Harry Potter: Holes - Discourse (1/?)
Title: Holes - Discourse
Author: schmevil
Fandom: Harry Potter
Summary: The consequences of changing sides.
Characters: Draco, Bellatrix
Word Count: 1812
Warning: Graphic violence and torture
Notes: Very old and never finished. Posted because I think it's weirdly interesting to look back on. Intended as the first of four sequels to Holes. Obviously that idea never got off the ground.
Holes - Discourse
It is very difficult to reduce to obedience someone who does not seek to command; and the most adroit politician would never succeed in subjecting men who wanted merely to be free.
- Rousseau
2.1 It isn't the guards, as he expected.
He's slumped sideways, back twisted away from the bars. His head, where it touches the floor is seeping. She comes upside down, and sideways, and her robes swish
“Hello nephew,” she says brightly. There’s an edge to that, of course. With Bellatrix there’s always an edge. Slowly he rights himself; hand over hand on the bars, and wishes he’d known she was dropping by for a chat. He could have put on tea.
Draco looks up at her. Doesn’t stare because his eyes aren’t capable of that kind of concentration, but looks. She seems… cleaner. Still lean from Azkaban, but even sharper; her smile is an incision, lips carved with surgical precision; her eyes are perfect black on wide, perfect white, and lacking the blur of prison, only intensity remains.
He wills the words to come, the ones he’s been planning, in order to distract himself from his circumstances. They don’t come, perhaps because they were ever half-formed.
Ridiculous to think he could distract himself from his circumstances by planning a tirade based on his fucking circumstances. He should have been thinking about Quidditch or something, and then maybe the words would have just come naturally. He should have spent the time composing sonnets.
“You seem to be getting on well.”
He nods. “Oh, I’m grand.”
“Obviously. Are you enjoying the accommodations?”
“Absolutely. I don’t think I’ve had better. It matches all the charms of Malfoy Manor and just,” he indicates the miniscule space between thumb and forefinger, “manages to exceed them.”
She smirks. It’s a hollow smirk, though. Bellatrix paces the length of his cell, seemingly unable to keep still. She isn’t nervous. Restless. Impatient.
“I’m sure you’re beginning to feel out of touch with things. Would you care for an update?”
He shrugs. “If you like.” Draco feels a cough coming on and covers his mouth. She watches him with thinly veiled interest.
He’s an exhibition, a source of intellectual amusement: Take one wizard, isolate, torture and imprison him, and then expose him to civilized conversation. What will he do?
Still pacing, she looks at him from over her shoulder - a coquette. “The weather is seasonable.”
“Lovely.” He coughs. The phlegm is thick and clotted with blood.
“The damp getting to you?” she coos sympathetically.
“It must be.” He shrugs, resigned. “So it goes.”
“Quite.” A faint frown slowly overtakes her smirk. Please, he thinks. Another volley so I can let it drop. He’s never been this bad a conversationalist in his life. It’s refreshing, really.
She’s expecting questions:
1. “What’s happening?”
2. “Why are you doing this?”
3. “Where is my father?”
Insert whining and profanity where applicable.
Draco thinks he’s got a pretty clear idea of the answers. At least the answers that will be available to him. He asked plenty of questions in the beginning, and words were never the better part of the answers. You can say a lot without words. In the beginning he kept on asking the questions. He hadn’t learned his lesson, yet.
Sometimes it’s better not to know.
Sometimes the answers you get are painful, confusing and ultimately useless. His situation is the only answer he needs.
She’s expecting questions, so he goes through the motions. “Are you enjoying the weather?”
“It’s fine.” There’s no trace left of Bellatrix’s smirk.
The temptation is too much - Draco yawns. “That’s nice.” He stretches as much as his aches will allow and pretends to search for a more comfortable position. Comfort is an illusion.
She starts tapping her wand against her thigh. Definitely impatient. Possibly annoyed. He wonders, how can he be absolutely sure she’s annoyed?
“Crucio.” He takes a moment to reflect - she sounds bored more than anything - and whites out.
2.2 Lucius looks up from his tea. “How did you do with the book?”
“Did you know there’s a curse to turn skin into ivy?”
