Slings And Arrows

Chapter 2

 

Draco reached the relative safety of the green drawing room on the second floor, and caught his breath. He was used to the presence of Death Eaters in the house, but the woman Ryubova had seemed to give off waves of cold like an opened freezer, and he didn’t like the calculating look in Lucius’s icy eyes at all. Something is up. I wish I knew what.

He knew they’d summon him when the meal was served; they always did. If Lucius happened to be in a magnanimous mood, he might allow Draco to stay with the adults while he plied them with aperitifs, but Draco had a feeling the meeting Lucius was holding now had nothing to do with magnanimity, and everything to do with the destruction of the Potter boy. It had only been a few weeks since the Hogwarts spring term had ended, and already Harry Potter’s precious life was being threatened once again. Just once, thought Draco sourly, just once, would it be too much to ask to have a simple and uncomplicated summer vacation without my father trying to have someone killed?

He sighed, wandered over to the vast green marble chimney-breast. Over the mantel hung an enormous eighteenth-century portrait of a Malfoy in complicated robes that recalled some of the costumes he’d seen in Amadeus. A gilt scroll beneath the painting announced that it immortalized one Guillaume Auguste de Malfoy, Comte de Lusigne et Courolles. Draco tipped his head on one side, regarding the Comte with narrowed eyes. It was astonishing how much the Malfoys looked like one another. Guillaume could have been Lucius, in a long white curly wig.

"Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not polite to stare?" inquired the portrait, in an upper-class French accent. Draco jumped.

"Sorry," he said, without thinking. "Er. I didn’t know you...."

"Noticed? Honestly, boy, what else is there to do? I’m stuck in this ghastly frame with an abysmal view of a tiny room. Into which, I might add, no one ever comes, so I have very little to entertain myself with." He sounded petulant.

"How boring for you," said Draco, trying to mollify his ancestor. Guillaume looked slightly less peeved.

"Well, at least you have some manners," he said, consideringly. "You’ll be Julian’s son, I daresay?"

"Lucius’s, actually," said Draco. "Lucius and Narcissa."

The portrait frowned. "Lucius and Narcissa? Hmmm. I’m sure that’s not the pairing I recall."

"What do you mean?" Draco asked, idly. Guillaume fixed him with a familiar grey stare.

"I’m probably wrong. Out of touch, you know. What’s your name, boy?"

"Draco."

Now Guillaume did look surprised, and rather nonplussed. "Draco? Well...I suppose..."

"I know, I know," said Draco, "it’s a ridiculous name. Trust me, I get enough of that at school."

"It’s a fine name, boy. An old Malfoy name. Don’t interrumpt your elders." He appeared to be thinking. Draco took a few steps back and stared at him. "Must be coincidence."

"What must be coincidence?" he asked, genuinely curious by now.

"Well...." said Guillaume. "If you don’t know about it already....it’s really not my place to tell you. Your mother ought to have done so a while ago."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Draco demanded, the Malfoy imperiousness rising in him like boiling milk. "Stop hinting about things."

Guillaume laughed, a little dry sound. "I’m glad to see the family spirit hasn’t died out. Look....Draco...if you want to know....I suggest you find yourself in the Oak Room at midnight tonight. It’s the anniversary, so the manifestation will be stronger than ever."

Draco leaned closer. "What manifestation?"

"You’ll see," said his ancestor mysteriously. "Although you may not like what you see. No, you won’t like it at all..." He trailed off, looking distant. "You’re wanted in the dining room. Best be off, boy, it’s not the thing to keep one’s elders and betters waiting."

Draco knew that better than most. He didn’t hesitate, but as he left he couldn’t help wondering just what the wretched portrait had meant by all of those vague remarks. Manifestation of what? What should Mother have told me?

Nevertheless, he decided to make a midnight reconnaissance journey to the disused Oak Room at the top of the north wing. No point ignoring something that weird. It might, after all, be some sort of distraction from the crap his father clearly intended to put him through that summer.

