From Hell

Chapter 3

By Pigwidgeon37

Ah, sinful nation, a people loaded with guilt, a brood of evildoers, children given to corruption! (Isaiah 1:4)

Draco Malfoy pulled a face. This was the second box of sweets he received this week. The food at Hogwarts was already too heavy for his own taste, cultivated for eleven years at home. His mother would only have raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow at the sight of shepherd’s pie with roast potatoes and sprouts for lunch. It had taken him months and a continuous dosage of his father’s metabolism-enhancing potions to get used to the fare the House Elves made appear on the tables every day.

And now another box of sweets! Those missives from home had provoked lots of comments about ‘mama’s little pet dragon’ during his first year. Well, he had shown them soon enough that a dragon such as he wasn’t likely to become anybody’s pet. They still believed that he was receiving sweets, but none of them dared lay their hands on them until Draco had chosen his own share. Most of the time, his parents did indeed send him sweets. It all depended on the colour of the lid, though. When it was red Draco knew that among the confectionery or pralines or whatever it was he was going to find an aptly transfigured piece of parchment.

“Don’t drool all over it!” he snapped at Goyle who was eyeing the box with badly disguised greed. “You know the procedure, don’t you? After seven years, even you should have grasped the concept. First I get mine, and then you get what’s left.  As becomes a mongrel like you.”

He had been late for breakfast and thus had to wait for the lunch break until he could have a look at the secret message. Pansy, who had been expecting him to enter the Great Hall with her hanging at his arm, looked disappointed when he told her to go ahead.

“But I’d rather wait for you…” she wailed.

Draco sighed deeply. “Pansy. I have to talk to McGonagall, much as I hate it.  And I believe I told you clearly enough to go to lunch. I can walk on my own, you know?”

She gave him an offended look. “I just thought…”

“Don’t think. Your head definitely isn’t made for it. And now buzz off or I’ll get really angry.”

Five minutes and an imaginary Transfiguration problem later—when you lie, always try and stay as close as possible to the truth or make truth as similar as possible to your lie—he entered the boys’ toilet near the Transfiguration classroom, checked it carefully for other occupants and slid into the last closet on the far end.

“Turkish Delight!” he muttered when he lifted off the lid. “That’s definitely one of dad’s sick little jokes.” He sniffed the contents of the box and rolled his eyes. “Rose-flavoured! Yes, that’s dad’s handwriting indeed.”

He drew his wand, pointed it at the sweets and murmured, “Restauro Pergamentum!”

One of the pink cubes turned obediently back into the parchment it really was. Draco put it into his pocket, pried another sticky, rose-coloured cube from its white paper ruffle, let it fall into the toilet bowl and pulled the flush. He re-closed the box and stuffed it into his book bag. The letter would have to wait a little longer, for he couldn’t risk arriving at lunch much later than McGonagall, or otherwise Pansy would become suspicious.

<><><>°<><><>

It had been a long and not very pleasant day, Draco thought when he finally drew the curtains of his four-poster. Not entirely useless though, considering that he had been paired up with Granger and managed to botch her Katastasis Potion.  It was a potent draught, designed to restore victims of disfiguring curses to their original shape. Still snickering, he remembered the horror-struck look on the Mudblood’s face when her breasts, inflated by a well-placed—and, for once, authorized—hex, had not lost any of their balloon-ishness. Instead, her nails and hair had started to grow at amazing speed, due to the overdose of Madrake he had added surreptitiously. The expression on Snape’s face had been priceless.  This time, not even he had been able to deny that there was a difference.

Draco was tired and would have liked to simply slip under the covers and sleep.  But he had to wait for at least half an hour until the others were asleep, so that he could read the letter, now in the breast pocket of his pyjamas, without the risk of being surprised by his roommates. How they managed to fall asleep after all they had eaten for dinner was a mystery to him. It seemed, though, that the more they ate the better they slept. Not Zabini, he was about as exasperated by the food as Draco was. And, of course, by the snores that orchestrated every goddamned night they had to spend in this dormitory. Blaise simply took a sleeping potion as soon as he went to bed, a habit he had grown accustomed to after two months of desperation at the beginning of their first year.

