The Other One

THE OTHER ONE

[ Chapter 1 ]

Lucius Malfoy woke up with a start. He was persipiring, heavily. No! Not again. His mind rebelled in dread. His heart was beating abnormally fast and his hand gripped his chest as though afraid that his heart might burst out his chest at any moment. He felt his heart was being stretched to the maximum like it was made of rubber. His lungs were burning like it was on fire. His face contorted in pain.

His hand immediately went under his pillow, groping for his wand. It wasn't there! Where was his wand? He thought irritably. He needed his wand to perform a pain erasing charm. He tried calling for Tem, the current house elf. But, the words were a muffled garble because he was coughing and coughing until he coughed out blood.

Fresh red blood spattered on his dirty slate grey cotton wool garment and on his thin blanket. It dribbled from the corner of his mouth and trailed on the front of his worn out grey pullover. He spat the remains of the blood out, and tried to get up when the pain increased. He fell out of bed and crumpled on the cold floor.

Crouching in pain, he clutched his chest as his heart began throbbing as if its being trampled by horses. His body convulsed, as he felt the molten heat coursing through his veins. He couldn't scream, as it was too excruciating to even move. He could feel the veins straining visibly on his cold pallid skin. He lay on his left side in a fetal position, uncaring of the cold because he was burning inside.

His body trembled again. This time out of relief as the pain was slowly flowing away from his tensed body. His body went languid. His hand that was clutching his chest fell tiredly on the floor. His eyes opened slowly, their grey depths seemed glazed from the pain. He closed his eyes for a few seconds before opening them. His vision cleared. He lay on his back on the cold damp floor. The corners of his mouth spotted dried blood, which he licked off as he gazed at the dark grey moss covered ceiling.

Cold reality kicked in. He wasn't at home. He was in Azkaban.

He was here because he had served the Dark Lord as one of his esteemed Death Eaters. He fought for a cause he thought embodied the doctrines of preserving the pureblooded wizarding community and the wizarding world from falling into the hands of unworthy halflings, like Harry Potter, muggleborns like Hermione Granger and muggle-loving wizards like Arthur Weasley. In his opinion, they were pariahs and they didn't deserve to live. He did what he thought was right. He had served the right leader. He was proud of it and would do it again, if he were reincarnated a thousand times over.

He thought, this time next week, I'll be in hell. Neither was he grim nor was he happy about it. His execution would be swift. He would receive the Dementor's Kiss. It was death but a painless one. For he would feel, see, hear, touch, think and sense nothing again. He would be nothing more than a shell that was Lucius Malfoy. He would've preferred dying in battle rather than facing an unworthy end such as this. But, he would never cower before them. No! He would hold his head up to all that would be present for the execution.

Then again, I won't even have the opportunity to be kissed by a Dementor. I'd be dead before than. He mused scornfully thinking about his ill predicament. This wasn't the first time he was besieged by mind-blowing pains throughout his body. It was his sixth. It was at times like this he thought of the legend of the talisman. Like all dark objects it was also cursed. He was suffering immensely and dying a slow painful death because of a rule that he had suspected he'd breached. His heart was beating frantically as red alerts flashed in his mind after experiencing the inflicted pain from the talisman for the third time.

Here, in Azkaban, everything was shrouded in a universally unnerving intense bleakness. Those who were weak and couldn't withstand the terrifying images replaying and midnight voices echoing their deepest fears in their minds have gone either mad or committed suicide. Yes, he was experiencing it too. The Dementors were doing a fabulous job of vacuuming any thoughts and emotions to satisfy their eternal hunger. He wasn't deranged yet. It was because he was excellent at controlling his thoughts and emotions.

He had simply taken the liberty of visiting his friends and relatives who were imprisoned here before the second war. Well, not really visiting them since they're busy staring at walls, banging their heads on the walls to get the voices or images out of their minds, gorging their eyes out, talking to their imaginary friends and of course a few died. He knew eventually he would be captured if he didn't die in battle. He needed the exposure and knowledge for when he'd be chucked in the potent woebegone shithole, he'd know what was required to stay sane by learning to glaze his thoughts and emotions with a thick crust of icy detachment when Dementors were near.

However, he was weak due to the constant pain and had grown thinner by each forceful blow from the talisman reminding him to do what was supposed to be done. There were no thoughts except pain and that did deter the Dementors from approaching him. He wasn't fair game or fresh meat for them to plunder anything out of him. In that manner, he was safe, but he was out of time. Very out of time. He drew in a ragged breath, Azkaban was nothing compared to this torture he was going through.

With his weakness, he had been visited by visions of a long buried past. It was at times like this he thought of...her. Not Narcissa. A woman he knew a long time ago in south of France. A woman who had one time made him whole but they weren't meant to be together. He felt...desolate thinking about her. She wasn't Narcissa. She was different. She was a Gypsy and was exciting, passionate and very giving. He was in south of France carrying out some family business with another wizarding family the DuMartiniques.

