“Lucius… You’re back, as he promised… I thought, perhaps…”
“Yes, he kept his promises. All of them.”
“…Draco… Where is he?”
“Listen to me. Aurors will be here shortly-”
“Was he captured? He came to see you get out and you let him be captured?”
“Narcissa, he didn’t come to greet me. He came to be judged.”
“…No. No, my son! Where is he? If you let them hurt him…!”
“Not only hurt. I let him kill him. Draco is dead.”
“No! You…!”
“I think that the Aurors will bring his body.”
“You left him there? You let him die and then you left him all alone… You should have stopped them! He’s your son, you should have died to protect him if that was what it took!”
“I couldn’t stop it. I’m sorry.”
“…Draco…”
“They’ll pay. I swear, they’ll pay for this…”
—
White marble stood out starkly against the pearly sky. Miserable, watery light filtered through the clouds, giving the lonely building a gentle glow. It was an attractive building, but with an unmistakeable air of solemnity and tragedy about it. Alone in the silent grey day, the building itself might have been a ghost.
It was a tomb.
Two figures appeared in the doorway, silent but for her quiet weeping. He had his arm around her, helping her down the few steps to the grass; they were obviously isolated together under the same cloak of grief. He was tall, with sleek blond hair and grey eyes. His face bore new lines, carved from pain, but held its stony mask as he supported her. She was shorter than her husband, but also tall, and as tragically beautiful as the tomb; the wetness of tears on her normally composed face and the flowing blonde hair that fell limp down her back conspired to make her look as though she had drowned in her grief.
“Mother…!”
They both looked up, but the scene was already fading again…
—
Silence.
The rhythmic ticking of a clock echoed through the manor. A few portraits muttered in their frames. Floorboards creaked under the weight of a House Elf. Those sounds only seemed to accent the silence, though, without breaking it.
The master bedroom was both the only room with a living occupant, and the most still of all. Though sunlight fought its way through the drawn curtains, she lay in the bed as still as if she were a corpse herself. A tray of breakfast sat untouched by the bed, but her eyes were fixed on some invisible point in the corner. Against the rich black-green of the bedclothes, she looked very pale; grief seemed to have sapped her of her color as well as her strength.
“Mother…”
She proved she was alive: her hand twitched tighter around something in a frame on the bed, pulling it to her chest. Her eyes didn’t move, though, and he found himself drifting closer.
“Mother, I need you…”
Her eyes came into focus quickly, and she turned, as though half considering sitting up. “Draco…”
“I need you…” he repeated quietly.
Her eyes went wide. “Oh no…” she breathed as she sat up, the thing she was holding sliding from her grasp and clattering to the floor. He saw that it was a picture of him before he had started school, a young Draco who was now grinning at the ceiling, unaware of his fate… “No, Draco, you should have gone on…”
Her hand trembled minutely as she reached out toward him. She must have touched his cheek; he felt a faint warm sensation, and saw her shiver involuntarily.
“I needed you,” he repeated again, sinking through the bed as he tried to sit beside her. His translucent silver hands caught his attention. For a long moment he couldn’t look away. Those were really his? “I died,” he murmured, half to himself. He was really dead?
He realized he was leaning into her for comfort only when he saw her flinch in the corner of his eye, like she’d been doused in cold water. Of course, that was what happened when a ghost went through you. And he was a ghost.
He was suddenly up again, floating around the room, pacing without actually walking. The ghost of his broken arm flopped loosely, but there was no pain, just like there was no solidity to the furniture, no substance to his mother’s touch. He couldn’t really feel anything.
“Draco, why did you stay?” he heard her ask. She was out of bed finally, approaching him, but not touching. Who would want to touch him now? Not that anyone could even if they did.
“I needed you.” He floated around her then grabbed his hair, staring ahead at nothing. “Crucio, Crucio, Crucio…” he muttered; he must have, since it was his voice. The words bubbled up from somewhere in his mind and simply fell out.