Lucius’ eyebrows arch. Draco hasn’t given him the answer he wanted. “Perhaps I should rescind my permission for the library until you learn to distinguish between what is useful, and what is-”
“Pleasurable?” It’s bright outside, so Draco makes out his mother by voice alone. Narcissa stands in the doorway of the solarium and behind her the garden is in full bloom. Neither of them heard her come in.
Narcissa leaves her basket on the table by the door and removes her gloves. She folds them with neat lines and leaves them beside the basket. Lucius indicates the steaming cup beside his. She sits down and greets him with a decorous kiss on the cheek.
“Draco, did you know there’s a curse that causes a Venus flytrap to bloom inside a wizard’s stomach?”
“Really?” Now that would be something. Just think what Pansy would say!
“Yes really. I’ll teach you sometime, when you’re older.”
His father frowns. “Narcissa-”
“Lucius, growing boys need stimulation.” He frowns again, fondly.
Draco decides to ask him. “Father? There was another curse, one that changes people.”
“Yes?” Lucius is letting him take his time, for once. Usually he has no patience for confusion. He values clarity.
“It… made people different. Made them act different. Like… less.” He’s stuttering. It isn’t that he doesn’t understand the curse, though he’s not sure how it works. But it’s not- he’s not scared.
“I’m familiar with it.” Lucius seems almost pleased.
“How does it work?”
Narcissa smiles. “It’s not one you’ll get to practice, darling. Biscuit?” The house elf scurries over with the tray.
“Continue your Latin exercises, Draco. It will come to you in time.” Lucius starts spreading cream on his scone - the conversation is over.
2.3 “Good morning!” Somehow Bellatrix has reached a more horrific level of fake cheer. Or it may just be the nausea, agony and general distress.
Draco rolls forward, so one knee rests on the icy floor, more out of inertia, than anything else. Unforgivables always leave him limp; he doesn’t lock up like some people. His head is cushioned by the spare meat of his arm.
He distantly feels his lungs gasping. His overloaded nerves don’t really register what’s wrong, but he’ll know soon enough. He concentrates on the gasping, which is obvious, and tries to feel it. It takes a lot of effort to be in pain. Draco has discovered that eventually pain, though unavoidable, becomes a chore.
But he needs to keep feeling it.
So he does. Gasp. It’s like a million tiny goblins excavating his chest, excruciatingly fast and thorough. There is something wrong inside. He shrieks.
“You’re showing a bit more spirit.” He can see her smirk, without having to look at her. He can smell it, her satisfaction is so strong. “It’s no fun if you don’t play.”
The only game he’s ever played is Quidditch and he’s at a point in his life where he can admit he was mediocre. Draco doesn’t like games and he’s fucking well not going to play this one. At least not on her terms.
His gaze hardens into a cold stare. Bellatrix only smiles. She likes it this way.
Draco reaches out and his fingers, making contact with one of the bars, curl around it. His hand is slick and hot, so holding tight enough is a struggle, and he grunts with the effort.
His hand slides down the bar, hitting the floor. He feels the jolt all through his chest and right down to his toes. Come on, he thinks - breathes. Just keep - breathes - going. The Goblins are back. They’ll be getting overtime for this.
His nose is wet with something sticky, maybe phlegm, maybe blood. Possibly vomit. He doesn’t smell anything, so he can’t judge.
Bellatrix crouches, smirks. Settling in for a wait? I’ll do my best to expedite the matter.
Bitch, he thinks, and puts everything behind that feeling into his eyes. She’s so far out of reach that touching her physically isn’t even a fantasy, but she’s there, and just as crazy as his father had told him.
He reaches for the bar again. Finds it, and shivers with the pain of contact, holds on as tight as he can. Come on. The muscles in his forearm spasm.
Pull.
Muscles contract, that’s all they do. It’s simple really.
Pull.
All motion is the result of muscles contracting and releasing. Tense one, relax another, move. It’s all in the combinations.
Pull.
Bellatrix yawns, and covers her mouth elegantly with a green-gloved hand.
