn't spoken to Parkinson since January of eighth year. Zabini prior to that. He hadn't gone to a quidditch game since stones had been thrown at him years ago, right after the war. And Greg… Greg would never be the same. None of them would. Lies came easy; it was always easier to pretend everything was ok. Even during the war, his parents used to say they had 'guests that needed accommodation.' Pathetic, the lengths they'd been willing to go.
He breathed in the salt air and let out a biting laugh. The fog flowed in-between the headstones, like a gentle tide. But the sea here was not gentle, the crash of the next wave against the cliff swallowed the echo of his laugh. The fog thickened, rolling in softly with another crash of a wave.
His gaze lingered on the outskirts, on where the cliff would be. Graveyard, fog, ocean, cliff. In stories, this would be the perfect setting for a ghost to emerge. But none did.
He closed his eyes and turned his head to rest his cheek against the cool damp stone. Silence stretched out in his mind, and he calmed his heart rate to the external sound of cresting waves.
He dug his hands into the dirt, to feel the soil below the grass. Malfoys were born of the earth — it had always been their livelihood. At least until several centuries ago when his great-great grandfather had decided to stick his nose into politics. Draco wanted to go back to his roots, the true roots — what had made them rich and royal to begin with. He pulled out all the books on the family trade, beginning again. The skill of a craftsman was no longer needed in the mass production lines. No one needed a carved figurehead on a ship to warn of sea serpents or protect from sirens. For a well-trained crew could deal with both with the latest and greatest spells. People preferred golems to intellectual animations, they wanted something that always acted the same and feared magical creations that could think for themselves. No one needed the Malfoy's ability anymore. That didn't stop him from trying the craft — but it meant that all his creations lived merely for his own amusement or as gifts to Greg's family.
The more he dove into the craft, the more he felt the pull of magic. His father had spoken of the old ways and their lull. As a child and young adult, he'd always assumed the Dark Arts were the old ways. Not so. The Dark Arts were mimicry and mockery of the old ways. And thus, the pull he'd once felt at a crucio was now a pull to use a silver chisel to carve a door knocker. He felt more magic at the handle of the chisel connecting to a piece of walnut than he did holding his own wand of hawthorn. With his fingers tangling in the soil of a covered grave on the outskirts a muggle town next to the sea, he felt more magic than he had when he first entered Hogwarts. He could feel the precious balance around him, and his role in that balance.
It did not justify the monstrosities Bella and his father had committed, but he understood them better. If he didn't feel at peace as he did now, the level of magic just beyond his fingertips would lead him to a darkness where there would be no return.
He allowed himself to drift to sleep on the waves of magic and sea, his mind full of the past.
When his eyes opened, he found himself under his childhood bed. His gaze fixated on black glossy boots and bare feet of a child house-elf. It was a memory, one that nightmares were made of. A great occlumen was aware when they dreamed, but only the greatest could control them without a magical conduit. His body rested in the graveyard, no wand or chisel in hand. With dread, Draco knew he was stuck watching. The best he could do was make sure the memory stayed pure and unmodified, nothing was worse than merging two nightmares into one. He'd lived through this before, he'd live through it again.
"Do you think yourself above a human?" his father's voice snarled out.
"No, Dobby does not think himself above humans," a young voice responded, but it had not been meek enough.
The sound of cane striking flesh stung Draco's ears. The creature whimpered and there was a thump. From the position under the bed, Draco could see the collapsed form of the child elf.
His father stooped and grabbed Draco with one hand, yanking him from safety. The man had forced him to look at the elf.
After that, Draco had been caned as well. This would be the moment he learned to fear his father; to tread carefully.
"How dare you treat an elf as human." Smack. "How dare you question what punishment I give them."
Draco couldn't remember the details, but the two of them had been playing a game — for none of Draco's friends could come play that day. When Lucius had found out, Draco had tried to defend Dobby. That had only escalated the situation. Lucius gave an order, and Draco never saw Dobby alone after that. For years, up until Hogwarts, his father always saw fit to remind Draco that it was his fault Dobby needed more punishment than the other elves.
Lucius left the vision of the memory, slamming the door and locking it behind him.
Draco's gaze returned to the child elf. "I'm sorry," a young boy's voice told the creature.
It gave a tiny nod in return.
There was a pop. Another elf arrived, older than the child and wiser. Jiffy, the patriarch Malfoy house-elf.
