He collapsed, gasping, onto the rug. Katie would be home soon; he had to control this. Dragging himself into a crawling position, he pulled himself slowly across the parlour to the stairs.
“Accio broom!” he called through the open door, and his trusty Firebolt came flying down the staircase. He awkwardly clambered onto the broom and flew back up the stairs into an ornately decorated bathroom. He poured out a cold bath and climbed in. Ahhh… While his body shivered in protest, Malfoy held the burning wrist under the cool surface of the water. He laid his back against the white porcelain and sighed again. Closing his eyes, Draco heard the familiar sound of Katie returning home through a back door which led into the kitchen on the ground floor.
He flicked his wand feebly and the door to the bathroom clicked, locking.
This was not the time to tell his wife; Draco’s pride and shame was too engrained in his Slytherin skin. He groaned, hearing her call out his name. Katie would not bother to call out if she knew what was happening, Draco thought with despair. She would want nothing to do with him. He would be alone. Again.
All his life, Draco had been alone. A lonely childhood at the Manor - a lonely life at Hogwarts. Crabbe and Goyle were never his friends. They were his minions, and later his enemies after Lucius’ fall from favour. And when Draco finally joined the Death Eaters and had the misfortune to accept a task from the Dark Lord himself, Draco had never been more alone. Not until he met Katie - and she took notice of the pathetic man he was - did he finally have someone to talk to, to turn to, to trust. He knew it was too good to be true. He knew it would not last. How could love last forever? How could one forget the past and be content with living for the future? How could Katie touch his Mark and continue to love him? And when it burned…
Katie was hammering on the door to the bathroom.
“Draco, are you in there? Why is the door locked?” Her voice was worried. “Draco, what’s wrong?”
He tried to suppress a moan as his prickling wrist gave another jolt of searing pain. He submerged it back into the water. His breath came in deep rasping sobs. She cannot know.
“Draco, I can hear you moaning. What is it? Can I come in?” He imagined her pulling out her wand, preparing to mutter the charm.
“NO!” he bellowed. There was silence on the other side of the door. He did not hear Katie leave but, after five minutes, assumed she had headed back downstairs. As the pain subsided, he stood unsteadily and squelched onto the tiles. It is so cold. Draco grabbed his wand from the floor and waved it over his blue-tinged skin. Warmth flowed back into his veins and he groaned again, this time with pleasure. His drenched clothing slowly crisped back into a dry state. A shadow of pain throbbed dully on his wrist, but he ignored it and unlocked the bathroom door.
Katie was sitting on the cold stone landing. It matched her cold stony glare.
“What is happening to you?” she asked. “I’m your wife, Draco. You should be able to tell me, whatever it is. I’m your wife.” He bent down to grasp her hand, but she flinched away, stood, and walked back down the stairs.
“There’s supper for you in the kitchen,” she said, without turning back to look at her husband. The dark bruises beneath his eyes scared her. There was something familiar about that look; she had seen it on his face before. But she could not remember when.
That night, in bed, Draco reached over to his wife’s still body and found she was silently crying. He pulled himself closer to her and, this time, Katie did not flinch. He kissed the back of her neck, and his hands wound around her in a tight embrace.
“I love you,” he whispered, frightened by the way his own voice shook.
Katie did not reply.
After a time, Draco realised he was dreaming. There was a soft carpet beneath his feet. It was green. The cool, verdant grass soothed Draco. He felt he could breathe; he felt he could smile again. So, he smiled. As his lips began to curve upward, a bright light appeared off to the left; it was too bright, too white. He staggered away blindly and turned. Ahead, all Draco could see was a deep darkness; it swirled towards him and he tried to turn around, but found he could not. The bright light was pushing him away into the black void.
“No, no!”
“Yes, Draco, yes. Do it, Draco. Kill him. Do it, or feel my wrath yourself.”
“No, no, please, no. You’re gone, you’re dead.”
Lord Voldemort’s voice grew louder, into a steady hiss.
“Yessssssssssssss…”
The grass no longer spread out before him. It was brown, sandy, hot - it burnt his feet. Draco staggered to the ground, and flung his left arm out to break the fall. As his skin made contact with the sand, the Dark Mark began to burn - so intensely that Draco begged for death. The barren dark wasteland which lay ahead started to move - closer, closer, closer…
“KILL ME!”
