Shells of Men ( II ) -- The Backstory
Title: Shells of Men ( II )
Chapter Title: The Backstory
Author: physixxx
Characters: Harry/Draco
Summary: Draco must deal with the shattered life of the Boy-Who-Killed-Voldemort, who refuses to leave... but refuses to die.
Warning: Meh... none, really. I think this is a cliche for post-War!Harry flicks. Sorry if it is.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1092
Beta: diclare
Author's Note: This is the back story loosely explaining what happened to Draco after his flee from Hogwarts after Book 6.
Author's Note: Written for the AWDT Challenge.
Prompt: "Can We Go Now?"
Thanks to the wonderful work of diclare, this story is now beta'd!
In order to fully appreciate the irony of my current predicament, I must take you back to a time when I was a mere teenager; a sixteen-year old who thought he could play with the big boys. Instead, he got sent crying back to his vile Master with his tail between his legs. Back to the waiting arms of someone so displeased with my performance, that my 'saviour' thought it best I leave England and never return, for those who practiced the blackest of magic brook no failure and those who proved inadequate were guaranteed certain death. That is the nature of the Dark Arts.
Never let it be said, despite my current act of ‘kindness’, that I don’t like the Dark Arts. I love it. It calls to me like a wanton whore and I, the lonely virgin. There’s power in it, power that ‘the light’ can scarcely imagine. But, it has the same problem that all magic has, regardless of the circle from which it originates: it relies on labels. It draws strength in its distinction. Yet distinctions are illusions, just as much as time and distance are illusions.
Dark.
Light.
Not-so dark.
Kinda-sorta dark.
More like a shade of grey.
True sorcery is beyond such pettiness.
I learned that when I was on the run, shortly after my... bodged mission during my sixth year. I don’t like to talk about it, however, so don’t ask. And, no! It’s not because my task was to kill someone, it’s because I failed at it - and I don’t like to fail. (Case in point, one Mr. Harry Potter, but you’ll understand what I mean soon enough.)
Snape found several Safe Houses for me. Most of them were dark, dirty, dank holes barely befitting a house-elf. And, in my self-absorbed impudence, he never even got a 'thanks' from me. Oh, he got plenty of "Can we go now?"s -- enough to last his measure, I'd imagine. But never a thank you. And now...? He'll never hear me thank him.
At any rate, it was during this time he thought it best for me to continue my education. He’d be gone for days on out, leaving books and tomes of magic to keep me company; some old, many long-forgotten, but all of them immensely enlightening. I began to notice patterns within magic theory; 'the true science of the Magi', as it was referred to.
Imagine Snape’s surprise when I then asked for an elementary Chemisty book, and later Physics, followed closely by Biology. Science was the Muggle’s way of compensating for not having magic, starting with Chemistry, which was merely a derivative of Alchemy; Botany, coming from Herbology; Astronomy, which came from Astrology, (which in turn, gave way to Quantum Physics and Astrophysics). Perhaps that was what changed my opinion of Mud... er, Muggles and Muggle-borns? They took a handicap and turned it into a greater understanding of the universe around them. They overcame their obvious weakness and became the dominating people of this planet. They sought power, found it, and harnessed it. How could I not respect that?
By the time the Dark War was in full swing, I could have taught a University-level course in Thermo Dynamics. By the time Lord Voldemort forced Potter’s hand the first time, impelling Potter to fight him - and lose to him - face-to-face, I was an expert in virtually all of Aleister Crowley’s theories, including his Scientific Illuminism.
That’s when it hit me: true sorcery isn’t about good or evil. As Voldemort was fond of saying, it really was simply about power. It was honest and pure, true and untainted. Tom Riddle was none of those things. He was an abomination who sought to bastardize the search for power, making it equal to little more than glorified terrorism, xenophobia, and genocide. It’s because of him that I had to settle for sub-standard magical education; I should have learned Crowley’s theories at Hogwarts. I should have been made to understand the reality of power and magic and the omniverse without having to almost murder my Headmaster.
(Merlin! Now I’m blustering on like a Ravenclaw.)
One year after fleeing Hogwarts, I designed and forged my first spell, a derivative of the Liquid Metamorphose enchantment I should have learned in Advanced Transfigurations my sixth year, if I bothered to show up for class. After creating my first hex, I realised, with no small incredulity, that Lord Voldemort was doing this very same thing; he was creating spells, mastering the art of bending laws of the universe to his will.