"A human does not apologize to an elf, young master Draco."
The words came from two memories, and they interchange. The first tone rang with harsh reprimand, the second… The wrinkles of Jiffy's face sagged more, making it more apparent that the nightmare had moved to a later memory. The image of Jiffy vibrated. Draco's entire body shook. He'd been under crucio for far too long. Potter's escape had infuriated the Dark Lord.
Jiffy had come to deliver a potion to relieve the symptoms, pressing the bottle into his hands.
"I'm sorry," Draco said again, ignoring the elf's words. The tears that fell down his cheeks burned like fire upon his raw nerves. "I'm so sorry about your son, Jiffy." He'd seen the final moments of escape, a blade piercing the flesh of a tiny body.
"You knows it was Dobby too," the large ears tilted back before its head tilted in confusion, "The young master doesn't cry from pain?"
At the time, the pain in his body was nothing in comparison. "Not all pain is physical." He motioned to the bottle. "I do not need the potion, take it away." And leave. An unspoken command. Jiffy was the patriarch, he understood unspoken commands. He had to in a house like this.
Draco pressed his head to his knees. This would be the first of many times Jiffy would defy an order. At the end of their conversation, the elf would leave the potion of relief behind.
A touch on the head, made him look back up.
"The greatest testament to a house elf, is how they are mourned," Jiffy said.
A pain had shot through Draco's heart.
Jiffy looked more solemn than before, and his eyes grew hard. "Only a terrible house-elf would cause a master pain."
The words merge again with yet another memory and like before, things melted together until the new memory grew in strength. Jiffy's image no longer shook — no crucio this time. The face looked even older, even though this memory had occurred prior to the last. A hollow look held Draco in place, a desperate plea came from the elf. "Give Jiffy this honor. Jiffy will do right by young master Draco."
The young man of the past could not speak in his suffering and could only nod dumbly.
Draco of the present, wanted the memory to stop. For he knew what he would see when looking away from the elf. He wanted to shut his eyes to it, but there were no eyes in dreams. The vision turned to the left. The coffin sat beneath the willow. Around it, candles sunk into wax and there was little time remaining to do the much-needed work.
With the flickering flame, the etchings, and runes on the coffin casted shadows. The memory Draco picked up a silver knife, fingers clumsily holding the handle. "Do as you wish."
Then with determination, the memory Draco gripped the blade tightly before piercing his own flesh. Deep, deep enough to bring forth the much-needed blood.
Magic had imbedded the memory with pain. Draco woke, gripping at the dirt, feeling the sting of magic on his arm from where the knife had cut his skin. Cold sweat trickled down and into his ears. He bolted to his feet. Without even dusting off his clothes, he pulled out his hawthorn wand from its holster and left with a crack.
He apparated into the east parlor. A moment later a bowl appeared on the table next to his preferred armchair, the one with green velvet cushions and to the right of the crackling fireplace. The smell of truffle wafted in the air and even after his unsettling dream it caused his stomach to growl.
Draco took a deep breath, allowing heat from the fireplace to soak out the chill of the graveyard. He sat then and reached… No silverware accompanied the bowl. Porridge had forgotten once more. She hadn't ever recovered from the 'visiting guests', even after seven years.
A second later Jiffy popped in beside the chair; silverware, a napkin, a towel, a bowl of steaming water and an espresso cup of drinking chocolate upon a tray.
"Am I a child?" Draco scoffed at the drink. He washed his hands in the water, removing the dirt from his fingers.
"Cemeteries are much like dementors, young master," Jiffy replied.
Draco dried his hands on the towel and laid it back down before taking the other items from the tray. He huffed as he stared into the dark thick liquid. He downed the drink like it was a shot of fire whiskey, not that he'd had any alcohol after getting too drunk his last year of Hogwarts and falling down two flights of stairs — snapping his right leg in the process. He'd been lucky Professor Flitwick had found him, not a vindictive Gryffindor. The chocolate warmed the length of his throat and pooled into his belly. "I much prefer a cemetery over a dementor."
"Jiffy would prefer neither." The elf stared up at him with a stern expression. The tone held no reprimand, just concern.
An elf giving a preference, his father's hand would have shot like a spell and smacked the creature silly. Draco instead chose to hear it for what it was. He turned his attention to his food, folding the napkin in his lap. "Once a month is tolerable."