“Noooooooo…” the sibilant voice hissed in Draco’s ear.
His arm gave a gut-wrenching pang, and suddenly Draco found himself back on the grass, back in the blinding light. He began to walk, the Dark Mark continuing to throb. Draco felt his right hand fall off. He looked down at the stump of his arm. It was strange - there was no pain, just an inexplicable feeling of emptiness, of loneliness. Fingers from his left hand, a toe, a leg, all thudded onto the grass. A leg? I’m standing on one leg! He looked back to the right and his entire arm had gone. Pieces of hair floated around him. Blonde. It was his own hair. He began to panic. Something thudded against his left shoulder, and Draco watched an ear fall to the ground. It bounced along the grass, bloodless.
“Draco.”
He turned at the sound of Katie’s voice and fell to the ground. She was beaming at him warmly.
“Oh, thank God you’re here,” he breathed. “Help me.”
“Draco!” It seemed she had not heard him. “I’ve been looking for you…” Her smile faded into a sneer worthy of Severus Snape. “Give it back to me, Draco. I want it back.”
“What? What?”
Katie moved slowly toward her husband. He noticed the distinct lack of gold on her ring finger.
“You don’t deserve it, Draco.” A cackle rose up through her throat and echoed away into the distance. Draco…Draco…Draco…You don’t deserve it, Draco. Eyes wide open in fear, his mouth fell open as he struggled to grasp the malediction.
The scream never reached his lips. Katie thrust her hand into Draco’s chest and pulled out his still-beating heart. Red, sinewy, the flesh of life - his blood burst forth in a torrent of death.
“NO!”
Draco woke sweaty and alone. Alone. There was a note on Katie’s pillow, sitting in the indentation from her slumber.
Dad fallen ill. At St Mungo’s. Will be staying with mum for the next few weeks. You don’t need to come. Katie x
Just one kiss.
Draco spent the day wallowing around the house.
He ate ice cream.
He wrote another letter to his mother.
He burned the letter to his mother and wrote another one to Blaise.
He burned the letter to Blaise.
He did not write another letter.
At five to five, he poured another ice bath and climbed in.
At five o’clock, he did not cry out as usual, his wrist already submerged in the water.
He wept, instead.
The following day, Draco decided to visit his parents in person. Even if his father had forbidden communication between himself and Narcissa, Draco’s mother would have found some way to get word to her only son. Something must be wrong.
Draco paid no attention to the beautiful countryside or mountains in the distance as he wandered up the trail to Chateau Malfoy. Carcassonne was renowned for its ghostly phenomena, thanks to the many dissatisfied spirits of generations of Malfoys. But the Muggles did not know this - the abandoned fortress in the surrounding hills had been empty for decades, or so they thought.
An imposing wrought-iron gate emerged from the suffocating mist which shrouded the chateau. La Cathédrale Engloutie. Malfoy thought wistfully of Katie’s favourite Debussy composition. Draco knew something was wrong as he spotted a great, albino peacock resting perfectly still - perfectly lifeless beneath the shrubbery. The shrubbery. It, too, was off. Wild and untamed, the weeds strangled unsuspecting flowers like snakes.
Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under’t. Where was that from? Katie? Katie. She was obsessed with Muggle music and literature. And flying. That was how they had met. Flying. After he had been acquitted of charges of Death Eater activity (thanks to Potter - Malfoy sneered at the thought) Draco had taken to exploring the hills around the Manor by broom. Flying was the one time he could be free to think - free to think without the stifling oppression from Lucius and his ideals. He had spotted Katie (although she hadn’t) and had turned to leave in the other direction. But then she had seen him.
“Oi!” she had yelled. “What are you doing on my father’s land?”
Draco had drifted over hesitantly.
“I didn’t realise. I’m sorry.”
Katie was taken aback by his polite and short reply. He didn’t sound like the usual rude, superior Draco she had known at Hogwarts. She vaguely remembered ramming him into the Commentators Box during a Quidditch match.
“It’s okay,” she said slowly. “Just…well…see you around.”
Day after day, they had met in those hills, and day after day Katie had begun to trust him a little more. He was quiet and lost and alone. She felt pity, sadness and…was it love?…for Draco. The transition from friends to lovers had been seamless. The transition from a relationship to marriage, however, had been met with stares of contempt and confusion. Perhaps they were right.
