Surfeit Of Curses

A Surfeit of Curses - Chapter 2

Home For the Holidays

"Ennervate," a quiet voice said. "Finite Incantatum. Ennervate."

Draco Malfoy blinked his eyes. Bed isn't normally this bumpy, he thought. Or brightly lit, for that matter. And what is pushing down on my arm?

"Sit up." Not a nice sound. Why is everything blurry?

Draco blinked again, puzzled, trying to force the world back into focus.

I feel like I just drank a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey, but more crumpled,

he thought, shutting his eyes for a moment.

Before he opened them, he felt a hand on his arm, pulling him onto his knees; it was still very bumpy. As he tried to keep his balance, he opened his eyes slightly, just in time to see his own wand fly towards him. It struck his forehead as he thought, why is it flying?

Oh. Her. What is she...?

His wand landed on the floor, shooting sparks at his ankles. Draco's eyes snapped wide open, he wobbled slightly, and with another bump, fell to the ground. His head and body still felt like he'd been fouled six times by a pair of beaters and a bludger or two.

He was amazed at how soft his voice sounded. Much quieter than I've been in months. "Good afternoon, Mother. Where are we?" Everything is still swimming a little Car. I think this is a car. Why do I see wings? I must not be thinking properly yet. Concentrate on breathing. Simple enough. He screwed up his eyes again, opened them wide and looked at his mother with a tilt of his head as he tried to focus. Amazing, he thought. Draco had long believed that when she was angry, his mother looked much older than her thirty four years, but for his father, the opposite was true - when he was upset, he looked much younger than fifty five.

"How dare you embarrass the family that way? I had to listen to that Arthur Weasley tell me, in front of everyone, that my son got hexed by his oafish sons, that disturbed Potter boy and that horrible mudblood girl, and was lying unconscious in some random compartment on the train. I couldn't even wake you there, and had to drag you off that damned train. You'll have to put this on your list about today. Don't you have the brains to defend yourself, to not walk into situations where you're outnumbered, you look ridiculous, there's a muddy footprint in your hair and hex marks all over your arms and face, what makes you think you are competent to uphold the ..."

Draco had already stopped listening, tuning out the words of Narcissa Malfoy's rant; he pulled himself off the floor of one of the family cars, onto the jumpseat, leaned over and picked up his wand. Normally, on the rare occasions when they took this car, if his father was not with them he sat on the backseat with his mother, but at this moment, Draco wanted to be out of her immediate reach. The jumpseat was very uncomfortable for a fifteen year old, even one of average height like he was, but it was the best place to be right then.

He focused on her hat, which let him appear as if he was looking into her eyes, and his mouth curved into a small pout; he knew how to look properly abashed. He might be talkative, sarcastic and witty at school, and could come up with elaborate explanations for things around his father. When he was alone with his mother, though, it was easier to be quiet and hardly listen to her roar.

A small, familiar voice in the back of his mind was yelling along with Narcissa. It's your own fault you got hexed. You're to blame for everything. Why did you say such horrible things about Cedric? Only dead for a few days, and all you can do is curse his memory. Haven't you any self control? Fine, Draco thought to himself. Next time, tell me this before I do something stupid. The voice continued. Where is all this discipline you have been taught? How dare you think you are worthy of attention? Why do you believe everything your father tells you? You are unfit to breathe the same air as your classmates, too horrible to consort with normal witches and wizards, evil...evil...dark...evil...

"I am not!" Draco said aloud.

"Oh, yes you are," Narcissa responded. What did my answer apply to? Draco wondered. "As

soon as we get home, you are going up to your room until we hear from your father."

Oh. That. I can deal with that.

"Is he still at the paper?"

"Of course. There's been some big catastrophe all week about a stupid reporter going missing. After all those stories last year about that missing Ministry of Magic witch, we can't really ignore it when one of our own staffers disappears." Narcissa continued, changing the subject. "I've already sent your owl home with a note telling the house elves to remove your piano and your bookcases, but they are to leave your desk."

"But. Mother," Draco tried to interject. Better let her think that it bothers me to lose the piano again. Let's see if I can trade with Lucius - the information about Rita in exchange for it. It would be a fair swap, but he doesn't really care much about being fair. Still, it's all I've got.

Narcissa continued, "until your father says otherwise, you'll have no amusements, other than your summer homework, which done in the next two weeks, and some projects he has planned."

"Why do I have to do all my work now? And what kinds of projects?"

"I don't know what kinds," she snapped. "I do know that your father wants us out of the country for most of the summer. We are going to visit my brother and his family in the Pyrenees in July, and I don't want you to bring any schoolwork. We have too many other things to keep us occupied."