Dinner was, as ever, a fraught affair. Draco took his place halfway down the vast ebony table, glittering with crystal and silver and Crown Derby, and did his best to stay out of the conversation and look obedient. Branson the butler kept refilling his wineglass, and the looks Lucius kept shooting him said very clearly that he was to drink the stuff and enjoy it like a man. He couldn’t remember all the times Lucius had told him that the appreciation of good wine was one of the characteristics of a gentleman, but he had never much liked it; it made him feel dizzy and rather sick. He concentrated on eating, and speaking only when spoken to.

"...and so I believe that once the furor dies down we will be able to replace Karkaroff with someone a little more worthy," Bartleby Lestrange was saying, gesturing with a glassful of Chateau d’Yquem. "The mess with the Goblet of Fire was hardly appropriate, but it did accelerate things a bit."

"Our Lord is growing stronger by the day," said Ryubova throatily. "We must tighten our ranks in support. What are we going to do about the traitor Snape?"

Draco choked, loudly. Lucius gave him a furious glare—have you learned nothing about table manners, boy?—but Ryubova leaned over and thwacked him firmly on the back. "Are you all right?" she asked, not unkindly. He nodded, red with embarrassment and coughing, and took the glass of water Lestrange handed him. Lucius made an exasperated noise.

"Draco, if you can’t behave properly at the table I shall send you to your room," he said coldly. Oh, if only you would, thought Draco. "What were you saying, Avdotya?"

"Oh, just that the man Snape continues to live," she said lightly. "He betrayed our Master, and yet he continues to live. Surely that is not as it should be?"

"I rather think Our Lord enjoys keeping him around," said Nott through a mouthful of filet mignon. "As a plaything, you know. The number of times I’ve seen Snape subjected to Crucio....it’s rather astonishing how long he has survived, actually. I expect he would be dead if Our Lord had wished him to be." Draco, still coughing a bit, tried not to think about all the times Snape had dragged himself to morning Potions looking as if someone had been using him as a Bludger bat, and directed his attention firmly at the plate in front of him.

Ryubova laughed musically. "I bow to your superior knowledge, Nott," she said. "What about the chapters of the Silver Serpent in other countries? I can vouch for Russia and Ukraine."

"We’re solid all through Western Europe," MacNair said. "By the way, Lucius, this is an excellent year." He swirled the pale-golden wine in his glass. "You never cease to surprise me with your taste."

Lucius inclined his head slightly in acceptance of the compliment. "Which reminds me," he said, "there are several openings in my, ah, business network. If any of you have recommendations for new hires, I’d be glad to hear them." The talk moved to Lucius’s extensive web of shipping connections and the multiple smuggling rings those connections had been set up to camouflage. Draco managed to keep from incurring his father’s wrath throughout the rest of the meal, until the plates had been cleared away and coffee, brandy and cigars brought in. Snape, he thought painfully. Not that I like the man much, but he’s never been unfair to me. Just unfair to everyone else. I knew he had been a Death Eater, but I didn’t know about Voldemort’s using him for curse target practice. Nobody deserves that. Nobody.

Christ. It’s getting worse. And more impossible to back out of.

He didn’t look up as the brandy decanter passed. "Draco!" snapped Lucius. "You will drink with the rest of us. Branson, pour it."

Draco sighed, watched the snifter fill with amber liquid. He already felt sick from the wine during dinner and from choking. This wasn’t going to help. Fixing the Malfoy smile on his face, he raised his glass in a toast with the other guests. "To Our Dark Lord’s rising," he chorused, and managed to keep the smile from turning into a grimace. He stole a glance at his mother, down at the other end of the table. She looked rather white, and he noticed her hand was trembling around the stem of the glass. I wonder what’s eating her.

"To you, Lucius," Nott was saying, raising his glass again. Obediently Draco followed suit. There were three or four more toasts before the conversation drifted back to desultory things like the rising percentages of Mudbloods in positions of influence in Britain, and the brandy fumes were making his head swim. He did his best to remain inconspicuous, but inevitably the conversation returned to the topic of Harry Potter, as it always did eventually, and the attention of the table gravitated to him. He swallowed, feeling worse.

