Chapter Seventeen: The Right Hand
"Blaise Zabini." My name sounds so foreign rolling off that tongue. I'm pretty sure that the devil himself would sound friendlier than the Dark Lord, even though right now he's smiling. I think that he's even more terrifying now, with the grin that seems so out of place on his snake-like features and skin the color of lifeless things. He sets a cloaked limb lightly on my shoulder and my hair very nearly stands on end. I know that I've sworn I'm not afraid of him, and that's all good and well, but I find it's much easier to be brave from a distance.
I very slowly swallow the spit that threatens to drown me and clamp my iron will upon my legs, bidding them to stop trembling as I feel a fleshy substance twist up them, a few of the scales brushing the bare skin of my ankles. I hear the faint hissing of the Dark Lord's snake, Nagini, but I can't look down and show weakness through fear of the unknown. I am in the Dark Lord's presence which for now that means safety, for I am most likely one of the most wanted individuals by the Ministry of Magic right now, and the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
"My Lord." I reply as soon as I trust that my words will sound unaffected by fear. Thankfully they sound exactly as I hoped they would.
"You have done well, my faithful one." It's funny how unnerving his voice is. It sounds silky smooth but is rather like venom. From the outside it seems perfectly harmless, just another liquid . . . but one teeny, tiny prick, and BAM! you're as dead as you could possibly get. This is how the Dark Lord's voice is. Though he's pleased with me now, it could all change all so easily and when my plan takes the next step, it will. I'll be running to a new enemy's enemy, though this time the "friendship" won't be so friendly.
"I am pleased that my Lord is pleased." I say, not doing too badly on the "sound brave" front if I do say so myself.
"I do believe that my former distrust of you was rather misplaced," he observes, "Perhaps I ought to give Draco Malfoy here such a second chance as you have afforded yourself."
I refuse to move. I figure that any action on my part will only serve to seal whatever fate the Dark Lord has planned for him, as well as sign away my soul and probably send me to a grave faster than I could possibly save Dumbledore. The Dark Lord nods at this lack of motion, seeming pleased that I know better.
"Then again, perhaps Nagini here would prefer a treat tonight . . . what do you say we do, Blaise?"
I look over at Draco casually, as though he's not worth the effort to glance at him. He looks horrid, really. He's sweating so hard that his hair is soaked, and his head is hung, causing his locks to follow suite and cover most of his face. Between the chunks of it, I can see dark circles at the base of his eyes and several streaks of dirt on his face as well as his clothing: a slightly torn Hogwarts uniform, a loose green tie, and a pair of black trousers. He's also shaking very slightly, just enough to let me know that he thinks he's going to die.
"I rather wonder if the half-wit would better serve the cause alive rather than dead. Of course, be cannot be fully trusted not to fail on his own, but with the proper guidance, perhaps something could be made of him." I phrase my words carefully, omitting any language that sounds like I'm telling him what to do or sounds like I'm trying too hard to seem devoted to the Dark Lord's cause.
The Dark Lord nods at this, seeming to have already thought of such a plan. "I am obliged to agree with you, Blaise. Very well, he shall be properly punished and then sent to his room under the guard of Fenrir Greyback." He says all this in a tone that sounds like he's telling me that he would like me to add lettuce to the grocery list, as though it isn't remotely strange.
"My Lord—" Fenrir begins to protest, but the Dark Lord sends him a glare so icy that the werewolf instantly looks away. Even the greatest of the Death Eaters fear their master.
"As a show of my favour, I will allow you the honors, Blaise." Of course, pretending that the werewolf hadn't spoken, the Dark Lord looks from Draco to me. All I can see is the sentence in Azkaban going up, an image accompanied by a cold shudder that I barely contain.
So much for a life of my own, I think for a split second before finishing the thought with, You bloody idiot, this is what you signed up for the instant you started brewing the Draught of Living Death.
"CRUCIO!" I shout. I try to picture my father's face instead of Draco's in front of me, but it's rather difficult to do whilst he screams, and I have a hard time pretending to enjoy this. Draco twists around an invisible point and shrieks like I've never heard him scream before. I relent after a few minutes, but I can tell from the laughter around me that it's going to take a lot more for them to become bored. I can't risk any of them having more powerful curses than I do, or—worse—decide to kill him after all.
"CRUCIO!" I shout again, less rage to my voice and what little amusement I can force in its stead. The screams become a fading moan and I know that he can't take much more of this.
One more time ought to give them enough entertainment, I think as I relent.
"CRUCIO!" I shout once more, putting a fifth Cruciatus Curse on my record. When I finally relent for the last time, Draco simply collapses onto the floor and Fenrir drags him away by the shoulder, probably off to toss him like a rag doll into his room. I turn and walk away to the room I've been assigned to, the room that I realize upon entrance used to be Lucius and Narcissa's master suite. I practically throw myself onto the bed and try to get a few precious hours of sleep.