It costs him. It costs him dearly but he doesn’t care, just forms the words. “J-just going to sit there all day?” His fingers stay wrapped around the bars. If he’s lucky, his joints will stiffen up and he won’t have to worry about keeping his fist closed anymore, just opening it.
She tilts her head, contemplative, and her thick, black hair falls over her shoulder, like a shawl. “I don’t have any other plans.” Of course not. She’s comfortable there. The damp doesn’t bother her. Her knees work. She isn’t cold, or tired, or shaking.
Pull. Muscles contract, his shoulders leave the floor. “No Muggles to torture, witches to kill, family members to murder?”
“Sadly no. The pickings have been slim, lately.” Oh god.
He remembers Snape - every disgusted grimace, disappointed frown, annoyed scowl and he sneers. He should get a million-galleon prize for the impersonation. “How sad for you.”
“Mmm. It’s tragic, you know. I don’t know what I’ll do with myself when we’ve won.”
They haven’t won yet. His face is showing it and he doesn’t care. Let her see. They haven’t won. Not yet.
Further up, he gets another hand on the bars and pulls himself further up, until he’s half-sprawled, half-sitting up. His knee is not pleased and in fact hates his fucking guts, but Draco doesn’t care.
She stands up, quick and sudden. “Shouldn’t be long yet,” she says, but he smiles anyway.
2. “Why are you doing this?”
3. “Where is my father?”
Don’t worry, aunt, I don’t need the details. Just a general overview will do.
He leans forward, his head and shoulders resting against the bars, and takes some of the pressure off the knee. He doesn’t show the pain and she doesn’t take any pleasure in his stiff movements.
I’m waiting.
2.4
On the first day of every summer home from Hogwarts Lucius gave his son two things: a gift and an assignment. The two were always connected, though not necessarily in an obvious fashion.
This summer Lucius gives him extended library privileges. Draco is not impressed. What’s he going to with books, all summer? He gets enough of books at school. Besides, he’s just come out of sitting another set of year-end tests, and his father wants him to scurry around the library on some obscure mission? Great. Draco’s had enough of research to last six lifetimes.
Author: schmevil
Fandom: Harry Potter
Summary: The consequences of changing sides.
Characters: Draco, Bellatrix
Word Count: 1812
Warning: Graphic violence and torture
Notes: Very old and never finished. Posted because I think it's weirdly interesting to look back on. Intended as the first of four sequels to Holes. Obviously that idea never got off the ground.
Holes - Discourse
It is very difficult to reduce to obedience someone who does not seek to command; and the most adroit politician would never succeed in subjecting men who wanted merely to be free.
- Rousseau
2.1 It isn't the guards, as he expected.
He's slumped sideways, back twisted away from the bars. His head, where it touches the floor is seeping. She comes upside down, and sideways, and her robes swish
“Hello nephew,” she says brightly. There’s an edge to that, of course. With Bellatrix there’s always an edge. Slowly he rights himself; hand over hand on the bars, and wishes he’d known she was dropping by for a chat. He could have put on tea.
Draco looks up at her. Doesn’t stare because his eyes aren’t capable of that kind of concentration, but looks. She seems… cleaner. Still lean from Azkaban, but even sharper; her smile is an incision, lips carved with surgical precision; her eyes are perfect black on wide, perfect white, and lacking the blur of prison, only intensity remains.
He wills the words to come, the ones he’s been planning, in order to distract himself from his circumstances. They don’t come, perhaps because they were ever half-formed.
Ridiculous to think he could distract himself from his circumstances by planning a tirade based on his fucking circumstances. He should have been thinking about Quidditch or something, and then maybe the words would have just come naturally. He should have spent the time composing sonnets.
“You seem to be getting on well.”
He nods. “Oh, I’m grand.”
“Obviously. Are you enjoying the accommodations?”
“Absolutely. I don’t think I’ve had better. It matches all the charms of Malfoy Manor and just,” he indicates the miniscule space between thumb and forefinger, “manages to exceed them.”
She smirks. It’s a hollow smirk, though. Bellatrix paces the length of his cell, seemingly unable to keep still. She isn’t nervous. Restless. Impatient.