"What was the reaction to Diggory’s death?" asked MacNair importantly. "I trust you did your best to blame Potter for that, Draco?"

"Yes, sir," he said automatically. "I suggested that Potter dragged Diggory with him when the Portkey activated, out of cowardice, and this caused Diggory’s death."

"And?"

"I was believed by most people, I think," Draco lied. "Potter’s adherents are blind to any other arguments but their own, though. They’d not believe me if I told them the sky was blue."

"A pity you did not try harder," said Lucius coldly. "And I hardly need to remind you of the incident on the train."

Draco looked down, furious at the blush that was rising in his face. "Yes, Father."

"Oh, don’t be so hard on him, Lucius," said Ryubova absently. "He’s just a boy."

Just a boy, indeed. "A boy who must learn," Lucius corrected. "Draco, drink your brandy."

He did, slowly, trying not to gag. When the glass was empty he set it down and marshalled his features into the Malfoy mask. "May I be excused from the table, Father?" Lucius’s eyes got colder, if that was possible. "I am constantly amazed," he said, cutting off the words, "by your lack of manners, Draco. You are fifteen years old, and yet you continue to insist on acting like a spoilt child. No, you may not be excused until our guests have finished."

"Oh, come on, Lucius," said Lestrange, who was rather flushed with alcohol. "Give the kid a break."

Lucius turned that wintry gaze on him, and some of the flush left his face. Draco shot a glance down the table to his mother. He was rather afraid he’d be sick soon, and he really didn’t want to know what Lucius would do to him if he did that in front of guests. Narcissa caught the look, and Draco was surprised to see how agitated she was. What’s wrong with her? he thought. Before, she just looked uncomfortable; now she looks frightened. And sad.

"Let him go, my love," she said quietly, "please? He’s been working terribly hard on his studies; he’s overtired."

A look of absolute and utter fury flickered on Lucius’s lovely features for a moment, before being replaced by a rather brittle and mirthless smile. "Very well, Narcissa," he said evenly. "You may go, Draco. I will see you in my study at ten o’clock exactly."

Great. More of the horsewhip. Or maybe he’s got a new toy? Something with spikes on, perhaps? Before Lucius could change his mind, Draco rose and bowed to the guests, muttered an apology, and hurried out of the room, feeling sicker than ever.

A few minutes later, as he leaned over the toilet in his green-marble bathroom being ill, Draco wondered what on earth he was going to do. There wasn’t anyone to talk to about any of this. His mother was as unapproachable as the ice statue she resembled; none of the servants or house-elves would let themselves hear anything he said in confidence because of the certainty that Lucius could, and would, torture it out of them. All he had was a dog-eared journal and the portrait of the Victorian Malfoys that hung over his fireplace across from his bed, with whom he’d had several conversations since the holidays began.

His retching eased, finally. Damn Lucius. He knows perfectly well I can’t hold liquor, and he continues to insist on getting me drunk every time I have to go to one of his little soirees. He must really like making me sick.

Well, of course he does, he told himself. He’s a sadist. Unfortunately, he’s also my father.

A new thought struck him. What if he does the same stuff to Mother that he does to me? It’s okay when it’s just me....I’m used to it....but if he’s hurting Mother, too...if that’s why she looked so worried and distant.....

Well, then what? I can’t do anything about it. Christ, and Potter thinks hislife is hard. At least his parents are dead. They can’t talk to him up close with a whip.

Draco got up, shakily, washed out his mouth. Shut up, Malfoy, he told himself. No use whingeing about it. He splashed water on his face, staring at himself in the great mirror. He looked like hell. His pointed face was too pale (and still slightly greenish); his eyes were bloodshot and circled by brownish shadows. I’m letting the side down. Malfoys are supposed to be ethereally beautiful.

Maybe I’d be ethereally beautiful if he’d stop beating the crap out of me and ease up on the all-night magic lessons. He gave himself a tired grin and lurched off towards the bed, collapsed face-down on the tangle of covers, and drifted into exhausted sleep.