Her blue eyes widened as she realized. “They tortured you…”
“Why weren’t you there?” he asked desperately, facing her. The question, the need, burned to be answered; he realized dimly that he was accusing her, and he would hurt her, but that didn’t matter as much. He just needed… “It hurt so much, why didn’t you stop him?”
He saw the barbs strike home; he saw guilt and pain on her face. It didn’t ease his burning mind at all.
“Draco, you must know I would have.” She reached out, despite what he was, and touched his cheek again. The faint warmth of the contact helped more than an hour of her words could have, settling his mind and pulling him back toward rationality. He didn’t need her explanations, he needed her touch… “If I had been there, I would have died before the Dark Lord laid the first spell on you.”
“Not him,” he murmured, sinking toward her. She didn’t flinch this time, and he sighed, feeling something like peace for the moment. “They weren’t his spells.”
“Then who?” Her voice developed the hard protective edge that was so comforting.
“…father…” he sighed, drifting away.
—
“Lucius. Come home. Now.”
—
A brilliant green light…
The light splattered against the wall like it was half liquid, evaporating away. His father’s reflexes had barely saved him; his hair had been blown by the curse as it passed his Apparition point within inches of him. Now he stood with his wand out, leveled at the threat, a frown on his face.
“What are you doing, Narcissa?”
They stood facing each other with their wands steady, she with a fierce, angry light to her eyes, he defensive but waiting. The advantage was hers. When she was like this she would take on anyone, Voldemort himself even; he wasn’t yet willing to hurt her unless he had to.
“You tortured my son,” she accused; her voice wavered the way her hand did not, showing the strain the fact put on her mind.
“Draco was our son,” he corrected firmly. “Put your wand away and I’ll forget that you tried to kill me.”
“I’m just sorry I missed,” she hissed, her eyes narrowing dangerously.
“Put it away.” He edged closer, eying her wand, his own holding steady on her.
She ignored him. “You didn’t tell me he was tortured.”
“I didn’t think you needed to know that.”
“He was my son! I want to know!”
She twitched her wand to curse him; he reached for it at the same time, and there was a brief struggle. A curse from her wand ricocheted off the wall and lit the rug on fire, but he managed to pin her firmly against him with her wand hand held tight. The position forced them to look into each other in the face; neither of them showed any sign of giving in.
“How do you know this?” he demanded, pulling her back as she started to free herself. He put out the fire with an absent motion of his wand.
She threw a cold look into his face. “Draco told me.”
He only looked at her, a frown furrowing his brows.
“I’m here.” Even as he said that, he discovered it wasn’t really true. His voice didn’t get their attention, and moving forward involved no movement whatsoever… when he lost the world, he lost his form with it, and now he found himself nothing more than a roaming awareness. But now he needed them to see him…
Perhaps the will was all it took; silvery hair flopped into his eyes and he glided forward, repeating himself. “I’m here.”
His sudden appearance got their attention this time; his father’s eyes locked on him and widened, and his grip on his wife loosened. “No…”
His voice turned into a choked noise and he staggered backward, wand falling from his limp hand to hit the floor just before he did. Her face was cold as she held her wand on him and watched him convulse for half a minute; he could not help but notice with a vague touch of shame that none of the choked noises of pain he made turned into real screams…
She let him off after thirty second and crouched beside him while he panted and groped for his wand.
“How does it feel?” she demanded, pulling his wand out of his reach. “To have someone you trust do that to you?”
“I was trying to save him.” He coughed and started to sit, but she pushed his shoulder back down to the floor.
“He told me what you did to him… how you tortured him, and he wanted me to be there to save him from you…” She gripped her wand so tightly it looked like she was about to stab him with it. The look on her face was equal parts fury and disgust; it was probably the most genuine emotion that had shown on her face in a long time. “I wish I had been. You’d be dead.”
A wince passed over his face, and he sought out his son’s ghostly eyes. “I was trying to save you,” he repeated, and pushed her away, without much strength, only what it took to make her sit as he sat up beside her. “Listen to me.” There was a very weak note of pleading in his voice. With some satisfaction, he noted that his father’s hands were trembling a little after his round under the curse.
