Chapter Text
Drea was falling.
All she remembers is the same dream, the one that came and went with a different face each time. Sometimes it's Quirrell, the Professor whom she had fought against the prior year as she helped Harry Potter. Sometimes, it's the horrible face of Voldemort that had implanted itself on the back of Quirrell's head, the skin stretched thin against his sallow face, his evil red eyes that pierce her very soul, the snake-like slits of his nostrils that give his face the entire impression that he was wearing the skinned face of some sort of half human-half snake hybrid and was wearing it as a mask. Sometimes, it's the effortlessly attractive older Hogwarts student she had seen once at Father's parties and never again, the student for whom she couldn't understand why she was so unsettled by them, nor the strange familiarity to them. Sometimes, her tormentor has no face at all as he tortures her, sending the very essence of magical pain through her body as he tries to force Harry Potter to give up the Philosopher's Stone. Sometimes, Harry joins her in the torture. Sometimes, he lies dead on the stone steps of the room, ringed with flames that do nothing to hide the unnatural stillness of his body and his open, glassy eyes. Along with Harry, she sees Father there, his own longer blonde hair spread out around his head where he lay like a golden halo, sometimes streaked with blood. Mother is there too sometimes, her body draped over Fathers. Once, she'd even seen the body of the majestic unicorn she had found murdered in the Forbidden Forest there, laying dead and broken as it had in the darkness of that frigid night. That dream had been particularly awful, as instead of using the Cruciatus Curse on her as he'd normally done, her tormenter had instead forced her to drink the pure blood of the innocent unicorn that lay dead and broken on the same stone staircase that held Mother and Father.
She was cursed. That was all she knew as she screams out into the night, trying to reach out to grab onto something, anything, as she tumbles through nothing at all. With a light bump and far less pain than she'd expected, she opens her eyes to find herself on the smooth wooden floor of her bedroom, just next to the bed she had tumbled out of in the terror of her nightmares. Her sheets are tangled around her legs and her normally soft smooth blonde hair is matted to her face and head with sweat. As she takes in the brief calm that come with the world of the waking, Father bursts into the room, wand in hand. Even as she remains on the floor, hiding her face in her arms, Father searches the room with his wand lit, ready to curse whatever boggart of the night that had tormented her. When nothing is found, he extracts Drea from her tangled prison of bedcloths, lifting her up and carrying her downstairs.
She'd been home for nearly two weeks, and in that time had woken up in much the same circumstances three times, terrorized by the same nightmare she had been since that night under Hogwarts Castle. She'd never told Father that the nightmares had visited much more often than that, often waking up silently in a cold sweat. It was... better than it had been at Hogwarts, especially after her conversation with Albus Dumbledore, the school's white-haired headmaster whom she was certain was almost as old as England itself. She would be okay. She was okay. At least, that's what Dumbledore had told her, and it's what she had repeated to herself like a mantra every time the dream visitor tormented her. Though, the more time she spent being terrorized by the dreams, the less sure she was even if the dreams had become far less frequent. On this particular occasion in late June, Father carries her downstairs like he had when she was a child who had fallen asleep on a long carriage ride. She doesn't want him to let go, even as he sets her gently on the couch. She has to let him go, so she does and curls up on the fine leathers that she had been deposited gently on, Father taking his own seat next to the fire place. Dobby is tending the fire, and quickly moves out of sight as soon as it begins to crackle and heat the room. Mother descends the stairs and takes a seat next to Father, her hand clasped in his.
"Drusilla." She had rarely heard his voice this soft, the kind of soft he reserves for private moments shared with Mother, when they think nobody else is watching. Words that land soft as a song, landing as gentle as a silk ribbon dropped onto the floor. "There's something you're not telling us." He continues. The words are accusatory even if they're built from a place of concern. "Something that happened at the school, beyond what Dumbledore told us. Beyond what you shared." Indeed, she had shared much of the story of their descent into the deepest dungeons of the school, but she had never told anyone, save for Dumbledore, the whole truth of what happened in the chamber with the mirror, Quirrell, and the Philosopher's Stone. Would that change tonight? She briefly ponders telling Father, but... her eyes meet his, and she nods. She wishes she hadn't, as he averts his gaze, gripping Mother's hand even tighter.
"I knew it. I knew that senile old man was hiding something. He said that not all of it was his to tell but... we have a responsibility to know!" His hand comes down on the arm rest of the chair, causing both Drea and Mother to flinch. Father stands up, releasing Mother's hand as he begins to pace around the room. "I'll have to write to the Ministry. This cannot go... I will not have my only daughter..." He mutters to himself, as if Mother and Drea weren't even there.