"Master Draco, Master Draco," someone was saying, shrilly. "Master Draco must wake up now."

He rolled over and jerked entirely awake at the shock of finding himself face-to-face with a house-elf. "Gaah," he mumbled. "What time is it?"

"Nine-thirty. Master Draco must go to Master Lucius’s study at ten," the house-elf squeaked, clearly terrified. "Master Draco mustn’t be late."

He sat up sharply. "No he mustn’t," he agreed, sliding out of bed. "Thanks....er...."

"Melly, Master Draco," said the house-elf, looking down. He realized he’d never ever thanked a house-elf before. "Melly has seen Master Draco’s wounds, sir. Melly knows Master Lucius doesn’t like to be kept waiting."

Draco stared at the creature. "You what?" he asked.

Melly squeaked. "Nothing, Master Draco. Forgive stupid Melly."

"No, what did you say," he demanded. "You’ve seen what exactly?"

"Master Draco’s back," the house-elf managed through teeth chattering with fear. "When Melly is making the beds last week and Master Draco returns from the study, Master Draco is not seeing Melly and is taking off his shirt, and Melly is leaving, but in the mirror Melly sees the wounds." She was shaking so hard her pillowcase uniform was in danger of coming off. Draco sighed. This was the last thing he needed.

"Never mind," he said. "Go away now, Melly, and bring me some tea." He was still wearing the horrible dress robes, and as the elf scurried out of the room he weighed the benefits of changing with the advantages of keeping them on. The fabric was so thick it might ease the effects of the whip a bit, but that was likely to infuriate Lucius still further, and that might mean he would either make Draco strip entirely or just whip him for longer. Besides, the sight of the robes might recall the earlier confrontation, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to do that.

He stalked over to his wardrobe and pulled out a pair of black dress pants and a plain black shirt (white bloodstained too badly) and got changed as quickly as he could. Melly was back with a tea tray as he ran a comb through his silver hair, and he thanked her again. Funny; he’d never really considered the house-elves before, but this one had just saved him from sleeping through one of his father’s appointments, and he had to admit that was a big, big favour. She squeaked and ran off as fast as her little legs could take her. My charm seems to be losing its touch, too. I wonder what’s happening to me?

He drank his scalding tea and ate a handful of biscuits—gotta keep the strength up, old boy—before pulling a cloak around his shoulders and hurrying downstairs to his father’s private study.

An hour later he returned, limping a bit, and nearly fell over when he saw his mother standing in the doorway of his room. Narcissa looked as if she’d been crying. He hadn’t actually known it was possible for her to cry. Tendrils of her hair were coming down, and her eyeliner was smudged a bit on one side. She looked human. It was a surprising change.

"Mother," said Draco tiredly. "To what do I owe the honor of this visit?"

"Sit down," she said, and pointed to the edge of the bed. She was using her authoritative voice, despite her disheveled appearance, and he found himself doing as she said. She pulled off his cloak and drew in a sharp, painful breath at the sight of the bloody tatters of his shirt.

"Mother?" he said.

"Shut up and let me work." Behind him, she got up and went over to his dressing table, where—he noticed—she’d already laid out a bowl of hot water and some rolls of bandaging. She knows. How long? Is he doing it to her too?

Narcissa soaked a cloth in the water and began cleaning away the blood that oozed from the new welts. Draco hissed in pain, and he felt her hands pause, but continue working. "I’m sorry," he muttered.

"For what?"

"The shirt. It was rather a good shirt. I should’ve picked something less expensive to wear."

Narcissa’s breath shuddered. "Draco, don’t talk to me just now. I need to concentrate." She worked quickly and gently, with the skill of long practice, and Draco found himself wondering how many times she’d done this, and why. When all the wounds were clean, she drew out her wand and tapped his back several times, muttering something; there was an instant of incredible pain, but then the agony died away to a dull itching ache. She began to bandage the wounds, slowly. "I’m afraid I can’t heal them completely," she said, "but I’ve taken out the poison he puts on the whip. It makes the wounds scar badly and hurt more than they should. You’ll be all right in a few days."