“I’m sure you’re beginning to feel out of touch with things. Would you care for an update?”
He shrugs. “If you like.” Draco feels a cough coming on and covers his mouth. She watches him with thinly veiled interest.
He’s an exhibition, a source of intellectual amusement: Take one wizard, isolate, torture and imprison him, and then expose him to civilized conversation. What will he do?
Still pacing, she looks at him from over her shoulder - a coquette. “The weather is seasonable.”
“Lovely.” He coughs. The phlegm is thick and clotted with blood.
“The damp getting to you?” she coos sympathetically.
“It must be.” He shrugs, resigned. “So it goes.”
“Quite.” A faint frown slowly overtakes her smirk. Please, he thinks. Another volley so I can let it drop. He’s never been this bad a conversationalist in his life. It’s refreshing, really.
She’s expecting questions:
1. “What’s happening?”
2. “Why are you doing this?”
3. “Where is my father?”
Insert whining and profanity where applicable.
Draco thinks he’s got a pretty clear idea of the answers. At least the answers that will be available to him. He asked plenty of questions in the beginning, and words were never the better part of the answers. You can say a lot without words. In the beginning he kept on asking the questions. He hadn’t learned his lesson, yet.
Sometimes it’s better not to know.
Sometimes the answers you get are painful, confusing and ultimately useless. His situation is the only answer he needs.
She’s expecting questions, so he goes through the motions. “Are you enjoying the weather?”
“It’s fine.” There’s no trace left of Bellatrix’s smirk.
The temptation is too much - Draco yawns. “That’s nice.” He stretches as much as his aches will allow and pretends to search for a more comfortable position. Comfort is an illusion.
She starts tapping her wand against her thigh. Definitely impatient. Possibly annoyed. He wonders, how can he be absolutely sure she’s annoyed?
“Crucio.” He takes a moment to reflect - she sounds bored more than anything - and whites out.
2.2 Lucius looks up from his tea. “How did you do with the book?”
“Did you know there’s a curse to turn skin into ivy?”
Lucius’ eyebrows arch. Draco hasn’t given him the answer he wanted. “Perhaps I should rescind my permission for the library until you learn to distinguish between what is useful, and what is-”
“Pleasurable?” It’s bright outside, so Draco makes out his mother by voice alone. Narcissa stands in the doorway of the solarium and behind her the garden is in full bloom. Neither of them heard her come in.
Narcissa leaves her basket on the table by the door and removes her gloves. She folds them with neat lines and leaves them beside the basket. Lucius indicates the steaming cup beside his. She sits down and greets him with a decorous kiss on the cheek.
“Draco, did you know there’s a curse that causes a Venus flytrap to bloom inside a wizard’s stomach?”
“Really?” Now that would be something. Just think what Pansy would say!
“Yes really. I’ll teach you sometime, when you’re older.”
His father frowns. “Narcissa-”
“Lucius, growing boys need stimulation.” He frowns again, fondly.
Draco decides to ask him. “Father? There was another curse, one that changes people.”
“Yes?” Lucius is letting him take his time, for once. Usually he has no patience for confusion. He values clarity.
“It… made people different. Made them act different. Like… less.” He’s stuttering. It isn’t that he doesn’t understand the curse, though he’s not sure how it works. But it’s not- he’s not scared.
“I’m familiar with it.” Lucius seems almost pleased.
“How does it work?”
Narcissa smiles. “It’s not one you’ll get to practice, darling. Biscuit?” The house elf scurries over with the tray.
“Continue your Latin exercises, Draco. It will come to you in time.” Lucius starts spreading cream on his scone - the conversation is over.
2.3 “Good morning!” Somehow Bellatrix has reached a more horrific level of fake cheer. Or it may just be the nausea, agony and general distress.
Draco rolls forward, so one knee rests on the icy floor, more out of inertia, than anything else. Unforgivables always leave him limp; he doesn’t lock up like some people. His head is cushioned by the spare meat of his arm.
