These Strange Familiar Things

These Strange Familiar Things

Chapter 3

Voices

Draco Malfoy turned over in bed, putting his hands over his ears to block out the occasional masculine grunts and more frequent feminine yelps and moans that were coming from his parents' room. Dear God, hadn't they ever heard of a silencing charm? Even an incompetent third year Hufflepuff could handle such a simple spell.

He cursed the unfortunate long-standing shite traditions that designated this hallway the Residential Chambers of Malfoy Mansion, preventing them from adding thicker walls to the original elegant construction of the bedrooms. The Mansion must be preserved in its original state. It was practically a bloody law.

Draco had learned long ago that one did not question the Malfoy Law. (Malfoys were not crass enough to have ever written down any of this where common eyes could defile it, but that is not to say that the Law was any less rigid and all-encompassing due to its unspoken nature.)

Narcissa let out a thin high wail.

"Fuck!" Draco got up from his sinfully comfortable four poster and stomped over to his dresser in the dark, banging various body parts in the process, and felt around for his wand. He was not in a good mood when he finally located it on the floor next to his mahogany dressing table (incidentally, mahogany is a very hard wood).

"Lumos."

He walked around the perimeter of his bed and cast a silencing charm, then flopped back onto the mattress with a groan. Great. Now I'm not even remotely tired anymore. He muttered another foul word in his parents' direction. They always forgot to ward their nocturnal activities from listening ears on the first few nights after his return from Hogwarts.

How easily they overlooked his presence was not lost on Draco, but by now these almost insignificant slights were an indistinguishable thread in the fabric of his home life, one more thing that made being at home like wearing robes he had outgrown. A little too snug at the collar and shoulders; just uncomfortable enough that he could never relax.

In the quiet times, that is. The good times.

He sighed and rolled over. Tomorrow it would begin again, the summer "re-education" his father made him go through every year. Lucius was not fond of Hogwarts' leadership, to put it lightly--that was no secret--but not only did he despise Dumbledore, he felt that the entire curriculum the old wizard oversaw was total rubbish.

During the holidays, Lucius drilled into his son the basic principles of the Malfoy outlook on life: theories on Wizard-Muggle relations, the importance of pure blood and ancestry, cutthroat business practices, finance and economics, the social order, the responsibilities of the male as head of the household and on and on and on....

It was so fucking boring, and so much work. If there was anything Draco Malfoy hated it was honest work.

The only bright spot in all this was the fact that it gave him some one-on-one time with his cold and withdrawn father, even if Lucius spent most of it berating Draco in icy disapproval.

Also, sometimes as a reward Lucius would allow Draco glimpses of minor Dark Magic, almost harmless little spells like undetectable cheating charms and various wicked pranks that went just beyond the line that divided mischievous from malicious.

Draco relished not only the abilities these charms gave him but the thrill of the forbidden they afforded, however brief and petty. He had used them already at Hogwarts with no one the wiser, and each time he whispered the words he felt an invisible thread connecting him to Lucius.

Draco tried not to think about the eventual end to the path his father was setting him on and the gruesome acts that would accompany the journey, knowing only that in this, he would not--could not--fail his father. Any price was worth the absence of that contemptuous disgust he saw every time he looked into his father's eyes; Draco was not fool enough to believe he would ever encounter warmth or approval there.

But it would be enough, to not feel that icy blast of displeasure and see the disappointment in the opaque grey irises that exactly mirrored his own.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

"Stand up straight! Fix your grip!" A sharp finger jabbed Draco between the shoulder blades.

He gritted his teeth and stiffened his posture, concentrating on the proper form for his fingers on the wand he gripped in his clammy hands. Maple, with a core of manticore eyelash. He hadn't heard the end of that one for months.

According to Lucius, maple was exceptionally sissy and absolutely inappropriate for a Malfoy. Any Malfoys worth their name displayed their carved ebony or mahogany wands with pride; he had long been expecting a dragon-heartstring core, and the one he ended up with was frightfully disappointing. At the time, eleven-year-old Draco had been crushed, though he had known even then that it would be unwise to show his feelings. Now, however, these little routine incidents were nothing more than daily blows he didn't feel, bouncing off his armoured exterior without visibly harming him. Besides, such matters had been dwarfed by other, more consequential things long ago.

