The Draco Fic [4/?]
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
And what did I learn, a child, on the Sabbath?
A father is bound to kill his favourite son,
and to his father's cherishing,
the beloved answers Yes.
The day he had first been presented to the Dark Lord, Lucius had been proud of him, that Draco remembered. He retained little else of the day, save the destruction of the pride he had spent his life holding, which was only that leeched from his birthright, and the pain.
Now it was years later, Draco’s occulmency shields were stronger, his pride, while mostly still stemming from the fact he existed, had a more solid foundation in the knowledge of his own skill and that there were those, few, but some, who were loyal to him above many others. The Dark Lord was now impressive only in his power and the puzzle of the Slytherin who, to all extents and purposes, seemed to hate purebloods more than he did muggleborns.
Of all others in the room, Draco could have named three who would leave the Dark Lord’s service if Draco asked them to. Crabbe, Zabini and Baddock. However, he could name so many more who he felt he ought to have been able to convince, but knew not to even try. Goyle, Pansy, his father, Snape, Nott and Chang stood around him, able and intelligent and willing to expose Draco to the Dark Lord if he offered them another opinion to think about.
In front of Draco’s knees, Rodolfus curled up on the floor and screamed. And screamed. And screamed.
The damp on the ceiling made the vague shape of a snake, and Goyle was taller than the man he was standing next to.
And Rodolfus screamed.
And clawed at the floor - unlevelled wood, he’ll get splinters - and screamed.
The steam of light from the wand stopped, and the pale hand retreated back within the robes.
Rodolfus’ panting filled the room.
As a child, Draco had only heard Rodolfus talked about with reference to Bellatrix, who Narcissa only allowed talk about if one only remembered events from before the first war. As a result, the stories his father had told him of this man were all the tales of a teenager, then a man in his early twenties, who had moved to Scotland from France simply to be close to the dark haired enigma who had appeared at his school and dragged him and a few others away from their mock N.E.W.Ts and around South France and North Spain and then left them all, save him, in Brittany, hung over and broke. The young man who had shared French wine with Lucius and gave the Malfoy’s their first shares in that vineyard. The friend of Lucius who had had the courage, when Lucius had none, to tell Narcissa of Lucius’ affection.
The only thing left of that teenager was the desire to be always one step behind Draco’s aunt.
Just think mused Draco over the rasping of Rodolfus and the scolding of the Dark Lord, supported by Bellatrix’s exclamations, in another reality, he’s the man who would have come to dinner with us once a month or so as my uncle. We may even have got on.
“Lucius,” began the Dark Lord.
“Yes, my lord?” answered Lucius, pointedly lowering his head and adding all the extra respect Rodolfus had not.
“How goes the dissolution of the Black wards?”
“After more reading I believe the blood wards put up within the last hundred years can be bypassed by a blood brothers ritual, and the Ward of Discontent in fact only lasted for as long as its caster was alive. Entrance into the House of Black is imminent.”
Draco looked to Bellatrix. She was the only one who was likely to giveaway that that was a lie; not that it was untrue, but that it was new information. The Black wards were tied closely to the family which cast them, not simply the name, but the group of people alive and living in the house at the time. All of the ancient wards, seen by non-Blacks as the strongest, were in fact the weakest, and the real challenge the Dark Lord faced were the wards those recently dead - Cygnus, Walpurga, Orion - and those still alive interested in maintaining the family house - Sirius and Narcissa. The work Lucius had done was hardly work at all.
But Bellatrix said nothing, either unable to see the lie among the truths or unknowing about the nature of the Black wards. The last option was that she still had a thread of family dignity, a knowledge that the Black line ought to last longer than the war and therefore should not become too invested. But Narcissa had assured him that this could not be the case one night when slightly drunk and more prone to admitting to the truth behind her delusions.
“And what of your boy, Lucius?”
Lucius looked to the side, looking at Draco but not catching his eye.
“I retain my contacts with both Hogwarts and those who appear to be neutral,” Draco said, after something from Lucius’ eyes told him that Lucius had no idea what Draco did with his time.
The Dark Lord whipped his wand towards Draco, letting loose unspecified malicious magic. It smacked Draco in the face and punched him in the gut without allowing him to move back and absorb the blow.
“I did not ask your son, Lucius.”
Draco tried not to let loose any gasp of pain.
Lucius, ever the manipulator, the politician, grasped what Draco had said and reworded it into sounding harder and grander and better for the cause. Then he had to apologise for raising Draco to speak out of turn, and was duly punished.
Among Lucius’ cries, Draco allowed a ragged breath to be let free, and studied the snake on the ceiling again, to distract him from the noise and his own pain. Except now it looked less like the snake he knew, more like something with legs; the snake before its punishment.