He distantly feels his lungs gasping. His overloaded nerves don’t really register what’s wrong, but he’ll know soon enough. He concentrates on the gasping, which is obvious, and tries to feel it. It takes a lot of effort to be in pain. Draco has discovered that eventually pain, though unavoidable, becomes a chore.
But he needs to keep feeling it.
So he does. Gasp. It’s like a million tiny goblins excavating his chest, excruciatingly fast and thorough. There is something wrong inside. He shrieks.
“You’re showing a bit more spirit.” He can see her smirk, without having to look at her. He can smell it, her satisfaction is so strong. “It’s no fun if you don’t play.”
The only game he’s ever played is Quidditch and he’s at a point in his life where he can admit he was mediocre. Draco doesn’t like games and he’s fucking well not going to play this one. At least not on her terms.
His gaze hardens into a cold stare. Bellatrix only smiles. She likes it this way.
Draco reaches out and his fingers, making contact with one of the bars, curl around it. His hand is slick and hot, so holding tight enough is a struggle, and he grunts with the effort.
His hand slides down the bar, hitting the floor. He feels the jolt all through his chest and right down to his toes. Come on, he thinks - breathes. Just keep - breathes - going. The Goblins are back. They’ll be getting overtime for this.
His nose is wet with something sticky, maybe phlegm, maybe blood. Possibly vomit. He doesn’t smell anything, so he can’t judge.
Bellatrix crouches, smirks. Settling in for a wait? I’ll do my best to expedite the matter.
Bitch, he thinks, and puts everything behind that feeling into his eyes. She’s so far out of reach that touching her physically isn’t even a fantasy, but she’s there, and just as crazy as his father had told him.
He reaches for the bar again. Finds it, and shivers with the pain of contact, holds on as tight as he can. Come on. The muscles in his forearm spasm.
Pull.
Muscles contract, that’s all they do. It’s simple really.
Pull.
All motion is the result of muscles contracting and releasing. Tense one, relax another, move. It’s all in the combinations.
Pull.
Bellatrix yawns, and covers her mouth elegantly with a green-gloved hand.
It costs him. It costs him dearly but he doesn’t care, just forms the words. “J-just going to sit there all day?” His fingers stay wrapped around the bars. If he’s lucky, his joints will stiffen up and he won’t have to worry about keeping his fist closed anymore, just opening it.
She tilts her head, contemplative, and her thick, black hair falls over her shoulder, like a shawl. “I don’t have any other plans.” Of course not. She’s comfortable there. The damp doesn’t bother her. Her knees work. She isn’t cold, or tired, or shaking.
Pull. Muscles contract, his shoulders leave the floor. “No Muggles to torture, witches to kill, family members to murder?”
“Sadly no. The pickings have been slim, lately.” Oh god.
He remembers Snape - every disgusted grimace, disappointed frown, annoyed scowl and he sneers. He should get a million-galleon prize for the impersonation. “How sad for you.”
“Mmm. It’s tragic, you know. I don’t know what I’ll do with myself when we’ve won.”
They haven’t won yet. His face is showing it and he doesn’t care. Let her see. They haven’t won. Not yet.
Further up, he gets another hand on the bars and pulls himself further up, until he’s half-sprawled, half-sitting up. His knee is not pleased and in fact hates his fucking guts, but Draco doesn’t care.
She stands up, quick and sudden. “Shouldn’t be long yet,” she says, but he smiles anyway.
2. “Why are you doing this?”
3. “Where is my father?”
Don’t worry, aunt, I don’t need the details. Just a general overview will do.
He leans forward, his head and shoulders resting against the bars, and takes some of the pressure off the knee. He doesn’t show the pain and she doesn’t take any pleasure in his stiff movements.
I’m waiting.
2.4
On the first day of every summer home from Hogwarts Lucius gave his son two things: a gift and an assignment. The two were always connected, though not necessarily in an obvious fashion.
This summer Lucius gives him extended library privileges. Draco is not impressed. What’s he going to with books, all summer? He gets enough of books at school. Besides, he’s just come out of sitting another set of year-end tests, and his father wants him to scurry around the library on some obscure mission? Great. Draco’s had enough of research to last six lifetimes.