The clock struck seven: a dull, grating sound that filled the halls of Malfoy Manor with knell-like foreboding. The sun was just beginning to disappear beyond the far ridges of the estate, but the house was awakening slowly as time crept towards the Dark Lord’s arrival.
Lysandra, who had donned a black silky slip covered by the hooded cloak of the Death Eaters, was perched on the edge of her bed, surveying herself in a glass. Her high cheekbones were flushed--in fear and anticipation, rather than her mother’s occasionally sanguine expression that was colored by insanity. She’d parted her long dark hair in a plait that hung nearly to her waist, and now fiddled with it anxiously. There was a quiet rap at the door.
“Come in,” she called, noting the uncommonly high note to her voice. Draco apparently noticed it too, for he entered with a concerned frown.
“He’s here,” Draco announced softly. He cast his gaze over her, lingering for just a moment more than necessary on the snake burning on her forearm. “But I suppose he’ll call when he’s ready for you.”
His expression was pitying, a glance that was spared for elderly relatives on their deathbed--it was clear he didn’t expect anything fruitful from this interview. Surprising him and herself, she reached for his hand, gripping it firmly between hers.
“Don’t give me that look,” she commanded, her tone harsher than intended. “I’ve no intention of being bullied by him.” Before he could stop himself, a derisive snort escaped his lips, and he quickly muffled his skepticism with a hacking cough.
“Don’t provoke him,” he instructed once he’d caught his breath. “You’ve got a temper to match his, everyone knows it. Keep it under control for one night.”
“Only for you, Draco,” she whispered in response, leaning forward to catch a lock of his hair in her fingers. Their lips barely brushed before a searing pain erupted in her arm and she released him, clutching at her wrist as she vanished from the room.
The firelight in the sitting room crackled merrily--or it would have been merry, had it not been outlining the imposing figure seated before it. Lysandra, from her vantage point, could see little of the silhouette other than the thin, pale fingers languidly stroking Nagini’s scaly spine. The snake sensed her presence and peered over the armchair to greet her with a hiss.
“Calm, Nagini,” a high, cold voice commanded in the same whispering language. The serpent nodded almost imperceptivity, returning to the lap of her master with a final bashful wink at the young woman. “Lysandra,” the voice commanded, turning on her. “Closer.” Swallowing hard, Lysandra crept forward, her padding footsteps muffled by the carpet.
She cast her eyes down, avoiding the red slits that searched her face as she knelt before the Dark Lord. He did not speak, but she could feel his gaze sweep over her features, surveying her coldly. Breathless, painful moments that seemed like years passed before an icy finger reached, tilting her chin upwards into the face of her father--the face of Lord Voldemort.
“You have grown since I saw you last,” he stated simply, angling her features this way and that to size her up. “You were how old?”
“Ten, my Lord,” she murmured. She shuddered as he traced the veins in her throat, but his touch was not malicious, merely curious. To her immense surprise, he chuckled, withdrawing his fingers and taking her hands in his.
“I see you have learned a valuable lesson in those years, you are quite frightened of me, Lysandra.” The change in his demeanor had sent a shock of panic slithering across her features, and she internally cursed herself for revealing it. The Dark Lord, however, seemed almost amiable as he watched her pretty visage twist into a scowl.
“I’ve missed Nagini,” she interjected, smoothly changing the topic and wrenching her hands from his to pet the contented creature. Delighted, the snake winded itself up her arm, settling across her shoulders like an exotic wrap.
Outwardly, Lysandra displayed a contented smirk, busying herself with the colossal serpent--inwardly, she was struggling to keep her breathing under control. Each second passed painfully in Voldemort’s presence, each sound was magnified a hundredfold, and she found herself jumping at each small pop of the logs in the grate. She sensed, rather than heard, hushed whispers discussing in the hallway, and barely visible under the doorframe were shadowy outlines of eavesdropping figures.
“They’re listening,” she informed the waxy face above her in their familiar hissing cadence. The Dark Lord displayed no surprise at this, but hastened to his feet and offered an arm. She did not hesitate in looping her own through his.
They glided, rather than walked, their dark robes billowing in the slight breeze, through the back gardens, winding through the maze of hedge that scattered the grounds until the Manor was little more than a tuft of smoke and a bit of chimney that could be spotted over the brush. In stark comparison to the deafening noise of the foyer, outside the silence was suffocating--made even more unpleasant by the cold, red eyes that stared her down as she waited for him to speak.
“I assume,” he finally began, breaking the stillness with a sudden harshness, “that the Malfoys have trained you in the Dark Arts?”
Without pausing to think, without even contemplating the consequences, she withdrew her wand from her pocket, took aim and shouted, “CRUCIO.” The resulting jet of red light had flown from her thirteen and a half inch dragon heartstring wand tip before she could stop it.
Voldemort was quicker, however, slashing his wand into a shield that clanged as it was hit and absorbed the brunt of the attack. When the silvery barrier disappeared, his eyes narrowed to fix her with a piercing glare, and Lysandra stumbled back a few steps in trepidation.
“You take after your mother, I see,” he whispered coolly. “Bellatrix will be pleased.”
“Forgive me, my Lord,” Lysandra interrupted, bowing her head in an act of contrition.
“I have need of such talent.” He waved his hand, dismissing her apology abruptly. “It will not be long now before Albus Dumbledore is dead and Harry Potter alongside him.”
Lysandra resisted the urge to roll her eyes--had she not learned of the imperativeness of Harry’s death many a time she would have thought his obsession bordered on insanity. Perhaps, though, it did. Whatever his drive, however, sane or otherwise, she was so fixated on her thoughts that she almost missed his next words.
“You and Draco will be responsible for the death of Albus Dumbledore.”
Dark Lord's Bane by katjak
Chapter Endnotes: Read/review, please. I love your critiques!