-Li Young-Lee, Descended from Dreamers
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
And what did I learn, a child, on the Sabbath?
A father is bound to kill his favourite son,
and to his father's cherishing,
the beloved answers Yes.
The day he had first been presented to the Dark Lord, Lucius had been proud of him, that Draco remembered. He retained little else of the day, save the destruction of the pride he had spent his life holding, which was only that leeched from his birthright, and the pain.
Now it was years later, Draco’s occulmency shields were stronger, his pride, while mostly still stemming from the fact he existed, had a more solid foundation in the knowledge of his own skill and that there were those, few, but some, who were loyal to him above many others. The Dark Lord was now impressive only in his power and the puzzle of the Slytherin who, to all extents and purposes, seemed to hate purebloods more than he did muggleborns.
Of all others in the room, Draco could have named three who would leave the Dark Lord’s service if Draco asked them to. Crabbe, Zabini and Baddock. However, he could name so many more who he felt he ought to have been able to convince, but knew not to even try. Goyle, Pansy, his father, Snape, Nott and Chang stood around him, able and intelligent and willing to expose Draco to the Dark Lord if he offered them another opinion to think about.
In front of Draco’s knees, Rodolfus curled up on the floor and screamed. And screamed. And screamed.
The damp on the ceiling made the vague shape of a snake, and Goyle was taller than the man he was standing next to.
And Rodolfus screamed.
And clawed at the floor - unlevelled wood, he’ll get splinters - and screamed.
The steam of light from the wand stopped, and the pale hand retreated back within the robes.
Rodolfus’ panting filled the room.
As a child, Draco had only heard Rodolfus talked about with reference to Bellatrix, who Narcissa only allowed talk about if one only remembered events from before the first war. As a result, the stories his father had told him of this man were all the tales of a teenager, then a man in his early twenties, who had moved to Scotland from France simply to be close to the dark haired enigma who had appeared at his school and dragged him and a few others away from their mock N.E.W.Ts and around South France and North Spain and then left them all, save him, in Brittany, hung over and broke. The young man who had shared French wine with Lucius and gave the Malfoy’s their first shares in that vineyard. The friend of Lucius who had had the courage, when Lucius had none, to tell Narcissa of Lucius’ affection.
The only thing left of that teenager was the desire to be always one step behind Draco’s aunt.
Just think mused Draco over the rasping of Rodolfus and the scolding of the Dark Lord, supported by Bellatrix’s exclamations, in another reality, he’s the man who would have come to dinner with us once a month or so as my uncle. We may even have got on.
“Lucius,” began the Dark Lord.
“Yes, my lord?” answered Lucius, pointedly lowering his head and adding all the extra respect Rodolfus had not.
“How goes the dissolution of the Black wards?”
“After more reading I believe the blood wards put up within the last hundred years can be bypassed by a blood brothers ritual, and the Ward of Discontent in fact only lasted for as long as its caster was alive. Entrance into the House of Black is imminent.”
Draco looked to Bellatrix. She was the only one who was likely to giveaway that that was a lie; not that it was untrue, but that it was new information. The Black wards were tied closely to the family which cast them, not simply the name, but the group of people alive and living in the house at the time. All of the ancient wards, seen by non-Blacks as the strongest, were in fact the weakest, and the real challenge the Dark Lord faced were the wards those recently dead - Cygnus, Walpurga, Orion - and those still alive interested in maintaining the family house - Sirius and Narcissa. The work Lucius had done was hardly work at all.
But Bellatrix said nothing, either unable to see the lie among the truths or unknowing about the nature of the Black wards. The last option was that she still had a thread of family dignity, a knowledge that the Black line ought to last longer than the war and therefore should not become too invested. But Narcissa had assured him that this could not be the case one night when slightly drunk and more prone to admitting to the truth behind her delusions.
“And what of your boy, Lucius?”
Lucius looked to the side, looking at Draco but not catching his eye.
“I retain my contacts with both Hogwarts and those who appear to be neutral,” Draco said, after something from Lucius’ eyes told him that Lucius had no idea what Draco did with his time.
The Dark Lord whipped his wand towards Draco, letting loose unspecified malicious magic. It smacked Draco in the face and punched him in the gut without allowing him to move back and absorb the blow.
“I did not ask your son, Lucius.”
Draco tried not to let loose any gasp of pain.
Lucius, ever the manipulator, the politician, grasped what Draco had said and reworded it into sounding harder and grander and better for the cause. Then he had to apologise for raising Draco to speak out of turn, and was duly punished.
Among Lucius’ cries, Draco allowed a ragged breath to be let free, and studied the snake on the ceiling again, to distract him from the noise and his own pain. Except now it looked less like the snake he knew, more like something with legs; the snake before its punishment.
-Li Young-Lee, Descended from Dreamers