Celestine's fics (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} celescribbles) wrote,@ 2007-09-19 00:24:00 |
|
| Current mood: |  chipper |
| Entry tags: | vincit |
Vincit Qui Se Vincit
Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Chapter summary : Draco’s Slytherin robes were tucked safely away in a trunk, never to be used again. Hogwarts was over. The war was over. There was nothing left in the near future but a pile of paperwork to go through and endless, fruitless trips to the Ministry. There was no other place for him in this new world.
“You’d better be all set to go -”
“Do we have to? I mean, you’re sure there’s no way out of -”
“Be quiet! I’ve already told you a million times.”
Draco pressed his lips together and watched the fire dying in the hearth. It was hard – no, not hard, it was inconceivable to think it would be the last time he looked into that fire place, the last time he walked on the ancient marble floor in the hall… He tried to tell himself he’d touched the smooth wood of the stairs’ banister for the last time, repeating the sentence over and over again in his head, but it felt like a silly lie.
And yet, they were leaving. His mother was standing next to their dark leather trunks – they looked so small; how could all their possessions fit in there? – and fiddling about nervously to find something in her embroidered pouch. Her face was drawn, her features pale, and yet she seemed determined.
Draco wondered if his mother was actually happy to escape anything that could remind her of what had happened. Lucius tortured and disgraced, Bellatrix dead.
At first, for a fleeting moment, Draco had experienced a surge of desire for revenge, a desire to fight for his family and what honour they might have left against those who’d destroyed everything… but the truth was that he was tired. He was tired of the need for revenge and fighting and honour his father had instilled in him.
And the truth was that he simply wasn’t cut out to die for any cause, nor kill for that matter. He liked prestige, wealth and comfort. He despised humble people, weak people, people with tender hearts and a naïve view of the world. He wanted what was best for him. Draco had never been one to care for ideas. And he had never particularly cared for Bellatrix either – to his mind, it was just as well that she was dead.
These truths were rather easy to take. Others, not so much, like the fact that Potter had saved his life, that his mother had saved Potter. And Draco’s Slytherin robes were tucked safely away in a trunk, never to be used again. Hogwarts was over. The war was over.
There was nothing left in the near future but a pile of paperwork to go through and endless, fruitless trips to the Ministry. There was no other place for him in this new world.
“The carriage should be here any minute,” Narcissa said. “Come on.”
“I don’t see why we couldn’t Apparate -”
“In the middle of London, or Diagon Alley, with all our trunks? Which would you rather have, Muggles pointing at us or wizards jeering us off the street?” His mother’s voice wavered slightly. “The carriage is expensive. I wanted to spare us the Knight Bus, but if you’d rather -”
“No, I’m sorry,” Draco muttered. “Sorry. It’s fine. Let’s go.”
Both of them levitated their trunks and bags out the door. Draco felt a tight ball form in his throat, and his eyes began to burn. He wouldn’t think of it, he wouldn’t.
But the smallest hedge in the alley leading up to the front gate seemed to remind him of a silly game or other he played as a child – hide and seek, perhaps -, and the way his mother would scold him because he snapped the branches and pick at the leaves. She always made sure that hedge was perfectly trimmed. Now it would grow wild and unkempt without Draco’s help, and no one would be here to tend to it.
The carriage was waiting and as they boarded; Draco saw his mother’s shoulders shake. He sat down and looked straight ahead of him. He didn’t want to see the tears running down her cheeks, blotching her face. He didn’t want to see the manor disappearing from view as the carriage lurched forward.
“Mother, don’t,” he said, holding out his hand and placing it awkwardly on hers, as if the ball in his throat was spreading to his limbs. “We’ll get the manor back, somehow -”
The words sounded absurd even as Draco spoke them. The Ministry would never let any Malfoy reclaim what was lost, he saw that now – they’d taken the manor on grounds that it had been Voldemort’s headquarters, that the place had to be inspected, verified, dismantled, torn apart. And they’d have him and his mother locked away in Azkaban along with his father if they could, to erase the Malfoy name from the face of the earth just like they would the manor.
It was their shame, too, Draco thought furiously. His father was paying for their shame and their weakness as much as he was paying for what he’d done. Perhaps Bellatrix was lucky to have been killed by someone who had fought till the end, instead of being ferociously judged by the same people who had stepped aside to make way for her a week before…
“I don’t care.”
Narcissa’s voice was so low that Draco thought he hadn’t heard well at first. “You don’t -”
“I don’t care,” she repeated, sniffling in a handkerchief. “The manor and the furniture can go to them – but Lucius won’t stay in their hands much longer, I can promise you that.”
“Mother, we’ve been over it a hundred times before,” Draco started, then he sighed. She’d told him about everything that had happened that night, but he didn’t think his mother’s lie to Voldemort would count in the opinion of a Ministry in need of the wizarding community’s unconditional support – and the wizarding community wanted culprits.
His mother shook her head and sniffled again. “He won’t.”
It was no use. They were completely alone, without the slightest hope of receiving aid or support. They were on their way to a new, unfamiliar place they were going to have to call home.
Still, Draco thought, the two of them – the three of them were alive.
“I promise I’ll go to the Ministry every day,” he said, patting her hand and then withdrawing. “We’ll find a way. We’ll get Potter – we’ll get him to testify to what you did.”
An image of himself writing an owl to Potter, pleading for help, flashed through Draco’s mind and he almost snorted in derision.
“Perhaps the Parkinsons…” her mother ventured.
This time, Draco really did snort. “If they’re not completely insane, they’ll keep a low profile for awhile, and letting us live under their roof won’t really help their case.”