Draco momentarily wondered, why does he want us out of the country, but focused on his mother's other statement. Good, travel - this will be a safe subject. Narcissa loved talking about her brother, her sister in law, and all his cousins - probably because they weren't Malfoys. Just keep her talking about the parties they have planned and maybe it'll convince her to go shopping for the girls, or for trip supplies, or...

It didn't work. After only a few minutes of questions about the Pyrenees Pegasus Polo Open and the Magical Mountains House Parties they would be attending, they reached Malfoy Manor. On such a bright, sunny day, the stone walls looked almost golden and welcoming. Draco noticed a series of six gigantic poles with loops on the tops, on the Western Field. "Is Father planning some Quidditch parties this summer?"

Narcissa said no. "That's for your training. Your father is very upset that you've barely flown since last autumn, between that stupid Triwizard Cup and the fact that you stayed at school during the breaks this year, and he wants you to have a lot of Quidditch practice this summer. He expects you to win each match next year, especially the one against Gryffindor. He has a whole schedule planned for you, both here and while we're at Uncle Charles', but I don't remember the name of the gentleman who he hired to supervise your training, someone named Vox? Fawkes?"

"Dylan Vacchs? He just retired as Seeker for the Luxembourg team. I think..." He didn't get to finish his sentence. They had pulled up to the portico, and the car door opened. Draco stepped out and held out his hand, to help Narcissa alight.

She held out her hand to him, but before stepping onto the gravel, paused, and touched his face. "I'll have someone bring your supper up. And if I can, something for those hex and wand marks. Lucius will be upset enough about those curses on the train; it would be better if he wasn't reminded of it the minute he sees you." She stepped out. "Why don't you go upstairs and get started on that homework? And I think you owe him a list about the past week, especially what happened today."

Damned lists. I did this wrong, and this wrong, and made that mistake, and gave away too much information to some such person and did one tiny, tiny thing properly, not that you'd notice anyway. "He still thinks it helps my writing," Draco murmured.

"He obviously does. You'll probably start with the Daily Prophet in under three years, but only if your writing and reporting improve. By the time he was your age, your father had already had two investigative pieces published, and did a weekly column from school."

She turned away and moved up the steps to the front door, handing her hat to the maid who waited just inside. "Clearly, you're still not working hard enough. It's very disappointing."

Draco stood by the car for a moment. So I'm still a disappointment. Still not good enough - but how could I have been this year, with no Quidditch, and with me too young for the Triwizard (didn't stop that damned Potter). I hope this time he lets me explain. He looked back at the car, and contemplated starting it with his wand and driving off, back to London, and disappearing into Diagon Alley. Brilliant idea, Draco. With what money? You spent everything in Hogsmeade! You can get through this summer. It's only three weeks until we go to Uncle Charles'. Just three weeks with no music, lots of Quidditch, lots of homework and nobody to talk to.

"Better than last summer," he muttered, then glanced quickly around to make sure none of the gargoyles around the entrance had heard him. The house was very clearly his father's, and the creatures and paintings had a tendency to report any of Draco's comments to Lucius. It would be better, though. When he was with his cousins, when his father wasn't there, and his mother was off entertaining and being entertained, things were much more relaxing.

He stepped towards the house, looking towards the roaring flames in the fireplace just inside the door. Whenever Draco had visited other large wizarding homes, he had been impressed by the ease with which people went from room to room. Visiting Vincent Crabbe's house last summer, they used floo powder to go from floor to floor, because there were no stairs. But centuries before, when the first Malfoys in England had designed the first version of the Manor, they had placed wards which prevented most in-house use of traveling spells. His parents could use floo powder to travel between the rooms with fireplaces, but anyone else who tried to use it to get in, including Draco, would end up in the entrance hall fireplace.

Just before he entered the foyer, Draco pulled out his wand and, with a Summoning charm, took from his trunk one of the books he'd picked up in Hogsmeade. Hogwarts students were officially prevented from doing magic over the holidays, but Malfoy Manor hadn't been enchanted with Ministry Interference Spells over twenty years ago for nothing. Draco knew well that the spells had really been performed to allow his father to engage in Dark Magic in secret, but it was a nice benefit to do magic all summer without worrying about receiving an Underage Magic Citation, like other students.

As he walked up the stairs, he flipped through the first chapter of the book. It was a historical fiction novel called Fatherland, about what England would be like if You-Know-Who hadn't lost his powers. Lucius hates when I read these frivolous books, but that Shrinking Spell should let me keep at least one hidden. Time to go upstairs, and face the music. Or in my case, the almost complete lack thereof.