Fingers snapped sharply in front of his face. "Concentrate!" barked Lucius. "Why I was cursed with such a worthless excuse for a son, I can never fathom," he muttered just loud enough for Draco to catch.

He pressed his lips together until they were white and stared stone-faced at the ocelot writhing on the grass before him. She was beautiful, in a wild, untamed way. Right now she was restrained by painful invisible ropes, angry and affronted.

Today Draco stood at a crossroads. This was the first time Lucius had asked him to attempt an Unforgivable, or even broached the subject to him. It was an unspoken signal that the time of his initiation was drawing closer, if he were to prove himself worthy. He was to perform the Cruciatus curse on the bound creature and would not be dismissed until he succeeded.

Already Draco had tried and failed three times; it was surprisingly difficult, and the sweat was gathering on his pale forehead.

Summon the hate, his father's voice echoed in his head, the contempt. See how pathetic she is. She deserves to suffer.

He swallowed and tried to assemble some strong negative feelings. Since he hadn't any regarding the beautiful cat lying at his feet, he dredged up memories he had tried to bury deep in the dusty back shelves of his mind.

Draco was jerked from his mother's warm embrace, which smelled like new snow, hard fingers digging into his thin shoulder with bruising force. The boy is five years old now. He doesn't need you anymore. Boys don't love their mothers, you know, the voice sneered. It was smooth, melodic, cultured, and entirely sinister. Do not touch him, Narcissa. Your wretched grasping will ruin the boy...

The ocelot had silvery eyes. So cold, so dazzling. Dangerous.

He was running, lungs burning, breaths coming in short gasps in time with the pounding of his shoes on the ground. He saw it up ahead through a wet blur, his sanctuary, but he knew he wouldn't make it. He could almost feel his pursuer's breath on his neck. The burly manservant grabbed him from behind, ropy arms squeezing around his ribs. Draco heard one snap with a sickening crunch. The tears blurred his vision, as they fell he failed to see the hand swinging in for the slap... Malfoys do not run away, said his father derisively, silver eyes full of disgust, Malfoys never, never cry...

Draco felt the rage building, slow and steady.

"Visualize her pain," Lucius grated into his ear. "Let her screams fill your mind..." he said hoarsely, breathing hard.

The hate built to a crescendo, and Draco saw a sneering white face that mirrored his own, pale hair falling forward, visualized the eyes turning dull grey with pain and shock, and extended his right arm, tense and shaking.

"Crucio," he said in a low dangerous growl. He felt... evil... awaken in his body, rush through his veins and make his blood sing.

He heard the shrieks in his head, shivering in ecstasy. He saw Lucius, twisted and wrecked, pleading for mercy. He didn't want to stop--the presence didn't want him to stop.

"Crucio," he shouted, revelling in the painfully delicious overload in his brain.

"Quite a rush, isn't it?" said his father proudly. The voice was all wrong, coming from by his shoulder and totally devoid of pain. Wait.

Confused, Draco looked down at the Lucius he had been torturing and saw only a tragically broken feline, bloody and motionless.

He started and dropped the wand, mouth open in shock. He had seen it so clearly, his father's features a mask of suffering...

All he saw now was a once majestic wildcat, unconscious with pain, bleeding from various wounds she had inflicted with her own teeth and claws in helpless rage.

Lucius, noting his son's surprised silence, reverted to his lecture tone. "The beauty of the Cruciatus curse and the reason for its frequent use is that when you cast it, you feel as if you are cursing the one person you hate most, regardless of whether you have any personal feelings about your victim, one way or the other. Cruciatus is based on emotion; on hate. The stronger your hate, the more potent the spell."

Draco stared at him, heartbeat skittering erratically, trying to digest this new information.

Lucius grinned. "That was quite impressive," he remarked. "Who were you picturing with such concentration?"

Draco said nothing for a moment, then looked down at the ocelot, her blood blackening, staining the flawless emerald green of the Malfoy grounds. She would not last the night.

"Potter," he said without expression.

He felt the momentary weight of his father's hand on his shoulder. The contact was fleeting. Lucius said something. Draco didn't hear the words, but he was aware that he had waited his entire life to hear that exact tone of voice. They walked back to the Manor in silence, side by side.

A curtain fluttered, then fell back into place, in a tower window that faced the lawns.

No one heard the woman weeping in that cold empty corner of the manse.

After all, she had long ago learned to cry without being heard.