Saint Serita

Chapter One

"Master Malfoy!" the house-elf squealed urgently, throwing off Draco's bedcovers. "It is past ten already and you is being needed down in the breakfast room! Hurry, I asks you!"

"What?" he muttered into the pillow, trying to shut out the elf's incessant whining.

"You is late! And he...he not happy at all."

"SHUT UP!" Draco roared, picking the unfortunate creature up and slinging it out of his room, where it landed in the carpeted hallway with a thump. "Fucking elves," he spat, but heeding the servant's advice, he looked at the clock. "Oh, shit!" Just as he had been told, ten o'clock had long since passed and he would be very late for breakfast. His father would not be pleased. He flew out of bed, and not having a sufficient amount of time to dress, snatched a robe off the floor and prayed his father wouldn't notice the pajamas underneath.

Huffing and wheezing, he arrived at the breakfast room one moment later, his normally immaculate hair completely disheveled and robe unfastened.

"You're late," Lucius remarked flatly, fixing his glare on his flushed son. "Your excuse this time?"

At least present some level of decorum, Draco reminded himself. Straightening his shoulders and attempting, with no success, to tacitly smooth his hair, he said, "I overslept, Father."

"Again? It's the third time this week."

"Very sorry, sir," he recited, still not sure what exactly was so damaging about sleeping.

"You show no remorse, but very well." Lucius extracted a wand from within his robes and pointed it at Draco. "Once more, my son, once more..."

"I understand," he mumbled, unable to prevent the fear from entering his voice.

"Now sit and eat."

Only too relieved to be released from intense interrogation, Draco slowly made his way to his seat. He had been threatened with the Cruciatus Curse ever since he was born but always thought Lucius, whose skill at manipulating the curse to suit his personal needs was nothing short of genius, would never take the risk to torture his only son and heir, especially since the now-infertile Narcissa Malfoy had been released. Three months ago, however, after he had blatantly talked back to his father, Lucius had tortured him to the point where he could no more than lie motionless on his bed while house-elves tended to his many wounds and understand why his father was considered the best in the Dark Lord's league.

Between bits of grapefruit, Draco stole a few glances at the man that sat across from him. It was clear that Lucius, too, was exhausted from lack of sleep, his lids often half-closed and sleek silver hair not quite tamed yet. He was donning one of his signature custom-tailored suits, set with silver buttons, and he obviously had somewhere important to visit. Draco, though, thought he shouldn't allow his curiosity to pique with his father already so petulant. His question, however, was soon answered.

As soon as the last piece of silverware was cleared away, Lucius motioned for his son to stand.

"I will be paying a visit to the Minister of Magic today," he said, "and you will be on your behavior when I am gone. Do not touch any of the art or the spell books in the library, and do not, under any circumstances, enter my room. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Father."

Saying not another word, he swept out of the room, leaving Draco staring into nothing. It wasn't until the door was slammed shut did he dare to move.

He sighed. His father had quite the presence.

So, Draco thought, a smirk growing on his face, a meeting with the Minister of Magic? He, just as the rest of the Wizarding world, knew the magical governing institution served as no more than a scapegoat for the Dark Lord, an example of the folly of the old world. It had no place where Purebloods ruled, where democracy was an idea and naught more. Still, it had its supporters - idealists, remnants of the Order, followers of the martyr Potter - and they still managed to send donations, usually rather substantial ones, on a regular basis. The Dark Lord, having made it a priority to siphon those funds away from "those money-loving fools," employed the well-connected Lucius, who the blissfully oblivious and stubborn Minister of Magic believed had repented from the Dark Side, to transfer large amounts from the treasury to his pockets. It appeared that his father was on such a mission now.

After getting dressed and cursing off a few elves (no day is complete without it), Draco lounged about the house, trying unsuccessfully to read a book on the Dark Arts his Aunt Bellatrix had sent for his birthday. Avada kedavra was interesting, no doubt about it, but killing Mudbloods wasn't exactly topping his list of To Do's. After all, he and Goyle had gone Muggle-hunting only a week earlier. There was something tugging at him from the back of his mind, a grappling hook pulling at him so he could think of nothing else. But what was he thinking about? Nothing had happened recently that was worth dwelling on -

Fuck it, Draco thought, disgruntled, standing up and strolling to the manor's front door. The crisp air immediately cleared his head of all jumbled thoughts. A walk about the parameters of his house usually had that effect, the scent-filled pine trees lining both sides of the path, the wind swerving to and fro, creating ribbons of air that caressed his skin, his mind reduced to no more than a tabula rasa...a blank slate...no burdens or worries...

