Malfoy Spaces, or
Wait Till Winter Comes Again
Chapter 3
"Take my arm," Narcissa said.
Uncertainly Dita did. The world turned upside down and inside out, and when it righted itself, she felt as if she had turned inside out. It was some moments before she realized she was no longer in her own little house but in a large room that must have been the size of her whole house. Shakily she stopped clutching Narcissa's arm.
"What—what was that?"
"We Apparated. Now you must be quick. Lucius must not learn you are here. Do what you have come to do."
Dita shook her head to clear it and looked rapidly around the room. What a room for a boy to have grown up in! Vast and opulent, with a massive walnut four-poster bed, brocaded sofas and chairs, a large, elaborately carved mahogany desk, and grand paintings, it was also oddly oppressive, all dark toned and dismal. Over a huge fireplace hung a large portrait of a handsome man, nearly the exact image of Lucius, dressed in a voluminous, double-breasted black robe cinched in at the waist and glossy black top hat, carrying a slender stick and standing in a lordly manner, one hand on his hip, his shoulders back and his dark eyes glaring down his nose.
"That is Acheron Malfoy, one of Draco's greatest ancestors. Unfortunately for the Wizarding world, he died in a fire at another of the great houses in the 1840s."
Unfortunately? Dita thought. "Fortunately" is probably the better word. Weren't any of you Malfoys decent? She said nothing, however, but when the man in the painting finished glaring at her and swung away with an audible, Hmph!, her heart almost leapt out of her chest. "He—he just—"
"Of course he did," Narcissa said frostily. "He has better things to do than stand around staring at a Muggle."
Regaining her composure, Dita snuck one last look at the now-empty frame, then turned away to examine Draco's personal effects.
She supposed they were probably normal for a boy of eighteen in the Wizarding world. Rows of black and green robes in the massive walnut wardrobe, old-fashioned brooms cluttering up corners, posters of sports players where the images moved, strange knickknacks she had never seen before, moving photographs of family members, rows of old schoolbooks with odd titles like The Standard Book of Spells and Advanced Potion-Making. Everything looked very expensive.
"There are no pictures of his friends. Did he destroy them, or did he not have any?"
Narcissa snapped, "Pictures or friends?"
"Either."
"Of course he had friends! He was a very popular boy at school. He led his House."
"Were they friends or followers? Confidants or sycophants? Narcissa, you have to tell me the truth. There's more at stake than your pride."
Narcissa set her jaw. "He had many followers, stupid but useful children. Of his 'friends'—they deserted him. He used to have pictures of them. He probably burnt them."
Dita was getting a better and better picture of the life an arrogant, pure-blooded Malfoy was expected to live. It sounded like a lonely one. She swiftly looked through the books, gaining a rapid understanding of the subjects he excelled in (Potions had some very complicated-looking scribbles in it; Quidditch Through the Ages had a number of neatly-drawn diagrams; Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them was scrawled over with exceedingly bad words; Unfogging the Future looked like it had never even been opened) and also of things he was trying to put behind him. A much-thumbed-through book called Today's Pure-Blooded Families had the inscription on the flyleaf nearly completely obliterated, but by examining the markings left on the back of the page, Dita could see that it had read, "To Draco. Happy Christmas! From Pansy." Another book had a narrow hole driven through it, an innocuous-looking book called, Repairing Your Magical Artifact. She held it up with an inquiring eyebrow.
"I found that on his desk," Narcissa said, her voice subdued. "Here." She put her slender finger where there was a deep gouge in the desk. "He had stabbed a small, antique sword completely through it."
"That took some strength. Anger. Rage, more like. Is that unusual, doing something physical instead of magical?"
"Yes, it is, but he has no wand. That—that Potter boy took it. Draco is very good at non-wand and nonverbal spells, but without his wand—how will he survive?"
"As well as any Muggle, I suppose. Why this book? What's important about it?"
Narcissa's white fingers curled around the book, turning even whiter. Her lips pressed together, going nearly white as well.
"It's something to do with what happened—with the War. I know a great deal about it. You'd better tell me about his part in it. I have to know, if you want me to help him."
"We were to have so much power! That was promised to us, that anyone who followed the Dark Lord would be granted great power under his rule. Power." She spat the word. "All it really meant was slavery—to him. He used my boy as his lackey—his private assassin. 'Demonstrate your loyalty by killing your headmaster.' Draco demonstrated his loyalty—to us. Everything he did, he did for us, his parents, who tried to push him into the same slavery we were under. We didn't understand—Lucius still doesn't understand. He can't see what it did to Draco—my dear boy—"
She was weeping suddenly, too overcome to be ashamed before this Muggle rival of hers. Dita took her hand and led her to a seat, sat down near her.
"Please tell me everything. Start with when he was a child. Tell me what he was like, right up until the day he left home."
Narcissa stared at her as she leaned back in her chair, folded her hands beneath her chin, and closed her eyes. When there was nothing but silence, Dita opened her eyes again.
"I will be listening closely. Please."
Author Note: Acheron Malfoy is a tip of the hat to a character created by Jasper Fforde in his delightful book The Eyre Affair. His quite appallingly horrid character Acheron dies in the destruction of Rochester Hall in the book Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Brontë. Yes, it's complicated.