Chapter 4 | Magic & Memory Charms
The stretching ebony table is laden with giant silver dishes heavy with potatoes, whole roasted chickens and rosemary-sprinkled summer squash. It's an impressive dinner, even by Malfoy Manor standards—but Draco's hunger is nearly nonexistent. All he can think about is the smooth wand in the pocket of his robes.
"Hawthorn, 10 inches, unicorn hair core, reasonably springy. Graceful, yet with a little bite to it," Ollivander had said when he opened the box and extended it towards Draco.
He had tried four wands before this one, yielding nothing. Not even sparks. He had worried that perhaps he was a squib after all. And then, his fingertips touched the handle of this wand. His skin had prickled instantly. Holding it felt like warm water slowly engulfing his body. One wave of the wand sent a plume of golden sparks in the air—a feeling even more satisfying than flying—something he could never have imagined possible.
Now, the wand sits in the breast pocket of his robes, a comforting pressure against his chest. He tries to not reach up and press his fingers against the handle, just to feel that warmth again. He idly wonders which kind of wand the boy from Madam Malkin's got.
"Lucius, I understand that Cornelius seems to have quite a chummy relationship with you, but you understand my prudence. I can hardly take you at your word," Rufus Scrimgeour slices the chicken breast on his plate with precision as sharp as his features. His nose reminds Draco of a vulture. He certainly is behaving like one, ready to scavenge any leftovers of their loyalty to the Dark Lord.
Draco has no idea what made his father think that inviting Head Auror for dinner with two old Death Eater families was a good plan. It's practically an invitation for Scrimgeour to go snooping around. But Draco has been taught to be silent on matters involving the Dark Lord. Especially around aurors. So he sits in silence, Crabbe on his right, Scrimgeour flanked by Crabbe's mother and father, and Lucius and Narcissa at the heads of the table.
"We're speaking of years ago, Rufus," Lucius says, "and I'd rather not drudge up the past. We've spent long enough trying to purge ourselves of it."
Scrimgeour grins sourly. "I imagine you have."
"Fudge hasn't been gettin' on well," Mr. Crabbe says, chewing meat from a bone. "Hear you're lookin' at the role for minister."
"All talk," Scrimgeour says between chewing, "That Skeeter woman finds stories in thin air."
"You were quite the supporter of Bartemius before the unfortunate situation with his son, were you not Rufus? No doubt there is some part of you that believes a firmer hand would be preferable…"
Draco begins to tune out his father's droning voice. Politics is the most certain way to put him to sleep. He finds it difficult to keep his eyes open, quite honestly. The thrill of the day is wearing off, and all he wants is to retreat alone with his wand.
He dares to reach his hand up and feel the shape of the wand through his robes. Beside him, Crabbe is busy shoveling potatoes and a drumstick sloppily into his mouth. He stumbles on his own food and a wad of potato splats back onto his plate. Draco can't help himself sniggering into his napkin.
The side of Lucius's lip twitches in irritation. "Draco, if you must conduct yourself like a child, at least have the decency to excuse yourself from the table."
It's the ticket Draco was looking for. Desperate to get away, he pushes out his chair and tries not to look too eager. Maybe this could be an opportunity to get revenge on the doxies…or, to see how Crabbe would fare against them.
Crabbe glumly looks at his unfinished plate, pushing away from the table with a grunt and following Draco down the handsomely carpeted hallway from the dining room.
The voices of the adults fade quickly into a cushiony silence. It feels freeing to be away from them.
"You go to Diagon Alley yet?" Draco asks, looking backwards towards Crabbe.
He shakes his head.
"Well I've been," Draco finds himself bragging. "Full of mudbloods and their muggle parents, shrieking and pointing at everything that moves. I saw one trying to have a conversation with a Chocolate Frog card. I mean, really."
Crabbe grunts what Draco has come to recognize as his guttural laugh.