"Father." Drea says softly. He freezes, turning to listen even as Mother leans in as well. She carefully considers her next words, both not to implicate her own mental state or send Father off the handle and do something dramatic. "This is my burden to bear. I made the choice to go with Potter through those trials. I could have backed out any time. I had several opportunities to let them go on without me." She takes a deep breath, steeling her nerves for what she's about to tell them next. Then, she launches into it.
"After Quirrell had thrown me... I told you that I didn't remember anything else. That's... not true. I lied, I didn't want to tell you what happened." It was easier to talk about it even as tears streamed down her face. She didn't want to stop, and neither of her parents interrupt her. "Quirrell... told us that he had served the Dark Lord." She purposefully uses the words Father had used to refer to him. They hadn't often talked about the war that had torn the wizarding world apart 11 years ago, but she knew he played a part on the side of the man who tormented her dreams. She'd have to play this carefully. "Then, he removed that silly turban he had and... The Dark Lord's face was on the back of his head. Dumbledore explained that Vol- The Dark Lord's spirit had attached himself to Quirrell, granting him power and directing him from inside his mind." Father's eyebrows raise as Mother's furrow, but they make no attempt to interrupt her. She desperately wished she had been better at reading Father's expressions. Maybe she'd be able to tell if continuing was a good idea or not, but she blusters on anyway. "The Dark Lord wanted something Potter had so... he tortured me to try and get him to give it up. He used crucio on me." Her voice is small, as though she could disappear from existence if she talked quietly enough. "He threw me again when I pulled his arm away from Potter but... Potter killed him somehow. Don't ask me to explain!" She hastily adds as she sees Father open his mouth to question the story. "That's all that happened. Dumbledore came just after." She's terrified she's said something wrong. Something was wrong, but not with what she had said. Her heart, the traitorous organ that attempted to escape her chest every time she had been in a situation she wasn't sure she'd come out on top of, is calm. It beats a steady drumbeat, nothing like the terrified pounding that filled her ears in the Forest or in the horrid chamber with Quirrell. Why not now? Father's face is stony and cold, even as he seems to consider the situation. Then he does something wholly unexpected.
Father leans in and pulls Drea in tight, squeezing her in a hug. He'd never been particularly affectionate, and Drea couldn't even remember the last time he had hugged her even as the tears stain the shoulder of his nightgown. Mother is there too, joining in the sorrow that Drea that drowned Drea. They're there for a long time.
It could have been an hour, it could have been a minute, all Drea knew was that it was too soon when Father pulls away, Mother reluctantly joining him.
"Drusilla, you should try and sleep. Your mother and I have some things to discuss." Drea's too caught up in her own wallowing to be angry, and nods as she stands. Father catches her hand as she passes the armchair. "We'll talk in the morning. I promise." He nods into her eyes, and she is too tired and upset to do anything except nod and head for the staircase. She ascends the long, grand staircase. The night is still black, and she knows it must be early in the morning. Too early to be up, even as she leans against the wall at the top of the stairs, standing in the spot she knows carries voices particularly well.
"What would you have me do, Narcissa?" Father's furious whisper is the first thing to touch her ears, even as she slides down the wall to a sit. "We can't send her to St. Mungos. They'd never let her leave!"
"You mean, they'd never let you forget it! Is that what you're concerned about, Lucius? Don't you want what's best for our daughter!" Her returned hiss surprises Drea with the fervor of her defense of her. Well, she wasn't quite sure which side to take. "She needs to see someone who can help her! This is beyond the both of us!"
"I know that, Narcissa! But you need to think past this! Should she return to Hogwarts? If she doesn't, how do we make sure she's prepared to face the world on her own!" Father returns the same fervent tone, though the two are practiced enough to keep it low enough that Drea couldn't be able to hear if she didn't know the acoustics of the manor so well from spying on Father's adult parties so often.
"I... I don't know, Lucius." A pause. Drea doesn't know what they're doing, but as Mother's voice returns it's slightly muffled. "I just don't want to lose-" Drea stifles a yelp as Dobby's yellow eyes peer out from the darkness at her. How long was he watching her? He offers a hand up, stepping into the moonlight shining in from a silvery ray courtesy of the large stained glass window that topped the staircase.
"Mistress should sleep." She can't argue with that. So, she returns to bed.
The nightmares don't come.