Glancing at his watch, Draco saw that it was almost eleven. Time to read the letter if he wanted to get all the sleep he needed. He pulled out the parchment, unfolded it and read:

My dear son,

You know how much your mother and myself were looking forward to having you here with us during the Christmas holidays. Despite our, and doubtlessly also your, reluctance against changing those plans I must nonetheless ask you to stay at Hogwarts. I need you to be there in case I should require your assistance in loco. I can see the expression of curiosity on your face, but for the moment suffice it to say that I am finally carrying out a long-harboured plan to foster my position within LV’s ranks. You will learn more about it as soon as possible.  There is something I need you to do for me, though: I have to know whether your favourite Gryffindor Mudblood has any projects for the holidays, and what exactly she intends to do. As the holidays are only two weeks away, try to find out as quickly as you can. The information is vital for the outcome of my own ‘project’.

Although I cannot make any promises, there might be a possibility for you to spend at least the last days of the break at Malfoy Manor. So you will be able to eat as many rose-flavoured Turkish Delights as you want ( I have to say that I am quite proud of this little idea—who did you give them to? I truly hope it was not Pansy)

Yours affectionately

Lucius Malfoy

Dearest Draco,

There is so little space left, just enough to tell you how much I love and miss you.

Kisses

Mum

Wow, Draco thought, now that was a letter! Tedious as it was not to be able to go home for the holidays, it had to be worth the while. He folded the parchment and put it back into his pocket. Tomorrow morning, he was going to throw it into the fireplace immediately. To get up and incinerate it now was too risky. So what could his father possibly be up to? Now that his curiosity was raised, he couldn’t sleep anyway. So he might just as well stay awake and think. ‘Foster his position within Voldemort’s ranks’? What the hell did that mean? Dad’s position was practically cast in iron, had been unshakeable and unthreatened for almost three years. His father and Snape were—Oh. That was it, then. This was some plan to one-up Snape.

Realizing that he was cold, Draco crept under the duvet and pulled it up to his chin. Damn those dungeons, he thought. But back to Snape. Could his guess—well, no, it had rather been his instinct that suggested this answer to him—could it be exact? He had never been able to comprehend what exactly was the relationship between his father and his Head of House. Snape was their guest often enough, that was doubtlessly a fact. When Snape had visited at the Manor and Draco had been at home, he had been the silent but attentive witness of more than one conversation between the two men. Merely looking at them was fascinating: they were as different as possible, absolute opposites. Their ways of speaking, though, were quite similar, as was their behaviour. Anyway, that wasn’t the point right now. He needed to recall whether he had ever sensed an undercurrent of enmity between the two. Try as he might, there had never been anything. So maybe he was wrong. Or was he?

Draco rolled over onto his right side, hugged the pillow and closed his eyes. He would have to be well-rested tomorrow if he wanted to find out whether the Mudblood was going anywhere for the holidays. Maybe he could ask…

Before he had finished this thought, Draco Malfoy was already fast asleep.

<><><>°<><><>

Hannah Abbot couldn’t believe her luck. She had just risen from breakfast when Malfoy—drop-dead-sexy-thrice-gorgeous-oh-god-I-think-I’m-fainting Draco Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake!—came sauntering towards her, that smile—That Smile!—playing around his… oh, good heavens, those lips! Cursing herself for not having washed her hair this morning, cursing her propensity to blush when she absolutely didn’t want to, the girl mechanically straightened her robes.

“H—” Great, Hannah. Really great. Nothing will turn on a boy like a girl croaking like a giant frog. She cleared her throat. “Hi, Draco.”

“Morning, Abbot. Do you by any chance have your Arithmancy notes with you?”

Swallowing convulsively, she shook her head. “No, I’m really sorry. Do you need them right now? Otherwise I could get them before lunch and give them to you later…”

Bless his father and mother, and double-bless their looks he had inherited, Draco thought. One smile at those mindless little females, and all they could do was try not to melt too rapidly. “No,” he said, “I don’t need them right now. I just wanted to copy them—”

“B-but you didn’t miss a single class,” Hannah interrupted him.