He turned and drifted away, but couldn’t keep from drifting back, circling them loosely. “I’m listening,” he said after a very long moment of silence. “I know. You didn’t dare disobey his orders… even for me…” More accusations came out of his mouth without his permission. He couldn’t stop his voice from showing his hurt, betrayal. And why should he, really? He was dead, they should know how he felt about that.
“I thought he might spare your life if he thought we had been punished enough. Don’t think that was easy for me to do.”
He didn’t even look down at his parents, drifting away again. “I begged you not to…”
Behind him, he heard the sharp sound of flesh on flesh. He knew without looking that she had slapped him.
“Don’t tell me how hard it was for you,” she hissed. “Think about how hard it was for Draco, when you tortured him to death.”
“I tried to save him,” he repeated firmly. He turned to see his father holding her wrist firmly to keep her from striking him again, staring into her face as though his eyes could make her believe him. “I tried convincing the Dark Lord to stop his punishment. When I realized he was going to kill him anyway…”
“That’s true.” They both looked up at him, but he turned and drifted away again, running his hand through his hair, staring off into space. “Aunt Bella laughed…”
“Bella…?”
“Your sister took over the torture.” He heard his father’s voice rise as he stood up. “She and her husband took turns casting and reviving him when he passed out, just like they used to do. They kept him under the curse for more than an hour straight.”
“She wouldn’t…”
“You’re surprised at her, but believe it of me? She’s a lunatic. So are you if you doubt it.”
His mother didn’t answer. He shivered, though he could no more feel cold than anything else, and grabbed his hair again. He could hear her laughing…
“Where were you?” she demanded.
“They made me watch,” he answered grimly. “And made it clear that his death was my punishment. Believe me, I tried to save him… I just couldn’t.”
Was that true? He thought it was. The confused visions from the the end occurred to him… he remembered seeing his father held back, and yelling. He wished he knew if he had defied his lord… Had he threatened the others or their leader for him? He wanted to think so.
“Draco, come here.”
The voice came from a distance; he slowly turned around, noticing that he was losing definition. He could just float away and lose the world again… maybe he would go wherever he was supposed to have gone after he died.
Even as he thought that, though, his form and mind became clearer, and he drifted back toward his parents, where they stood in his father’s study. She seemed to have forgiven him; he had his wand back and she wasn’t trying to kill him, at least.
She reached out and touched his cheek again as he joined them, and he relaxed. The sound of phantom laughter in his ears disappeared with the gentle warmth. He almost felt normal…
His father made a motion with his wand that drew his attention. A long strip of parchment stretched itself across the desk, and he touched it with the tip of his wand; thin blue lines crawled across it from that point, forming a shape, broken by points… it wasn’t hard to recognize. It was the constellation Draco for which he was named. Each point was a star… and each star was labeled with a name. “Crabbe… Crabbe… Lestrange, Ro… Lestrange, Ra… Lestrange, Bellatrix… Goyle… Goyle… Nott… Dolohov… McNair… Snape… Avery… Mulciber… Voldemort.” Fourteen stars for fourteen Death Eaters who had been there that night.
“I’ve just come from Avery’s,” he said; that star turned red, and an elegant line crossed out the name. He looked up and their eyes met. “This is not enough, but it’s all that I can do. You will be avenged.”
He looked down at the paper again, with a distant feeling of satisfaction. If they were all dead, if they had suffered like him, perhaps he would feel better. Yes, he thought maybe he would…
His eyes lingered on the last name, at the dragon’s tail. ‘Voldemort‘. Could his father beat him? More importantly, would he fight him for his sake?
Maybe he would. Even if he couldn’t win.
“You’re going to kill my sister?”
“Not quickly,” he promised flatly.
He thought he would like to see that.
No one spoke again. Faint warmth ran down his back, and he closed his eyes with a sigh, letting his mother’s touch comfort him as it had always done.
—
Night stole over the day, and in the darkness he wandered the halls of the manor house alone, while his parents like all the rest of the living world slept. As the night wore on, the darkness grew thicker, and it brought with it red eyes and laughter and the echo of agony…
And finally, in the darkest hours before dawn, he began to scream.