For a moment, Draco thinks about mentioning the giant and the boy at Madam Malkin's, but something stops him. He hasn't quite sorted out what that encounter made him feel.
"Got my wand today," he continues, "want to see a spell?" It's daring and unproven, but he's feeling wild.
"You done one before?" Crabbe speaks, shocking Draco for a moment. Crabbe isn't exactly the verbal type.
"Not yet. I've been practicing incantations from my father's dark magic books, so I imagine it'll come easily," he lies.
"I heard 'bout a kid who got a letter," Crabbe says, "shows up at Hogwarts an' all. On'y he's rubbish at magic. Had it in him, but didn't work proper. A squib. On'y magic he did was by mistake. Blew up the dungeon 'cuz he failed potions."
Draco's back prickles at the thought of going to Hogwarts not knowing if he can do magic. He's doesn't like the idea of going in on an even playing field. What if someone like Crabbe is better at magic than he is? Draco feels his neck become hot with uncertainty.
He puffs himself up and pretends to be fearless.
"Come on, Crabbe. I'm not going to go in like a pathetic muggle-born with no experience. I have a wand, after all." Draco swishes down the hallway, Crabbe loping behind him. Halfway to the study, an idea surges to life in his head. Hang the doxies. If he's going to prove his magic, he needs a stronger target. He turns abruptly into the drawing room.
The silence of the room presses in on his ears. Crabbe stares at him blankly. Draco steels himself and draws his wand, feeling it course with warmth. He half wishes he had the nerve to try it on Crabbe. But no, that would be too risky. He has to go to Hogwarts with Crabbe, and who knows if he could have a sudden show of strength. Instead, Draco points the wand's tip towards the gilded paisley wallpaper of the drawing room.
"Elf!" Draco snarls, glad the word is short so Crabbe can't hear the nervous tremble.
There's a sharp crack as Dobby appears in his raggedy pillowcase. "Yes mast—" Dobby stops at the sight of Draco's hand, pale in the dark, clutched around his drawn wand. His glowing eyes widen.
Draco steels himself before he can change his mind. His wand nearly burns his skin as he shrieks, "Crucio!"
Nervous and uncertain, his curse is a dim reflection of the times it's been used on him—but he has enough anger, and enough desperate desire to be like his father, that it holds. For a few glorious and terrifying seconds, the elf shrieks and convulses, before the weak curse snaps out of existence and Dobby disapparates with a CRACK.
Before Draco can spend even a moment relishing what he's done or glance at Crabbe for his reaction, he hears the clamour of footsteps in the hallway just outside the drawing room. The heavy wooden door bangs open with Scrimgeour in the lead followed by Lucius, Narcissa and the Crabbes, wands drawn in response to the cries that had ricocheted from the room.
Scrimgeour's sharp eyes land on Draco, still clutching his wand, facing Crabbe. Draco realizes with a horrific chill that with Dobby dissapparated, it will look like he's cursing his own peer.
Scrimgeour has the rabid look of a man with a prize: finding the son of an old Death Eater armed, and for all he knows, ready to torture another wizard. Scrimgeour flicks his wand to disarm Draco with a charm that produces a vicious strand of fire. Its fiery tail sears Draco's hand, flinging the wand from his fingers and striking him in the face as it recoils into thin air. A ribbon of hot blood drips down his cheek.
Lucius immediately soars in front of Draco, shielding his son from Scrimgeour and sending a counter-curse towards the auror, who blocks it and parries back. Mr. Crabbe swings his wand into the fray. Scrimgeour begins blocking curses from both men so rapidly Draco can hardly follow the flashes of light through his swollen and burning eye. A curse destined for Lucius soars so closely past Draco's ear that he can feel it through the air—it lands on a vase that bursts to millions of pieces, its shards scattering over him. The ringing of the explosion merges with the whistle of curses that fade into silence.
Draco keeps his arms around his head, face to the floor, afraid to know what's happened. A faint sobbing breaks the silence. His mother. A shuffling of footsteps and faint whisper:
"Obliviate." It's Lucius.