Draco didn’t like being interrupted at all. “As I was saying,” he continued, a little sharper than before, seeing with pleasure how the girl cringed, “I attended every class but… well, let us say that my thoughts were elsewhere. If you know what I mean…” He gave her the most sultry smile he was capable of.

“I… I think I do,” she replied breathlessly. “But you don’t need to copy them, you could just as well keep them over the weekend.”

A lazy wave of his hand. “No, no. I don’t have any intention of spoiling my weekend with Arithmantic studies. That’s a special treat for the Christmas break. I’ll probably stay here, so there’ll be plenty of time. And as Granger is the only other student in our year whose notes are worth copying, I honestly preferred to ask you.”

Hannah wasn’t quite sure whether this was a compliment. Besides… “Hermione doesn’t stay at Hogwarts over the break,” she said. “She’s going home to her parents, at least that’s what she told me last week.”

“Whatever,” Draco drawled. “Just make sure you don’t forget to bring me those notes before your departure.”

The girl’s smile was a little too radiant for his liking.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” she blurted out, “I already signed the list. My parents are having some distant relatives visiting until after Christmas and need my room as a guestroom. So I’m staying as well. We—” she almost choked on her own daring “—we could study together if you like.”

That was what you got when you accepted the kind of riff-raff who didn’t even have a spare room to accommodate their guests, Draco thought. What a mess! He had got the information he needed but he would have to pay for it. He could almost see his father laugh at the story.

“That’s very kind of you,” he replied. “Usually, I prefer to study on my own, but maybe… Well, I have to run now, Mad-Eye Moody doesn’t appreciate latecomers.”

<><><>°<><><>

Upon their return from a dinner party at the Parkinsons’, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy found a large barn owl waiting patiently on a side table in the entrance hall. Lucius untied the letter from the bird’s leg, and while he unrolled it Narcissa told a House Elf to remove and feed the owl.

“Good news?” she asked.

“The news are better than the evening we spent,” he replied with a scowl. “Care to join me for a night cap? So we can read it together.”

Narcissa nodded and brushed past her husband who had opened the library door for her.

“Better than the evening we spent, you say?” she ventured, watching him fill two glasses. “I suppose you are aware that this doesn’t sound very encouraging.”

Lucius chose not to comment on this remark, took the tumblers and went toward the fireplace. “Dignified or undignified?” he asked.

“Undignified, of course,” said his wife and shed her robes. Underneath, she was wearing only a knee-length slip of ice blue satin.

“I hoped as much.” Now only in shirt and trousers, Malfoy sat down and opened his arms. “Come here, ice goddess.” She sat down on his knees and draped her left arm round his shoulders. “Your health, ma petite. May we never again have to undergo a similar combination of boredom and vulgarity.”

Their glasses clinked together. “À la tienne, Lucius. You forgot to mention sheer stupidity.”

“That goes without saying,” he observed dryly and downed half the contents of his glass. “So, shall I decipher our son’s inimitable scrawl for you?”

“From Draco?” she exclaimed, “Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

“It does feel better when you’re indulging unbridled enthusiasm where you are sitting now, that’s why.”

“Quel monstre!” she sighed, nibbling his earlobe. “Go on, read it to me.”

Dearest father and mother,

You told me to give you the information you need ASAP—

“What does that mean?” Lucius asked, apparently mystified.

“As soon as possible. Just a juvenile acronym. Please continue.”

“Are you implying that I’m getting old?”

“No, mon amour, just that you’re not overly perspicacious. Don’t fret, it’s typically male.”

Lucius gave her an indignant look and continued.

so I’m writing this during old Binns’s class. If the text breaks off at mid-word, it’s because I fell asleep. Just so you are forewarned.  Granger is going home for the holidays. The price for having learned this interesting detail is having to study Arithmancy with a Hufflepuff. (Don’t laugh, father. All right, go on do it, I know you want to.) No interesting news here. Yesterday I managed to spoil Granger’s Katastasis Potion with the most astonishing results. Pity I had already opened the sweets box, otherwise I could have given it to her, to make amends. Although I wonder how she would have managed to grab the pieces with 2-feet-long nails.  I’m a bit sad about Christmas, but suppose it’s for the best. Please, write soon.

