Say It Again

Draco’s wide eyes stared in utter disbelief at the sight before him. His heart stuttered to a halt, then just as suddenly jolted back up in overdrive. The contents of his stomach threatened upheaval.

The long black mahogany table that stretched out in both directions from his seat was empty, save for one reminder. Nagini’s green tail flicked to the side, her red eyes fierce with the desire to attack. It did not matter that she had consumed an entire human body mere minutes ago. It did not matter because Nagini was not hungry now, she was purely vicious like her master.

“Come, Nagini.” Her master’s high cold voice echoed off the bleak but impeccably designed walls of Malfoy Manor.

Draco started at the sound, forcibly thrusting his high back chair from the table. Nagini hissed at him, her large diamond head twisting behind her bloated body. Her red eyes fixated momentarily on Draco’s grey ones. She barred her fangs.

“Nagini!” The Dark Lord’s voice rang with impatience. Hissing a final warning at the sole Malfoy heir, she propelled her thick body off the table, thudding onto the hardwood floors and slithering off in search of her master.

Draco was stiff with horror; pungent disgust rolled over him. This is what had become of his family’s home. Generations of Malfoy’s brought into this world and taken out of it again in this very house. Now it was overrun with Death Eaters, under the control of Lord Voldermort himself.

“You should be proud!” Bellatrix’s words still seethed in his memory. The demented old bat was worse than most of the Death Eaters. She writhed in adoration at the Dark Lord’s presence. And when he departed, she poured her discontent out to Draco’s mother and father. Neither Death Eater was living up to her expectations. She felt they were less than grateful for the Dark Lord’s choice of living in Lucius’ home.

Draco’s hands clenched onto the edge of the table, his knuckles white. He needed to get out of this room. It would be forever tainted by Professor Burbage’s, the Muggle Studies professor’s, untimely, and undignified death. The revolting circumstance made his skin crawl.

Staggering to his feet, Draco shoved his chair back against the table. He walked swiftly through the dark hallways of his house, up two flights of stairs, and down one last narrow hallway before reaching his bedroom. Throwing open the door, he eased it quietly shut behind him, not wanting to alert the intruders in his house that he was seeking refuge.

Draco paced the length of his room four times before dropping unceremoniously into the polished black maple chair at his desk.

His room was painted emerald green, his Slytherin pride leaping out from the walls. Two pennants were positioned above his black maple desk; one of the Tornados and one of Slytherin. His bed was draped in silver sheets, a multitude of green pillows thrown haphazardly against the black headboard.

Drumming his long fingers on the hard desktop, Draco tried to block out all the thoughts plaguing his mind. Yet, his left hand still crept closer to his desk drawer, his knuckles brushing against the highly polished wood. Grimacing, Draco gave into his baser desire.

Dragging open the drawer, Draco’s left hand rummaged through the chaos of broken quills, empty ink bottles, and folded papers until his fingertips landed on the smooth untouched envelope. He carefully removed the envelope, his hand flexing to crumple it. However, through sheer willpower, Draco refrained from doing just that.

Draco’s eyes drank in the fluid handwriting covering the envelope. His heart wrenched, but when the momentary emotion threatened to take control, Draco slipped into the mask he had been wearing all summer. One that conveyed absolutely nothing. He wiped every thought, every feeling, every humane characteristic from his features. Once or twice his mask would crack, like earlier that evening when the Dark Lord had murdered Burbage. But now, in his room, with no prying eyes, his mask was flawless.

Draco slid his finger under the broken wax seal on the envelope. Dipping his hand between the folds of the pristine white parchment, Draco retrieved the bulky object. Weighing it in the palm of his right hand, his heart flipped over.. The swooping feeling left him feeling devoid of everything.

In the flickering light of his chandelier, Draco stared down at the Slytherin insignia on his ring.

Slamming his fist down over the ring, Draco threw it to the ground in rage. “Bloody hell,” he whispered fiercely, ever conscious of prying eyes and listening ears. He raked one hand through his short blonde hair.

“Draco?” A tentative knock broke his solitude.

Jerking abruptly into a standing position, Draco knocked his chair to the floor. “What?” he barked in agitation.