Yet one circle around did not produce the desired result, so Draco continued his walk, turning away from any thought that could potentially cause anxiety...

His eyes roamed over his manor - well, it wasn't his yet, but he was Lucius's singular heir, and his father was aging - and a surge of pride filled him, knowing all of this belonged to his family, the Malfoys. They had risen so far from their humble roots, having begun as the family of a small feudal lord in the Middle Ages. They reached their peak when Romulus Malfoy had served as a personal companion to King Louis XIV in France during the late 1600's and, contrary to all the misfortunes that had befallen them, maintained almost constant superiority as the premier Wizarding family in Europe, and possibly the premiere family, magical and otherwise. Why, their power had grown to such a point where the parlements of France had found the need to exile the Malfoys to England, fearing they might revolt against the reigning Bourbon dynasty of kings and establish themselves as the monarchy. Well, it probably benefited them far more than the Bourbons for no Malfoy lost his head during that damned Revolution of '89.

For reasons that were rumored about but never proved, they intermarried with the Black family, one with which they were constantly warring. Lucius had always regretted it, when Serita Malfoy gave her hand to Eregion Black - willingly, no less. Her father, the patriarch of the family, had been heartbroken when she turned away from her family, sending him into a depression that would last for the remainder of his pitiful life. Spirit broken, he had been unable to lead the family militia into battle, thus allowing the Blacks to declare temporary domination. After the defeated man passed away, his son blasted Serita from the family tree, and the embittered Malfoys, cursing her under their breath, had battled with their rival family for over two centuries. The fighting, having evolved from clashing swords to a bloodless war of power and influence, had only ceased after Lucius replaced Bellatrix Black Lestrange as the Dark Lord's right hand man. Nevertheless, the peace between the two families was unstable, a precarious balance that threatened to tip with the slightest offsetting of the equilibrium.

Serita. Draco's eyes averted back to the path on which he was trodding. If his father were ever to list the people he most detested, she would undoubtedly make it into the elite top three. Lucius, who admired power, order, and tradition above all else, cast her as a rebel, a traitor, but it was his son that seemed to find solace in her tale. Hardly brash and power-hungry (though still highly ambitious), Draco preferred to see his demands carried out in more secretive and undermining fashions. Even in a day and age when females were looked upon as no more than outlets for pleasure and machines by which heirs were created, nothing could be more clandestine than a coldly brilliant woman going out of her family's way to seduce an eligible man from a prestigious family. All for personal gain.

And, for the love of God, he couldn't see why Lucius had to strut around the manor portraying Serita as "the fallen one"! On the contrary, Draco felt that the intermarrying between families not only gave either a wider selection of prospective spouses but also served as a warning, one that blatantly jeered at the Blacks, "You're not the only Purebloods in Britain now!" No one, he thought, personifies the epitome of a Malfoy better than Serita.

By the time his mind had meandered to the latter statement, Draco's spirits had improved significantly. A dose of dignity, a reminder of his powerful background, was exactly the antidote he needed. Saint Serita, the patron saint of the Purebloods, he toyed with himself as he reentered the manor.

Standing in the middle of the foyer, he stretched and yawned luxuriously, feeling incredibly satisfied. This would all be his one day: the sprawling estates, the ever-so-obedient house-elves -

And his father's rooms. Lucius's rooms.

As his father's warnings echoed ominously through his ears, Draco was suddenly aware those forbidden quarters lay just to his right, unlocked and unwatched. His interest was aroused; a burning desire to pry into his father's private doings engulfing him. He had only wandered in there once, as a young child, and before he could take three steps into the dark confines, Lucius had unceremoniously dragged him out and soundly beat him. While Draco couldn't remember anything about the rooms themselves (except that they were dark - very dark), the searing across his bare back stood out in his memory only too well. And there was the word of warning he had been given after his flogging: "If you are caught in my rooms after this, even death shall not be enough for you."

Although he was quite sure Lucius wouldn't dare kill his only heir (ah, the beauties of being an only child), something told Draco he wouldn't hesitate to at least mildly beat him for disregarding orders. But he was no foolish five-year old. Hogwarts had taught him well. Magic could be an invaluable weapon, and he knew exactly how to exploit its strengths.

As if he was about to dive into a pool, Draco took a quick breath and then stepped in front of the one door he had, after nineteen years of residence, never bothered to purposely intrude. Pressing his ear against the wooden panels, he listened.

A malicious look entered his eyes, giving them a glittering and piercing effect.

There were people on the other side of the door.