After that revelation, I left Snape, the comfort of his Safe House, and the tomes within. I enlisted the aid of the Ministry. And therein lay my biggest mistake; for, although we were now on the same side, the Boy-Saviour still considered me an enemy. Potter and his compeers never could abide the Ministry’s machinations and, as far as they were concerned, I was the singular proof that the Ministry had fallen from grace. ‘A Malfoy was in their midst,’ they’d say. ‘How can we trust them, now?’
Truer words were ne’er spoken.
You cannot imagine how difficult it was for me to gain enough of Minister Scrimgeour’s trust to not throw me in Azkaban at first sight. The fact that I was self-taught in Ministry-unapproved spellwork (that’s a step up from being labelled ‘dark’) didn’t help matters, either. Nevertheless, they allowed me to work in their Curse Breaking & De-Bewitchment office under extreme supervision. My advanced knowledge in Magical Theory - the kind not taught at Hogwarts, mind you - was instrumental in overcoming some of the curses, hexes, and jinxes that Voldemort and his cronies threw at Ministry constabularies and Aurors.
But I’m chiefly known for the Ministry-commissioned spell I created: The Ruminari. In a properly calibrated chamber, memories could be isolated and extracted, then projected in the room, allowing everyone to bare witness as if they had been dragged along in someone’s Pensieve. But, unlike the Pensieve, the number in the joining party is limited only by the size of the chamber and the strength of its calibration. Aurors assaulted could have the memory of the attack drawn and viewed by room full of Ministry strategists, even if they were left in a comatose state.
Suffice it to say, I’m quite proud of that spell.
I have a Ruminari Atrium in my home, with its glazed roof that allows the sun to cast its vengeful, contumelious heat down on me. The floor contains a singular pentagram and the walls are covered with schematic patterns designed to harness and amplify arcane energy. The room rises through all three stories of my flat, an extravagant “gift” from the Ministry to entice me to keep my mouth shut about what really happened that fateful night Lord Voldemort was reduced to dust. It is this room I stand in now, extracting the vile, hated memory of that fretful night.
The pentagram glows, a mere four inches from my feet. I step closer to its outer edge, preparing myself to relive the night when Voldemort ripped Potter’s magic from him - the night Harry Potter was betrayed.
~§~
Chapter Title: The Backstory
Author: physixxx
Characters: Harry/Draco
Summary: Draco must deal with the shattered life of the Boy-Who-Killed-Voldemort, who refuses to leave... but refuses to die.
Warning: Meh... none, really. I think this is a cliche for post-War!Harry flicks. Sorry if it is.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1092
Beta: diclare
Author's Note: This is the back story loosely explaining what happened to Draco after his flee from Hogwarts after Book 6.
Author's Note: Written for the AWDT Challenge.
Prompt: "Can We Go Now?"
Thanks to the wonderful work of diclare, this story is now beta'd!
In order to fully appreciate the irony of my current predicament, I must take you back to a time when I was a mere teenager; a sixteen-year old who thought he could play with the big boys. Instead, he got sent crying back to his vile Master with his tail between his legs. Back to the waiting arms of someone so displeased with my performance, that my 'saviour' thought it best I leave England and never return, for those who practiced the blackest of magic brook no failure and those who proved inadequate were guaranteed certain death. That is the nature of the Dark Arts.
Never let it be said, despite my current act of ‘kindness’, that I don’t like the Dark Arts. I love it. It calls to me like a wanton whore and I, the lonely virgin. There’s power in it, power that ‘the light’ can scarcely imagine. But, it has the same problem that all magic has, regardless of the circle from which it originates: it relies on labels. It draws strength in its distinction. Yet distinctions are illusions, just as much as time and distance are illusions.
Dark.
Light.
Not-so dark.
Kinda-sorta dark.
More like a shade of grey.
True sorcery is beyond such pettiness.
I learned that when I was on the run, shortly after my... bodged mission during my sixth year. I don’t like to talk about it, however, so don’t ask. And, no! It’s not because my task was to kill someone, it’s because I failed at it - and I don’t like to fail. (Case in point, one Mr. Harry Potter, but you’ll understand what I mean soon enough.)
Snape found several Safe Houses for me. Most of them were dark, dirty, dank holes barely befitting a house-elf. And, in my self-absorbed impudence, he never even got a 'thanks' from me. Oh, he got plenty of "Can we go now?"s -- enough to last his measure, I'd imagine. But never a thank you. And now...? He'll never hear me thank him.