Draco turned and stared at her. She looked white and worn and very, very sad. "Mother," he said. "What’s going on? Why are you so...." he trailed off, trying to find a tactful way to say it.

"So concerned about your welfare?" she said bitterly. "Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t heard the most important thing."

"Which is?"

"You spoke with Guillaume de Malfoy today, didn’t you," she said, not really changing the subject. "He told you that you should go to the Oak Room tonight at midnight."

"Yes," said Draco, "but how did you know? I mean, what is all this mysterious crap? I’m tired of not being told anything."

"I know," she said softly. "I should have told you ages ago, Draco. I’m sorry. You deserved to know before now."

"Know what?" he demanded irritably.

"Lucius Malfoy is not your father."

His room was utterly silent except for the crackle of the fire in the marble fireplace. Narcissa’s eyes, violet-blue, were full of unshed tears as she looked at him searchingly. He knew his mouth was hanging open like a goldfish’s. "But," he said at last. "But. I look just like him. He has to be my father, he has to be...."

"Lucius is your uncle. Your real father’s name was Julian Malfoy; he was Lucius’s twin brother."

"Was?" queried Draco, still rather dizzy with shock. Anger was beginning to make itself known, too.

"Julian died the year after you were born. It was never really explained how he died." She looked away, and he heard the tightness in her voice that meant the tears were threatening more fiercely. "Lucius...well, he was there for me. I was mad with grief, and terrified. Julian hadn’t had any money, he’d been the younger of the two by about a minute, and therefore Lucius got everything by primogeniture. It was Lucius who’d supported us until Julian got a job. I was a widow at twenty-three, with a young child and about three Sickles to my name. Lucius stepped in and saved us from bankruptcy." She stopped, ran a hand through the tangled mess of her hair. Draco felt oddly light and calm, as if he wasn’t really hearing this, as if he wasn’t even really in his room. Shock and hate and anger swirled around him, but he felt quite distant and untouched by them.

"So you married your dead husband’s brother," he said. "How soon after my dad died?"

She wouldn’t look at him. "About a month."

Oh, but now the anger was there, and it was powerful, and the room seemed to dim with redness as he felt his hands curl into fists with the rage. "A month," he spat. "A month?"

"He was so like him!" Narcissa hissed, turning like a snake to stare at him with her burning eyes. "So like Julian, back then. It was as if I could have Julian back again."

"Go on," said Draco levelly. "And what’s this about you being penniless? I thought you were supposed to be from a rich pureblood family. Lucius wouldn’t have touched you otherwise."

"Is that what he told you?" she said, almost sadly. "My family were purebloods, certainly. But we had sold every single asset we’d ever had, over the years. Pride may be comforting, but it doesn’t feed anybody. Julian married me despite my lack of a dowry. Lucius married me because he wanted it all for himself. He couldn’t stand it when Julian and I got married. He couldn’t stand his brother having anything he didn’t. So when Julian....died, Lucius got his chance.

"Draco....I know you hate me right now, and you’ve got every right to. I should never have concealed it from you. But it wasn’t all in my hands, and it wasn’t always like it is now. Lucius changed over the years. When we married, he wasn’t...cruel. Not so cruel. He grew steadily colder and colder and more and more obsessed with perfection. He wanted you to be perfect. He wanted you to be his creation."

"Well, I’m not," spat Draco, getting up. "Mother....how could you? How could you lie to me, all my life? How could you let me believe that sadistic bastard is my father? Look....just go, would you? Get out of my room. I don’t want to see your face right now."

"I understand," said Narcissa quietly, and got to her feet. "Have a care, Draco. He is dangerous. He is a dangerous man."

"Get the fuck out of my room," Draco repeated, his voice beginning to crack as he lost the battle for control.

 

TBC when I have time and energy. Vita Lab is on a brief hiatus because of skool work.

"Ryubova" is pronounced "Ree-YOU-bova."