Draco looks up. Scrimgeour is sprawled on the floor, his wand on the carpet just out of reach of his fingertips. His lion's mane of hair is strewn across his face. Draco quickly looks at his chest—he's still breathing. Stunned.
Lucius swishes his wand, and the porcelain shards that had lodged in the carpet begin darting across the room as if magnetized, re-forming the exploded vase. Draco feels them rustling his hair as they loosen and soar to find their place.
"Pick him up," Lucius nods to Mr. Crabbe.
Crabbe's bulky father shoves Scrimgeour's wand into the auror's robes and lifts the man upright with terrifying ease. Lucius raises his wand then pauses, as if remembering something. He turns, fixing Draco with a chilling stare.
"Out."
Draco wants nothing more than to feel his mother's arms steadying him. But he knows better than to question Lucius in a rage. Shaking, Draco makes for the door on the wall opposite, casting a glance at Crabbe on the way out. His friend's eyes are wide and stunned and slightly stupid. Maybe he could have performed the curse on him.
Draco closes the door softly and kneels, pressing his cheek to the cool metal plate and peering through the lock hole. It feels soothing against the burning curse still swelling his skin.
Through the tiny field of vision, he sees Lucius direct his wand to Scrimgeour's chest. His eyes are cold slate. Draco's seen the hard look before. Is his father going to kill an auror? He couldn't be that daring.
"Rennervate."
Scrimgeour's eyes blink open groggily. Lucius's expression changes instantaneously, a slimy camaraderie. "As I was saying, Rufus, it really is disappointing that you can't stay for a touch of firewhisky. The bottle's straight from Bulgaria, a very fine blend that's known to bring smoke to the ears. But alas, you mentioned you have a trial to prepare for tomorrow. I do hope this can be the start of a renewed perspective on our families."
Scrimgeour nods, an air of suspicion in his eyes. He scans the room, seemingly unable to pinpoint the feeling in his gut.
Mr. Crabbe genially slaps him on the back and beckons his son with a nod. "Vincent, we must be leaving as well. Lucius, thank you and Narcissa for a wonderful evening. Rufus, a pleasure." He tilts his head towards the auror, who smiles faintly.
"I'm sure we'll meet again soon," Scrimgeour says, eyes lingering a little too long on Lucius.
Draco is almost certain the memory charm didn't work, until Scrimgeour's expression brightens and he and extends his hand to Lucius, who shakes it and guides him into the entrance hall with the Crabbes.
Draco is rooted to the spot. He hears the heavy slam of the front door. He's numb, knees frozen to the tiled floor—but his gut is churning with a dangerous relief. For a moment, he was the one with power. His fear hadn't mattered.
A shadow obscures the keyhole, and the door opens. Draco finds himself trembling, frozen on his knees as his mother reaches to pull him close. Her warm robes engulf him, and he hates that every fiber of his being wants nothing more than to burst into tears. The thrill he felt cursing Dobby is now a confusing mess of shame.
Narcissa's hand steadies the back of his neck, comforting and warm. "What has he done to you, my love?" her voice is a strangled sob.
"Draco!" His father's voice blasts from the foyer.
Like a current, Draco's body animates to life, trembling again as he rises from his knees and crosses the drawing room to the foyer, where Lucius stands waiting. He despises how willingly he obeys his father—how childish he feels in front of him. Still, his heart is beating in terror at the thought of what Lucius might do next.
His father's white hair is orange in the torchlight, casting his face in shadow. It's more chilling than being able to see him fully. With every slow step Draco takes towards him, he feels as if his throat is closing. Lucius steps into the light, his eyes molten with impatience. He billows across the black marble foyer, and forgetting his wand, slams Draco into the cold tile wall. His hands are icy on Draco's throat, a crumple of robes between his fingers.