At any rate, it was during this time he thought it best for me to continue my education. He’d be gone for days on out, leaving books and tomes of magic to keep me company; some old, many long-forgotten, but all of them immensely enlightening. I began to notice patterns within magic theory; 'the true science of the Magi', as it was referred to.
Imagine Snape’s surprise when I then asked for an elementary Chemisty book, and later Physics, followed closely by Biology. Science was the Muggle’s way of compensating for not having magic, starting with Chemistry, which was merely a derivative of Alchemy; Botany, coming from Herbology; Astronomy, which came from Astrology, (which in turn, gave way to Quantum Physics and Astrophysics). Perhaps that was what changed my opinion of Mud... er, Muggles and Muggle-borns? They took a handicap and turned it into a greater understanding of the universe around them. They overcame their obvious weakness and became the dominating people of this planet. They sought power, found it, and harnessed it. How could I not respect that?
By the time the Dark War was in full swing, I could have taught a University-level course in Thermo Dynamics. By the time Lord Voldemort forced Potter’s hand the first time, impelling Potter to fight him - and lose to him - face-to-face, I was an expert in virtually all of Aleister Crowley’s theories, including his Scientific Illuminism.
That’s when it hit me: true sorcery isn’t about good or evil. As Voldemort was fond of saying, it really was simply about power. It was honest and pure, true and untainted. Tom Riddle was none of those things. He was an abomination who sought to bastardize the search for power, making it equal to little more than glorified terrorism, xenophobia, and genocide. It’s because of him that I had to settle for sub-standard magical education; I should have learned Crowley’s theories at Hogwarts. I should have been made to understand the reality of power and magic and the omniverse without having to almost murder my Headmaster.
(Merlin! Now I’m blustering on like a Ravenclaw.)
One year after fleeing Hogwarts, I designed and forged my first spell, a derivative of the Liquid Metamorphose enchantment I should have learned in Advanced Transfigurations my sixth year, if I bothered to show up for class. After creating my first hex, I realised, with no small incredulity, that Lord Voldemort was doing this very same thing; he was creating spells, mastering the art of bending laws of the universe to his will.
After that revelation, I left Snape, the comfort of his Safe House, and the tomes within. I enlisted the aid of the Ministry. And therein lay my biggest mistake; for, although we were now on the same side, the Boy-Saviour still considered me an enemy. Potter and his compeers never could abide the Ministry’s machinations and, as far as they were concerned, I was the singular proof that the Ministry had fallen from grace. ‘A Malfoy was in their midst,’ they’d say. ‘How can we trust them, now?’
Truer words were ne’er spoken.
You cannot imagine how difficult it was for me to gain enough of Minister Scrimgeour’s trust to not throw me in Azkaban at first sight. The fact that I was self-taught in Ministry-unapproved spellwork (that’s a step up from being labelled ‘dark’) didn’t help matters, either. Nevertheless, they allowed me to work in their Curse Breaking & De-Bewitchment office under extreme supervision. My advanced knowledge in Magical Theory - the kind not taught at Hogwarts, mind you - was instrumental in overcoming some of the curses, hexes, and jinxes that Voldemort and his cronies threw at Ministry constabularies and Aurors.
But I’m chiefly known for the Ministry-commissioned spell I created: The Ruminari. In a properly calibrated chamber, memories could be isolated and extracted, then projected in the room, allowing everyone to bare witness as if they had been dragged along in someone’s Pensieve. But, unlike the Pensieve, the number in the joining party is limited only by the size of the chamber and the strength of its calibration. Aurors assaulted could have the memory of the attack drawn and viewed by room full of Ministry strategists, even if they were left in a comatose state.
Suffice it to say, I’m quite proud of that spell.
I have a Ruminari Atrium in my home, with its glazed roof that allows the sun to cast its vengeful, contumelious heat down on me. The floor contains a singular pentagram and the walls are covered with schematic patterns designed to harness and amplify arcane energy. The room rises through all three stories of my flat, an extravagant “gift” from the Ministry to entice me to keep my mouth shut about what really happened that fateful night Lord Voldemort was reduced to dust. It is this room I stand in now, extracting the vile, hated memory of that fretful night.
The pentagram glows, a mere four inches from my feet. I step closer to its outer edge, preparing myself to relive the night when Voldemort ripped Potter’s magic from him - the night Harry Potter was betrayed.
~§~