It was during one of his walks at dusk that he came in contact with a stretch of Gypsy caravans. And there she was...wild and carefree with her shiny black hair flowing down to her waist. Dancing with a fellow gypsy boy around the campfire. The other gypsies were clapping, drinking, eating, a few were singing and one was playing the mandolin. She happened to glance his way and Fate did her fanciful work of making her call him over to the campfire much to the consternation of her fellow Gypsies. They didn't like outsiders, especially one so fair. But, somehow they gave in to her pleas.

What about her that he liked? Well, he'd loved everything about her, especially her eyes. She had exotic and mesmerizing cerulean eyes. Odd, he thought, Gypsies rarely never have blue eyes. They were either black or brown. However, they had a wonderful time together, even if it was for a week. During the week long they lived and loved openly with no emotional commitments attached and that suited him well. He was, after all a married man. He'd been married to an English rose, the pride of the patriarch of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black for three days. He hadn't even bedded her before he left for south of France.

He and the Gypsy woman had a strange but mutual understanding about their shotgun affair. They clicked in so many ways, except that she wasn't inclined to anything darker other than being promiscuous. The simple rule of any brief affair, he'd take what she'd offered him. Her rule, she didn't take what he could afford to give her, money and trinkets. It was pride and willfulness, which he understood and it suited him just fine She just wanted him. He just stared incredulously at her. It was too good to be true. No woman could be that naïve. He couldn't believe his luck. He would indeed take advantage of her.

But, it was the other way round. She took advantage of him. At one point she gave him the impression that he wasn't well endowed enough to satisfy her. He was put out then was put to ease when she glowed with wanton passion abundance during their lovemaking. He was a generous man, so he gave her more because she wanted more of him. He was curious to know this beautiful, passionate sexy woman who only wanted him not his rich gifts. He asked for her name.

She merely smiled a mysterious smile. "Names are not necessary. You'll not be in my life long enough for me to use it." She placed her palm on the side of his face. "I'll call you Grey and you'll call me Blue. That'll do."

It was a very short affair. It was ironic, that it could last this long in his memory. It was one that had kept him warm at nights here in this cold prison fortress. He was cautious and that only heightened his control over his emotions and thoughts because they were food for the Dementors. He closed his mind and heart and kept his emotions and thoughts under wraps when they were near. Also, the talisman did its job protecting him from projecting too much emotion or thoughts with it torturing him incessantly until he was so wrecked inside out he fainted of pained exhaustion.

Sensing a Dementor wasn't a hard job. It emanates the aura of despondency when it was near, so he quickly squashed the image of the beautiful blue eyes from his mind. He'd emptied his mind, shutting off his emotions as the Dementor glided and paused in front of his cell. He could hear it snuffing for any thoughts or emotions, it thought it had detected in his cell. He bit his lower lip hard and tasted blood. The Dementor began probing his mind.

Think death, he thought and the pain the talisman inflicted on me. He thought about it, he felt no pain, only numbness as if he had endured the pain and was now settling with its after effects. He would have to credit the years of acting out with Narcissa over dinner parties and such really had its uses when it came to keeping his sanity in a place like this. The Dementor having sensed no thoughts or emotions from his cell glided away towards the end of the corridor.

Narcissa, he thought to himself. Why did he marry her in the first place? Oh, yes, he remembered, money married money and the binding words of two powerful family patriarchs, which meant power bred power.

He didn't love Narcissa. His lips thinned in dissatisfaction. What did he know of love? He knew lust! But of love, nothing! Narcissa was a gracious wife. She was the epitome of perfection that brightened his household was in fact a shallow and callous woman. She paled explicitly compared to his cerulean-eyed Gypsy. His mind wondered, why was he thinking of her...his beautiful Blue? He was getting sentimental when he ought to be fighting all the way until his execution day.

He curled his lips disdainfully, thinking of her married and having children of her own. Suddenly, he couldn't bring himself to condemn her or think of her being married to another man. He closed his mind off of that thought. His heart constricted, it was only for a week. He pondered scathingly, that was hardly even lust. Why her...why now? He shook the thoughts away mentally trying to clear his thoughts of her.

His thoughts strayed to Narcissa and his upper lip curled in disgust. Narcissa was overly obsessed with herself. She was always experimenting with magical beautification techniques to enhance her already flawless magically imbued skin to make her look younger than her actual age. It would satisfy him greatly, if one day her experiments backfired and she was deformed.

He remembered bitterly that he wanted to have sex with her two months after her confinement but she refused. She looked at him like he was a disgusting, smelly shoe and told him to sow his manly oats elsewhere. She didn't want to get a seed in her. Draco was enough. She'd gotten him with an heir and her duty was over. She informed him that it was hard for her to regain her perfect hourglass body and maintain her perfect body weight.

