Ignominy

Ignominy

By: The Insignificant Other

~*~

CHAPTER ONE

I heard the screams, shrill and tortured, echoing off the dungeon walls in all their horrific splendor, and felt that swell of filial pride possess my body, forcing every ounce of guilt and culpability out of its way. This was how I spent my summers; hiding behind locked doors in the lowest, rat-infested levels of Malfoy Manor, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of my father's victims. In a sick way, I was fascinated by the harm he could inflict on a person, was enthralled by the terror he managed to instill in them as he took his wand out and made all their nightmares come to life. I was in awe of his power, held him in the greatest esteem for the fear that he was universally synonymous with.

I was the recipient of a twisted sense of pleasure whenever I thought about the scum, the vermin, the Mudbloods that my father was bending to his will, got a physical thrill when I came to the conclusion that he was causing them more pain than they'd ever imagined possible. Sadism must have been hereditary, since all I wanted was to join my father in the recesses of the mansion, in the dark, stinking, corners of our abode, and memorize every expression on every pathetic creature's face that entered his realm of agony. But I knew that once I got inside, watching wouldn't be enough.

I would feel that burning desire to torment the souls of the inferior, I would get the compulsive urge to wreak havoc on their bodies and minds, to hurl curses with deadly precision at their worthless, filthy carcasses. I envisioned myself standing before all the weaklings, their pleading voices filling my head and providing a brutal sort of entertainment. I visualized them throwing themselves at me feet, their tears intermingling with the sweat of the Others, their blood a harsh contrast with the pale skin that stretched tautly over their emaciated corpses. And then I foresaw myself, strong and prevailing, rising above all of them, laughing at their vulnerability and forcing them to bow down...

Yet these were all daydreams, senseless fantasies that would come to nothing as long as my father was alive. He would never permit me to share his glory, was loathe to let me relish in the magnificence that was all his doing.

I loved and respected my father to distraction, worshipped the ground he trod on, considered the very saliva from his mouth to be holy. He was the embodiment of everything I aspired to become, everything that excited me and infused a perverse sort of elation inside of the core of my being. He was my motivation, my drive; my attraction to the Dark Arts lifestyle he incorporated into the classic antiquity of the Manor was based entirely upon his successfulness at such a risky endeavor. I craved notoriety, accomplishment, the arrogance that came along with being important, with being significant. I craved it, and I recognized that I would do anything, would stoop as low as I had to, to get it. I wanted it with a disturbing intensity; I had gotten a lick of the flame of authority, and it was like a fire had slowly spread throughout my body. I wanted to keep the fire burning, to see that tiny spark ignite more than just a flame. I wanted a roaring inferno inside me, a blistering, sweltering hot blaze that would prove infeasible to put out.

And I wanted it more than ever as I heard the screams of my father's latest fatalities abruptly stop. I knew their fate, and it was with a grim sort of satisfaction that I quietly crept away from my hiding place.

~*~

My summer before Seventh Year went on like that for the better part of two months; nightly, I would sit and listen to my father force suffering upon the pestilence of the wizarding world. My days were spent in the company of my submissive, yet oddly devious, mother; she would spin fairytale-like stories about previous years, when the Dark Lord had reigned rightfully and openly. One such narrative had remained on my mind for three entire days, electrifying my every nerve as I recounted in my head the gory details, the grossly implicit numbers of murdered Mudbloods and castrated traitors. I was utterly captivated by the insanity and the drama, by the chaos and the intrigue. I remembered every single word my mother had spoken, the passion with which she had told this specific anecdote etching the particularly gruesome aspects permanently into my psyche:

"Draco, I'm going to tell you a story today about your grandfather, whose feats are still legendary among the more selectively educated wizards," Mother had started, her pale blue eyes lighting up at the prospect of familial pride.

"Yes, Mother, I've often found myself at a loss of what to say when complimented on the accomplishments of my elders," I responded with just enough dignity to please her for the rest of the day.

"Of course, it's a shame I haven't had the opportunity to share this with you before," she continued, sniffing indignantly. "It's just with all those silly rules, and the Dark Arts sensors, and the WordWise charms...It's horribly difficult to even write a letter without wondering if some Ministry official will read it," she finished, her resentment evident even as she daintily sipped her tea.

"Well. I suppose I'll just get on with it then." Mother had paused then, her lips pursed as she contemplated exactly how to relate this account of the past. She took a deep breath before going on. "Your grandfather was a great supporter of the Dark Lord, Draco. He was one of his most loyal death eaters, leading nearly every raid on the muggles that ever occurred. He reaped the benefits of his beliefs by being showered with power and gifts by the Dark Lord, increasing his status in the upper class of the wizarding world and his wealth. He was a great man, in many respects, and it was one memorable night that has solidified my confidence in his...abilities." Mother swallowed, her voice catching as she spoke.

"It was August 13, and I was sitting in my bedroom writing a letter to your father. Unbidden, I hear stomping and yelling coming from down the stairs, and I run to the landing to see what the fuss is about. What I see astounds me. Your grandfather is on the ground, on his knees, muggles surrounding him with oblong objects trained on his head. They're telling him to hand over his money, and he calmly explains to them that the only money he has is in the currency of their superiors." Mother had then launched into a vivid description of how her father had dismembered, disfigured, or otherwise simply slaughtered, all ten of those fairly innocent muggles.

~*~

The story itself was unremarkable. But it was the very act of senselessly butchering the unworthy that so mesmerized me. The euphoria of rising above the rest of the grimy, refuse-ridden population, of proving myself greater than them rather than just announcing it; I yearned for that feeling, that secular power that was bound to be mine. All I had to do was wait and watch for that opportunity that it was my destiny would be handed to me on a silver platter: the head of my father, and the end of his reign over the destitute and the unnecessary.

~*~