The antique doorknob to his room turned slowly. Hesitantly, his mother eased open the door. She stepped in, each blonde hair perfectly in place, her robes perfectly cared for, but the chaos she worked so hard to control was displayed in her eyes.

Narcissa Malfoy gazed at the young man who stood before her. The boy who had once been self-absorbed and self-assured now showcased an alarming disquiet. His emotions, always close to the surface before, had become hidden beneath a frighteningly blank expression.

Narcissa’s heart ached when she watched her son witness horrors that made her wish to shut her own eyes against them. But it was not the blood shed or the torture that frightened her, it was the way Draco took it all in without batting an eye. He was like a statue, impassive and uncaring. Every day she watched him become less and less the boy she had raised. It terrified her, chilled her to the bone.

Who was this stranger living in her house? What had happened to her son?

Narcissa’s eyes dropped to the floor, catching a glint of green on the floor. Bending down, she swept the ring into her hand. She rolled it over in her palm, the feel of the cool metal heavy and unrelenting.

“What do you want, Mother?” Draco snapped.

She held the ring out to him. “You must have dropped this, Draco.”

He sneered. “I don’t want that. Put it back where you found it.”

One of her perfectly arched eyebrows quirked upward. “You no longer want this ring?”
Draco winced inwardly at the trace of pain in his mother’s voice. He knew she didn’t deserve his anger, but she remained the only person in the house who he could snap at without fearing the Cruciatus curse.

“It means nothing to me,” he retorted arrogantly.

Narcissa swept past her son, sitting down on the very edge of his messily made bed. She smoothed the sheets around her, her hands itching to set the whole bed straight. Flashing her cold eyes back to Draco, she pinned her attention on his reaction. “Then how is it you came back to our home without it and suddenly it has reappeared?”

Draco’s mask broke for barely an instant. His features etched with a pain he had kept to himself for months. It nearly brought him to his knees, and having his mother throw it in his face was more than he could stand. Draco’s eyes narrowed infinitely. “That is none of your business.”

Narcissa turned her face slightly, the venom in her son’s words not affecting her in the least. She had her answer. The boy that had left her at the start of his sixth year had fallen in love. The man that had returned to her at the early end to his sixth year had learned love did not last.

She understood. Lucius had only recently been returned to her, and the damage had been done. He was no longer the self-important, powerful man he once was. He was now a weak man, overrun by events beyond his control.

Standing, Narcissa smoothed down any possible wrinkles in her robes. “As you wish.” She strode calmly to the door, her hand hesitating only briefly as she reached for the doorknob. Narcissa desperately wanted to know which girl had transformed her son so, who it was that held the power to break him.

“It’s a door, Mother, I’m sure you understand how they work. You are, after all, a Pureblood witch.” Draco’s words were merciless.

She twisted the knob, her left hand still clutching the ring. “Have a good evening, Draco.” Narcissa dropped the ring back to the floor before gliding from the room, the door swinging silently shut behind her.

The moment the door clicked closed, Draco dropped to his hands and knees. He prowled across the cold floor, sweat beading his forehead. “Come on,” he whispered. “Where is it?”

A flicker of light caught on the emeralds in the ring, several feet away from him. Draco lunged across the floor, capturing the ring in his hand. It dug sharply into his palm, he relished the pain. Flipping his hand over, Draco peered down at the ring, holding it out as if waiting for someone to take it from him.

And for once second, Draco imagined that she was there in the room with him. Her flowing blonde hair, her luminous blue eyes, her pink lips curved into a smile. Her ghostly figure bent down to her knees, she raised one hand to his, lifting the ring from his palm.

Just as suddenly as the image flashed into existence, it was shattered by an echoing scream from the dungeons of his home. Draco straightened up, the ghostly girl vanishing from sight. His fingers clenched down on the ring; the Dark Lord was torturing Olivander again. The screams became distinct after a while, each one signifying the prisoner they belonged to.

Striding to his desk, Draco thrust the ring back into its envelope. Careful not to crease it, Draco stowed it back in his desk drawer. Five days and Draco Malfoy would be back at Hogwarts. Would Ellie be there as well?