“But you and Pansy -”
“She’s away,” he said curtly.
His mother said nothing more. And Draco found he had no more to say, either. He already had too much to miss and to regret to think about Pansy for now.
Outside, the sky was hanging drearily over a greenish field, and the carriage continued on its way.
“Do we have to? I mean, you’re sure there’s no way out of -”
“Be quiet! I’ve already told you a million times.”
Draco pressed his lips together and watched the fire dying in the hearth. It was hard – no, not hard, it was inconceivable to think it would be the last time he looked into that fire place, the last time he walked on the ancient marble floor in the hall… He tried to tell himself he’d touched the smooth wood of the stairs’ banister for the last time, repeating the sentence over and over again in his head, but it felt like a silly lie.
And yet, they were leaving. His mother was standing next to their dark leather trunks – they looked so small; how could all their possessions fit in there? – and fiddling about nervously to find something in her embroidered pouch. Her face was drawn, her features pale, and yet she seemed determined.
Draco wondered if his mother was actually happy to escape anything that could remind her of what had happened. Lucius tortured and disgraced, Bellatrix dead.
At first, for a fleeting moment, Draco had experienced a surge of desire for revenge, a desire to fight for his family and what honour they might have left against those who’d destroyed everything… but the truth was that he was tired. He was tired of the need for revenge and fighting and honour his father had instilled in him.
And the truth was that he simply wasn’t cut out to die for any cause, nor kill for that matter. He liked prestige, wealth and comfort. He despised humble people, weak people, people with tender hearts and a naïve view of the world. He wanted what was best for him. Draco had never been one to care for ideas. And he had never particularly cared for Bellatrix either – to his mind, it was just as well that she was dead.
These truths were rather easy to take. Others, not so much, like the fact that Potter had saved his life, that his mother had saved Potter. And Draco’s Slytherin robes were tucked safely away in a trunk, never to be used again. Hogwarts was over. The war was over.
There was nothing left in the near future but a pile of paperwork to go through and endless, fruitless trips to the Ministry. There was no other place for him in this new world.
“The carriage should be here any minute,” Narcissa said. “Come on.”
“I don’t see why we couldn’t Apparate -”
“In the middle of London, or Diagon Alley, with all our trunks? Which would you rather have, Muggles pointing at us or wizards jeering us off the street?” His mother’s voice wavered slightly. “The carriage is expensive. I wanted to spare us the Knight Bus, but if you’d rather -”
“No, I’m sorry,” Draco muttered. “Sorry. It’s fine. Let’s go.”
Both of them levitated their trunks and bags out the door. Draco felt a tight ball form in his throat, and his eyes began to burn. He wouldn’t think of it, he wouldn’t.
But the smallest hedge in the alley leading up to the front gate seemed to remind him of a silly game or other he played as a child – hide and seek, perhaps -, and the way his mother would scold him because he snapped the branches and pick at the leaves. She always made sure that hedge was perfectly trimmed. Now it would grow wild and unkempt without Draco’s help, and no one would be here to tend to it.
The carriage was waiting and as they boarded; Draco saw his mother’s shoulders shake. He sat down and looked straight ahead of him. He didn’t want to see the tears running down her cheeks, blotching her face. He didn’t want to see the manor disappearing from view as the carriage lurched forward.
“Mother, don’t,” he said, holding out his hand and placing it awkwardly on hers, as if the ball in his throat was spreading to his limbs. “We’ll get the manor back, somehow -”
The words sounded absurd even as Draco spoke them. The Ministry would never let any Malfoy reclaim what was lost, he saw that now – they’d taken the manor on grounds that it had been Voldemort’s headquarters, that the place had to be inspected, verified, dismantled, torn apart. And they’d have him and his mother locked away in Azkaban along with his father if they could, to erase the Malfoy name from the face of the earth just like they would the manor.
It was their shame, too, Draco thought furiously. His father was paying for their shame and their weakness as much as he was paying for what he’d done. Perhaps Bellatrix was lucky to have been killed by someone who had fought till the end, instead of being ferociously judged by the same people who had stepped aside to make way for her a week before…
“I don’t care.”
Narcissa’s voice was so low that Draco thought he hadn’t heard well at first. “You don’t -”
“I don’t care,” she repeated, sniffling in a handkerchief. “The manor and the furniture can go to them – but Lucius won’t stay in their hands much longer, I can promise you that.”
“Mother, we’ve been over it a hundred times before,” Draco started, then he sighed. She’d told him about everything that had happened that night, but he didn’t think his mother’s lie to Voldemort would count in the opinion of a Ministry in need of the wizarding community’s unconditional support – and the wizarding community wanted culprits.
His mother shook her head and sniffled again. “He won’t.”
It was no use. They were completely alone, without the slightest hope of receiving aid or support. They were on their way to a new, unfamiliar place they were going to have to call home.
Still, Draco thought, the two of them – the three of them were alive.
“I promise I’ll go to the Ministry every day,” he said, patting her hand and then withdrawing. “We’ll find a way. We’ll get Potter – we’ll get him to testify to what you did.”
An image of himself writing an owl to Potter, pleading for help, flashed through Draco’s mind and he almost snorted in derision.
“Perhaps the Parkinsons…” her mother ventured.
This time, Draco really did snort. “If they’re not completely insane, they’ll keep a low profile for awhile, and letting us live under their roof won’t really help their case.”
“But you and Pansy -”
“She’s away,” he said curtly.
His mother said nothing more. And Draco found he had no more to say, either. He already had too much to miss and to regret to think about Pansy for now.
Outside, the sky was hanging drearily over a greenish field, and the carriage continued on its way.
Previous chapter
Next chapter