"Blaisey Waisey!" A voice calls out my name.
It feels like I've only laid here for a moment, but I guess it must have been a while. I've been wondering about Draco, Hermione, and Theo some, but mostly I've been thinking about myself. I wish I weren't such a selfish person sometimes, but I can't seem to stop it. These thoughts fade as the voice cries out a second time. I stagger out of bed, catching myself on the doorframe at the end of the massive room. The room is kind of creepy, really, but before now I hadn't thought to notice. In fact, I haven't even changed my clothes since yesterday morning, assuming I slept through most of the night like I think I did. I might not have though; I never really have slept well.
"What?" I holler, opening the door but otherwise not bothering to move from my position against the ebony doorpost.
"The Dark Lord has left without you. What have you to say about that?" I recognize the voice this time, the voice whose owner teeters on the edge of insanity: Bellatrix Lestrange. She probably lost her mind from all those years in Azkaban, something that forces me to gulp down my fear. In this house, fear doesn't exist, except that it does in great quantity. I would guess that most of the fear on the planet is concentrated right here in Malfoy Manor at this moment. No, it isn't that fear isn't here, it's just that everyone pretends that it isn't. In fact, your life quite likely depends on it.
"Oh Bella . . . you always were a bit . . . touched," Her childhood pet name along with a near insult ought to annoy her sufficiently. "Do you really think that I desire to be with him every moment, that I need his presence? Some of us are capable of making our Lord proud without requiring that he peer over our shoulder or hold our hand."
"Hmph!" She's in front of me now, evidently having followed my voice to this spot. She looks up and down my figure, her eyes catching at the choppy shortness of my hair, the darkish blotches under my already dark eyes, and the wrinkled creases covering my dirty robes. She smiles faintly.
"So this is the boy who's done it all," she remarks, her voice taut with false pity, "The Dark Lord's favourite, I hear."
"What of it?" I point my best impression of a Malfoy glare at her, which is probably not impressing her, but hopefully holding my own. I may be leaving tomorrow, but I can't have a suspicious Death Eater follow me and stop me before I make it to Azkaban, the one place that no Death Eater would dare follow, the one place that scares them all even more than the Dark Lord himself.
"I was just thinking," she continues, "that as your new friend, I find it disconcerting that you don't seem the least bit concerned about . . . slipping up?"
"And should I? Should I be concerned about, how did you put it . . . 'slipping up'. No need to worry, my dear Bella," I spit out her name in near disgust, "Slipping up is for failures and disgraces . . . something you might be familiar with, with a family of traitors and failures. Why, your dear sister comes to mind."
"Narcissa and I are sisters no longer," Bellatrix growls, a glint of growing hatred in her dark eyes, "Unless she should prove herself to my Lord, she is dead."
"And yet you seem to be spending an awful lot of your time looking after her, her and your nephew, Draco." I smile wickedly.
Bellatrix scoffs, "The boy is far worse than his mother. Maybe the Dark Lord will wonder why it is that he's your best friend . . ." She smiles at me a little too widely to be believable.
"Funny, I don't recall being friends with that failure filth. I must admit, though, that I could get used to the thrill of an Unforgivable." Ugh, why did I have to change the subject so awkwardly?
Nevertheless, Bellatrix takes the bait willingly, "Never gets old, boy. Never." With a spin on the ball of her foot, she walks away, her hair looking even worse in the back than in the front. I have to follow, partly because Death Eaters aren't idle creatures, but mostly because I want to see how Draco's doing.
In the dining room, Draco sits alone. He looks up for a brief moment, stiffening when he notices me, his eyes bouncing between my left forearm where my sleeve covers my Dark Mark and my face, which he seems disgusted by. I try my very best to portray that I don't mean any of this and that I still am his best friend, that I'm not a murderer, and that cursing him was me trying to be merciful, but I know that I'm failing. Besides the fact that Draco and I have barely spoken all year, he saw me kill Dumbledore. That's enough to forever condemn me in his eyes. I don't think I've ever wanted so badly to be faking "sexy" pictures with him and blowing kisses at Harry Potter.
I brush past him and his judgmental stare and head into the kitchen, where I can hear the majority of the Death Eaters laughing and chattering before they set off for the day. I'm guessing that they don't usually talk, but Dumbledore "died" so I guess today would be an exception to the rule. Once I'm in the doorway, I clear my throat as loudly as I can, pushing a haughty look across my face.
"I'm leaving, and I'll be back this evening, for anyone who was counting on me being here. I thought I'd pay mummy dearest a visit, show her what's become of her son. You might not be seeing much more of her again, or any of her, for that matter." I laugh, pretending that this was all one big joke, though it's now understood that I will be going to my mothers and she probably will die. Without another word, I disapparate on the spot.