"It is better than once a week."
Draco's gaze fell back to the elf at the condemnation in its tone at Draco's past behavior.
"Are you sure?" Draco asked, and then put a spoon of the broth into his mouth. Porridge surely had stolen the recipe from Merlin himself. "I can return to weekly ventures out if you wish to have the house to yourself."
A scowl grew on the elf's face. "Jiffy thinks young master might enjoy weekly ventures, but not to there."
"Sounds like you would like me to go out." Draco took a bit of meat this time — it fell apart in his mouth. How long had Porridge braised it?
The scowl grew even darker, "Jiffy would never dare ask something of a master."
Draco couldn't help his lips curl into a smile even though he felt a bit guilty in riling up the old elf. "I never suggested you would."
Jiffy outright glared at him.
All that was left to tip the elf over the edge was just two little words. Draco raised the silverware the elf had brought. "Thank you."
Jiffy apparated away before the last utterance. Draco laughed, softly. He meant it, the kindness. He'd asked much of Jiffy — too much — and missed the opportunity to thank him for it. But he'd had purpose in upsetting the older elf.
"Porridge," Draco summoned.
The other elf appeared. Her pink, fuzzy, tea towel tied with a red ribbon clashed with the sophisticated earthy green tones of the room. She smiled at him.
"You've outdone yourself," he told her.
She practically radiated light.
"What is the recipe?" Draco asked and then took another bite.
To the finest detail she described the preparation of the ingredients: 12 carrots were used — that was lucky — two bay leaves, 7 hours of braising, a full bottle of merlot — yes, she'd used the one that had been sitting far too long in the cellars that his father had hated. 12 shavings of truffle from the patch Draco found for her in the Malfoy woods — they'd get at least a month more of dishes from them. She went on. Draco ate watching her animated hands as she described the cuts she used for the meat as if she were still holding a butcher knife. When she seemed to lose track of where she was, he'd prompt her.
He remembered eating in silence alone after the war, except for when Greg came by, and was grateful for Porridge's company even more. Two months after returning from Hogwarts from his last year, he had stumbled into the kitchen around mealtime just to get away from the quiet. Porridge obliged him with sound and conversation. He returned again and again.
Jiffy had kicked him out of the kitchen a year ago, scowling during the conversation so much Porridge started to lose track of her sentences much quicker. Draco suspected Jiffy had been aware from the start, and thus he'd have another six years of dialoguing with Porridge in the parlor till Jiffy once again intervened. The dueling of words, just a way to keep up appearances — unnecessary now, but habits were hard to break.
Porridge eventually finished, right as Draco took the last drop of soup. If he wasn't certain of her air-headedness, he would think she planned it that way. She cleared the dishes, silverware, and napkin, and then disappeared with a pop.
With a heavy sigh, Draco pushed himself out of the chair and then crossed the room to the heavy oak door. The door opened to a hallway. Only the right of the hallway was alight with candles; Jiffy's way of luring him along. He followed the light, fingers trailing the oak wall molding till his first destination. The library.
The two large entry doors loomed before him. His fingers paused on the brass handles. He straightened his back, lifted his chin, and then froze. He withdrew his hands and quickly retrieved his wand. He then casted a spell to clean his clothes. Only then did he open the doors.
His gaze scanned the giant room. At three stories tall, larger than the ballroom, and brimmed with writings from published works to rare diaries, the Malfoy library was quite the envy of many pureblood families. There was only one empty bookshelf, the rest completely full. Draco had hired a curse breaker to take away the dark grimoires. He could have bought new books or added figures and ornaments and had all the shelves full, but he'd shifted everything such that there would be a gap. It served as a reminder. Knowledge was only powerful if accurate. The Dark Arts were not the old ways, and they should not be treated as such.
His gaze stopped when it found her. The ghostly body hovered, somewhere between the second and third floor of the room near a candle. She'd been on the opposite side of the room on the ground floor that morning. By the size of the book and color of the cover — she had finished the book she'd had then.
On her arm the letters 'mudblood' were carved into her flesh. Her other wounds bled in an ever-replaying scene of her death, dripping upward instead of following the pull of gravity. Her hair, likewise, twisted to the ceiling like she was still hanging upside down in his ballroom.
He took a step into the room and shut the door loud enough to grab Hermione Granger's attention.