Fear strikes Draco with a force beyond the grip of his father's hands. He braces himself for what he knows is coming: a curse he not moments ago practiced on another creature. A sick irony. Narcissa's weak sobs echo off the marble walls.
"You've got some nerve, boy." he whispers. His face is terrifyingly close.
Draco can feel his breath. The pressure of his father's hands slowly releases until Draco feels his feet touching the floor again. Lucius smooths the crumpled shirt under Draco's robes with hands barely a shade darker than the bone-white fabric.
The sudden swish of owl wings echoes through the manor.
Their eyes whip to the grand fireplace: it's the size of a cathedral organ, with coils of malachite stretched from the buttressed ceiling to a wide, black snake's mouth. Its ivory fangs are charred and yellowed from ash. A tawny owl bursts from the basilisk's mouth and soars straight for them with a screech. It whips past the dining table still laden with empty platters and dishes and it drops a letter by Draco's feet, fluttering out as quickly as it came.
All three of them are still.
"Open it, damn boy!" Lucius barks.
Draco bends down, reaches for the parchment and slowly tears it open. The handwriting is narrow and tilted—sharper than his Hogwarts letter, and in black ink.
"Read it!" Lucius snaps.
He knows this can't be good. Fingers trembling, he unfolds the parchment.
Dear Mr. Malfoy,
We have received intelligence that you performed the Cruciatus Curse at forty-three minutes past eight this evening.
As you know, the use of any Unforgivable Curse is strictly prohibited under the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, resulting in a life sentence at Azkaban. As you are underage, this breach will be restricted to the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. Due to the severity of your actions, we regret to inform you that your admission to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has been withdrawn.
Your presence is required at a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at 9 a.m. on the twentieth of August to determine next steps on the confiscation and destruction of your wand. Hoping you are well,
Yours sincerely,
Mafalda Hopkirk
Improper Use of Magic Office, Ministry of Magic
Draco feels his body turn to ice. Is this real? It can't be real. His life is over before it has a chance to start. He imagines himself banished to the muggle world. His father burning him out of existence, obliviating his mother to forget him. Having to live with those filthy people who don't even know magic. How horrible it will be to know he can be so much more than them. So much waste. The failure who didn't even start his life. Pathetic.
That can't possibly be his fate. He'd rather face Azkaban like his aunt Bellatrix, so at least he wouldn't be a mark of shame on his family. But then the thought of dementors forcing him to relive every single curse his father had practiced on him...thinking about the heap of terror he'd be reduced to...the dementor's kiss would be better than reliving that.
Lucius snatches the letter from his hand. His eyes dart left to right, ivory face curling into a snarl.
Narcissa points a trembling finger at the letter, "W-what does it say, Lucius?"
A muscle under his father's eye twitches as his eyes hover on the ink that glints gold in the flickering torchlight. "His admission to Hogwarts has been revoked. There is to be a trial to decide the fate of his wand."
Hearing it aloud makes Draco feel even worse.
Narcissa lets out a choked sob. Lucius pockets the parchment, his eyes unreadable. Anger, pride? They're sharp, unrelenting as he reaches for his wand. Draco flinches, involuntary.
"Come now, Draco, get yourself together," Lucius hisses, seizing Draco's jaw and turning it forcefully. With a slow stroke of his wand, he draws a controlled line along Draco's cheek and the swollen, burning wound cools and seal like a candle flame extinguished.
"Consider yourself lucky that this is all you walked away with. Next time you even begin to think of doing something as foolish as dark magic with an auror in the household," Lucius says gravely, "remember that every one of your ill-informed choices jeopardizes this family." He points his wand directly at Draco's throat. "I won't have shame and ostracism in my bloodline." His eyes flick to Narcissa, whose thin lips twitch delicately.
He turns back to Draco. "Be ready at 6 am sharp. We're going to sort this out in the morning before it spreads through the entire ministry. I want you to see what it takes to get out of this mess."
Lucius flattens the letter to Draco's chest and billows from the room, the soles of his shoes clicking on the black marble.