Love

Draco

P.S. Is there anything I could say to Pansy that would put her off me for, say, a week?

“Our son…” Narcissa said dreamily, taking a sip of brandy.

“Most remarkable indeed. If everybody were as efficient as he is…”

“…we would now share a cell in Azkaban,” she finished his sentence. “Don’t say such things, you make me shudder. Anyway, what about the Granger girl? You don’t seem overly satisfied.”

Lucius played absentmindedly with her pearl necklace. “Not really, no. It would have been better had she intended to stay at Hogwarts. As things are, we have to force her to remain there.”

“You mean kill her parents?”

Lucius loved that feral gleam in his wife’s eyes when she spoke of killing. She would have made a good Death Eater, without doubt. It would have been unwise to encourage it, though. The moment Voldemort would have done her any harm, he would have lost control. And he and Narcissa would both be dead. Better leave things the way they were.

“Don’t be so rash, ma chatte,” he said, focusing his attention to her breasts.  “Of course we could kill them, and I certainly wouldn’t mind depriving the world of two Muggle dentists. But—” he nuzzled into the valley between her breasts “—I doubt whether Voldemort would allow it. I’m sure I can talk him into permitting that we give them a good fright, though. Just enough to make Dumbledore keep her safely at Hogwarts.”

“Don’t forget the Weasleys, though,” she pointed out. “You can’t do anything to them, for it would alert the Ministry. Which is not likely to please Voldemort.”

“The Weasleys,” Lucius said, waving his hand as if to brush the whole family off the globe, “The Weasleys will be taken care of in an entirely different way. I’ll just have to brew another potion…”

<><><>°<><><>

Dearest Draco,

Such a lot of parchment, and all mine. Your father will probably write to you later this week, right now he is very busy. Being a spoilt, non-working, rich society lady, I have all the time I want and need to write to my son.  I think I would like to know more about what you did to the Katastasis Potion, as it sounds most interesting. And her nails were really two feet long? I suppose you could make a lot of money selling the recipe to the Salon de Beauté that struggles in vain to make Lucinda Parkinson less ugly. She always keeps complaining about her nails.

À propos Parkinson: To shake Pansy off your arm, I think you might make up a story about having met Alan Lansbury (I am sure that you will be able to come up with something very convincing). It should be sufficient to suggest that he told you he knows Lucinda. The effect promises to be devastating. Lucinda had an affair with Alan a few years ago, and Pansy surprised them in a more than compromising situation. It seems that the girl never really got over the shock.  Maybe that accounts for her nymphomaniac tendencies, at least that is what those Muggle psychologists would say, to gloss over the fact that she is nothing but une putain. In case you need to add colour to the story: Alan bears a certain resemblance to Severus Snape. Try to imagine a shorter, slightly stockier Snape with short, wavy hair and brown eyes.

Your grandmother has written me a very long, very whiny letter, asking whether we would not like to spend part of the summer at the Château. When I mentioned it to your father, he merely raised his eyebrows. We all know what that means. I am not too eager to stay in the same house as my dearest mother for longer than five minutes, but if you have the intention to renew your friendship with the lovely Amélie, I will gladly sacrifice myself.

Yesterday night, your father and I had to endure the most atrocious dinner party at the Parkinsons’. I certainly don’t know how Lucinda manages to invite the most stupid, vulgar and boring people you can possibly imagine. And so many of them together! Fudge was there (I suppose that even his skin is pinstriped). His wife, whose hair is notoriously dyed—well, I doubt that nature could bring forth such a colour even if it wanted to—was wearing truly abominable dress robes of fuchsia-coloured satin. To tell the truth, she was looking comme un cochon malade. Caleb and Alexandra Crabbe need not be described. However, the pièce de résistance was the Japanese ambassador with his wife—don’t ask me where Lucinda picked them up. I nearly choked on my soufflé when your father realized he had been talking to the man for ten minutes, but the other had not understood a single word. Of course, I had realized it immediately and only let him go on because it was so much fun.

Well, my darling, this seems to be all. I hope you are well. Try to behave yourself, though. At least until Hogwarts decides to keep house-trained school owls.

Love

Narcissa