The next morning, Drea wakes up groggy and dull-eyed even as she rubs her face, blinking away the nearly midday sun. She had hardly ever gotten up this late even as she tumbles out of bed. The tumble isn't born from the terror of her previous night's fall, instead born from the lack of energy she had actually put into getting out of bed. Could she get away with staying in bed all day? She doubted that Father would question her if she did, but she had been promised answers. She wasn't about to let that opportunity go as she washes herself and dresses. Father is waiting in his office as she descends the stairs, calling out to her as she nears his door.
"Drusilla. Come." He says, the office doors further hinging themselves open as she walks through them. He has a copy of the Daily Prophet on his desk, and appears to be going through the various items of interest that he keeps on display. She takes the seat across from his desk, where she usually find herself as she settles in, waiting for her Father to explain.
"Where do I begin..." He sighs, rubbing his head.
"You can start with what you're gonna do to me. I'd like to know if I'm returning to Hogwarts after all." Drea keeps her voice neutral, or tries to even as the bitterness creeps in. The idea that she wouldn't return is absurd to her, though she can see the sense Father would find in the idea. Father simply smiles.
"I want to do what's best for you. If going back to Hogwarts is what's best, then that's what you'll do. But... I don't want every summer to have a ghost in our family. A ghost suffocated by the worst day of her life, the worst day that wouldn't have happened if Albus Dumbledore wasn't running the school."
"You're trying to redirect blame from the responsible party." She echo's the words he'd once said to her, after she'd broken an expensive vase and blamed Dobby for not cleaning it properly. He only returns the shadow of a smile. "Tell me about the Dark Lord." Drea says, relishing in the scowl that quickly crosses Father's face. She deserved to know, especially after the man he revered tormented her dreams. But... the scowl quickly softens as he exhales a sigh, a sigh of contemplation and consideration, likely to compose what to say.
"The Dark Lord." He rubs his eyebrow, averting his gaze from Drea. Now she really wanted to know. "Where do I even begin?" Another brief silence as he huffs, thinking back likely to many years ago. "Not long before I left Hogwarts, there were whispers among much of the Wizarding World about a figure that was rising. Thirty years prior, Grindelwald had been defeated, but throughout most of Europe many still agreed with his ideas, the idea that wizards should dominate the world, and Muggles should be subjugated for their own sake. Grindelwald's ideas had always been somewhat popular among the circles that our family had frequented, but a new figure began to rise, saying that Grindelwald was wrong. Not only should muggles be subjugated, but muggle-born and those with less pure blood than ours should also be subjugated, and that magic only belonged to those of the most pure blood. While I had found the ideas intriguing, my father, your Grandpa Abraxas, was enamored with the ideas. He helped the rising Dark Lord with funding, helping remove the mudblood minister of magic at the time as well. The history of the war isn't all that important, what is important is that Grandpa Abraxas was completely taken in by The Dark Lord's ideas. As soon as I graduated from Hogwarts, he asked me to join, and I did. We served the Dark Lord faithfully until his defeat at the hands of Harry Potter. As the Dark Lord fell, my father was ruined. He'd likely have done something dramatic if I hadn't taken over the family and allowed him to retire."
Drea had never liked Grandpa Abraxas. He hadn't seemed particularly proud of her, and she'd overheard him asking Father if he intended to have any sons. She wasn't at all surprised to hear that he had so faithfully served Voldemort.
"Then... why did he try to..." She luckily doesn't have to finish, as Father cuts her off.
"I don't claim to have known the mind of the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord fell a decade ago, and hasn't been seen since. He is gone. Whatever you encountered in that castle was an echo, an imprint, a part of him left behind after his being was shattered by whatever magic Potter had. That's why I wanted you to get to know the boy, to see if he was truly powerful enough to destroy him."
"And what do you think?"
"I think there is something Dumbledore is keeping from everyone. A power that Potter has that nobody else in the entire world knows about, save for him. And he keeps it to himself. Perhaps Potter will one day make a wizard more terrible than ever known with that power." Drea's head is swimming. So much made sense, so much didn't make sense. The ocean of boiling emotion within her threatens to explode out, but she keeps the lid on things, at least for now. She wordlessly rises, moving towards the door.
"Thank you, Father. For telling me all of this." She says, exiting the office even as Father stares on in concern, calling Dobby in as she leaves. The one question she wished she asked burns in her mind, though she's sure the answer might all but kill her. But, he makes no attempt to pursue her as she heads to her room. There was one person who she needed to hear from right now.