Draco shook his head; he could not be worrying about the state of his marriage at the moment. Not in front of his father, anyway. He knew what Lucius would say.
“I warned you, Draco. But you did not listen; you did not obey.”
Well, I’m sorry, Father. I’m sorry I tried to build a new life - a new life to be proud of. A new life in which I could be trusted. A new life in which I could be loved.
But he wasn’t loved anymore, was he? Katie had left him. Her father was ill? She could not fool Draco. King of excuses, he thought he had left that behind. He should have known that a son of Salazar with a daughter of Godric could never work. His marriage had been all that he had wanted. Life. Hope. Trust. Love. Five years of hard work, of enduring the mumbled comments, five years of tears. It was all falling apart around him. He was falling apart.
Somewhere, a bird twittered in a tree. Draco continued up the drive. The front door lay open at an awkward angle. He drew his wand from beneath a set of dark bottle-green robes (with gold trim) and called out, “Mother! Father! It’s me.” There was no reply. Rustling leaves and the faint chirping behind him were all that disturbed the silence. And his deep, rasping breaths…Draco…Draco…Can you hear me, Draco…
Ignoring the never-used front parlour, Draco searched through room after room. He finally reached the modest yet comfortable back living area adjacent to the first kitchen. Draco took one look, and knew straight away his parents were gone. Probably dead. It wasn’t as if one could tell there had been a struggle. Not one cushion was out of place - the settee was sitting complacently in the corner, the archaic harpsichord remained in one piece. Draco walked over and pressed down on middle C. The note rang out and faded into a slight hiss. He hurried away from the instrument, reminded of his recent dreams, and walked slowly toward the armchair his mother must have been sitting in. A soft floral scent hung in the air, and he inhaled deeply. Oh, how he missed her. And she was gone.
Yes, something terrible had taken place at Chateau Malfoy. And quite a while ago. His fingers were grey from the thin sheen of dust covering the harpsichord. But the incriminating evidence lay smashed and dry on the luxurious alabaster wool carpets. A single glass of pure Goblin crystal was shattered on the floor. The glass was red and cracked, and the remnants of its contents were dry. Narcissa would never have tolerated a smashed glass or a stained carpet.
Draco flew through the door which led into the first kitchen, found the small door which led down into the house-elf quarters, and waved his wand over the tiny entranceway twice, muttering incantations. The small, wooden rectangle grew slowly until it was enlarged enough for Draco to squeeze through. He ran down the stairs, not knowing what to expect. Maybe they were too frightened to come out?
But all that met him were four pairs of oversized, hairy, unwashed and sockless feet. They were attached to small, hairy, unwashed and unclothed legs, which were in turn attached to small, hairy bodies covered in various torn sheets and tea-towels. One merely had small flannel attached to a string which was wound tightly around his waist. Even now, his father refused to be humane. But they aren’t human, Lucius would complain.
“No, but you are, Father,” Draco whispered into the deathly silence.
The lifeless eyes of the tiny elves were all wide open in a state of serene panic. It was quite strange. As time passed, Draco assumed, the fear would vanish completely until they were just four pairs of dead eyes.
Dead.
Whoever was calling Draco had gotten to his parents. Was this someone bent on revenge? Someone whose family or friends had suffered under the reign of the Dark Lord and his minions? There were a lot of those people and, to be honest, Draco did not blame them.
He turned to leave, but something caught his eye. There was a small piece of parchment trapped beneath the foot of a dead elf. Tipsy? Wilbo? He couldn’t remember the name. Draco lifted the cold foot, his lip twisting with disdain. No matter how much he tried, in some aspects of life he was truly his father’s son.
The note came easily. Draco was careful not to tear the crumpled parchment further. Stooped beneath the low ceiling, he smoothed the paper out onto his palm and read the scrawled writing. It was a list. Several addresses were blacked out, unidentifiable. He was sure one said Azkaban. Chateau Malfoy, Carcassonne, was crossed out, but still legible. Only two were remaining.
Purge and Dowse, Ltd.
Malfoy Manor.
Draco swore. What the hell was this? Malfoy Manor? And what was Purge and Dowse, Ltd.? It sounded vaguely familiar, but…he would have to show this to Potter; maybe he could shed some light on the situation.
Because, to whomever this list belonged, someone was coming for Draco. And soon.