It took his entire self-control not to slap her. He jammed both fists into his trouser pockets. "Procreation is important, darling. What if Draco didn't survive his next birthday seeing that he was born prematurely, he's very weak..."

She cut him at mid-sentence, giving him a baleful glare. "He's not weak. He's beautiful," Her smile was as cold as her heart and didn't reach her wintry blue eyes. "All the more for you to make sure that he survives to celebrate many more of his birthdays. The Malfoy line depends on his survival."

Divorce was not an option and not in both families' agenda. It was just not done. The Malfoys and Blacks were adamant that they were a good pair. Their union would strengthen the pureblood ties. Thus, they have no choice but to stick to their word both to their families and to the Divinely Higher Power.

His father warned him that there should not be any illegitimate children or there would be hell to pay. "Fuck all the whores in Knockturn Alley and wenches in Diagon Alley, son." He stared at Lucius straight in his eyes with his own bloodshot eyes. "Make sure they don't beget bastards!"

Draco was the only one they shared. They didn't share anything else. They'd put on sterling performances that they were a happy and loving couple in front of just about everyone. When they were alone, all pretenses were dropped and were replaced by 'you-go-your-way-and-I-go-mine'. They lived separate lives in the Manor. Each had different sleeping chambers. His was west wing and hers was east wing.

He remembered how they'd convinced a four years old Draco why they had to have separate chambers.

Narcissa kissed Draco's blond head when his pouted in dissatisfaction with her explanation. "Father's busy with his work and mother doesn't want to bother him." Draco started to ask more but Narcissa smiled and patted his head like he was a puppy. She glanced at Lucius arching a thinned eyebrow at him to do his part in 'convincing' his son.

"Your mother's right. I'm very, very, very busy," He shifted his eyes on her, "Sometimes, I'm busy that I won't come home for a few nights because I'd be...working."

He knew the meaning was apparent to her and didn't bother to see her reaction. He left them both to their own devises. He was vexed and needed something to vent his anger on. The house-elves were a good choice and he made two of them his kicking and punching bags.

He did just as he told them. He had his 'work' cut out for him. He had nocturnal fun with many witches in Knockturn Alley. He even had a special room at the Hag's Inn there for all his bedroom activities. None of the activities were straight. They were at best he would say, extreme bondage fetishes. Sometimes, he was straight as well, especially those from Diagon Alley.

When he was 'working' on a Diagon Alley witch, he sometimes thought of that cerulean eyes, and out of volition he would whisper, "My beautiful Blue." It was after two hours or so, that he realized too his disappointment, she wasn't 'his beautiful Blue'. Perturbed, he would get up, smoothen his disheveled hair with his hands and quickly wore his clothes. Before walking out of the room, he would conjure up a black rose and put it next to her.

When she woke up, she would either look at it, smell its permeating exotic fragrance from where she was sleeping, or she would hold the rose, and even sniff it's exotic fragrance while holding it between her fingers. The enchantment on it had the power to stop his seeds from taking root in her womb. Or if it had taken root, the enchantment would dissolve the further workings of nature. Down at the innkeeper's counter, he gave a generous tip to Mr. Ichabod that was his norm, so that the innkeeper would assist the lady when she was ready to depart from the inn.

Then, came the time when Draco received letters from two established wizarding schools. One was from Durmstrang and the other was Hogwarts. Naturally, he chose to enroll Draco in Durmstrang, his alma mater. But she intervened and threatened him that she would embarrass him in front of his associates with her tantrums if he didn't enroll Draco in Hogwarts, her alma mater. It was one thing he couldn't and wouldn't stand for was her tantrums. They were usually very large scaled dramatics that would besmirch the Malfoy name for being uncharacteristic to their usual cruel malevolence.

He gnashed his teeth in frustration. It was because of her tantrums, Draco was what he was...a failure and...a damned faggot. The boy had an unhealthy liking for boys. He was incensed when he received news, before his capture that was, that Draco was...Damn! He couldn't even bring himself to say it. Draco wouldn't be 'that', if he went to Durmstrang. It was a tough school, executing strict conventional ethics of that a man was a man and that being a man meant doing manly things that included shagging the fairer sex, besides learning the magical arts especially the dark arts.

Draco's unnatural preference towards his own gender had disappointed him. Narcissa was wrong. The Malfoy line would end with Draco. Unless, of course he does both genders, than there was hope for the Malfoy line to continue. But, he doubted that Draco was bisexual.

He would have to wait for Emil Ragnar, his hired Private Eye and good friend since his days in Durmstrang with information on a certain cerulean-eyed Gypsy beauty. And if his guts were right and that he was suffering to death because he'd made the mistake by forgetting to give her a black rose, than he understood his father's warning.

There, was indeed Hell to pay. And time wasn't on his side.

[ to be continued ]