Harry,
I apologize for not writing earlier. Gryffindor's victory over Slytherin still weighs on my mind even as I consider everything that's happened in the last month. You're the only person who might also understand the sea of confusion I find myself in even as I cling to the flotsam of the truth of what happened in that chamber. Perhaps we can meet up over the summer and discuss the matter, if you have time. Write to me as soon as you can.
Regards,
Drea Malfoy
She reads the letter several times over, before setting down the quill. She hadn't remembered using that bottle of shining silver ink, but somehow finds that same eye-catching color now decorating the page with the brief note she had written. Folding it up, she tucks it into an envelope and melts a bit of green wax onto the seal, stamping it with the Malfoy family crest. Then, head in her hands, she tries to quiet the boiling thoughts in her head that threaten to spill out. Too many things to consider. Too much she was grappling with. She needed a friend, a friend who would actually understand what she was going through. Leaning back in her chair, still rubbing her eyes, she calls out in a slightly hoarse voice.
"Dobby." She says softly, and instantly the house-elf is there, his big luminous eyes filled with concern.
"Does Mistress need-" She cuts him off, speaking very carefully.
"Dobby. Please deliver this letter to Harry Potter."
"Surely, an owl is-"
"Dobby."
"...yes mistress." the House-elf takes the letter and vanishes. Drea wonders why he had seemed so oddly reluctant to follow her orders, but pays it no mind as she thinks she may hear him downstairs. She pushes that out of her mind, hoping that Harry replied soon so that she could go through her shattered thoughts with someone else who actually understood. She turns in for the night, doing her best to put the situation from her mind.
The nightmares plague her.
In the several few days that follow, the nightmares come and go even as no response is received from Harry Potter. Was he going to pretend like she didn't exist? Like everything that had happened the prior year just... hadn't involved her? Drea was certain he'd written to his other friends, the mudblood Granger and the blood-traitor Weasley. She had asked if they could be friends, however pitifully, and it seems like Potter wasn't inclined to indulge her.
At first, she's hopeful to get a letter. Then, as three days pass, she is annoyed it's taking so long. Then, as a week passes, she's angry with herself for expecting it. By the time June slips into July, Drea has all but given up her hope.
Early in July, Father surprises her by telling her to pack her bags. Initially, she's suspicious and somewhat unwilling, which Father seems to pick up on.
"Drusilla." He nods over his glass of Pumpkin Juice "It has been a month since your birthday. Your Mother and I have been preoccupied in all that has happened since then to celebrate properly, and she suggested a trip to Loch Ness. What do you think of that?" She hadn't even realized that midnight had ticked over in that dreaded chamber deep below the earth. It was the worst birthday she'd ever had, in her opinion.
"I... think I'd like that." A small trip was just the thing she needed to take her mind off Potter and his insistence that she hadn't existed.
"Excellent. Go pack your things. We will be gone for a week."
Loch Ness is a bit like Drea had expected, though very different. The place was filled to the brim with muggles of all shapes and sizes, as Loch Ness was a tourist hot spot among the muggle world. They had often crowded around to see "Nessie", a seemingly ancient creature straight out of myth, crowding around the lake's visitor's platform hoping to catch a glimpse of the mythical creature. Wizardkind knew far more than those ignorant muggles, and had their own viewing platform deep inside the lake, protected by magic. It was a well-known fact among wizard kind that "Nessie" was simply a monstrously large and long-lived Kelpie, the sheer size of the beast making it nearly impossible to hide from muggles. Luckily, the existence of "Nessie" seemed to be heavily debated among the muggle world, the non-magical folk convincing themselves that the great beast was simply a hoax or a trick of the light on the water people had occasionally spotted. Even as The Malfoy's made their way to a seemingly innocuous cabin near the edge of the lake, stepping inside and tapping on a hanging branch of dried thistle with their wand, causing the floor to open into a ladder that descends far below the lake.
The viewing platform itself is quite a feat of magic, though Drea had somewhat had her fill of "feats of magic" after the fiasco last year. In any case, the viewing platform is anchored to the bottom of the lake, a dome of clear rippling magic preventing the water from entering the dome even if it was still quite cold down there. As the Malfoys enter the viewing platform and start to take in the sights of the lake bottom, Drea spots someone whom she wouldn't mind talking to. Theodore Nott, another Slytherin and one who rivaled Drea in most subjects, being quite astute in his own right. She turns to Father, tugging on his sleeve.
"Father, that's Nott from school! Can we go say hi?" After a month of isolation, she was starting to grow eager to see other people her age again. Father obliges, and the two families meet up. Father, Mother, and Drea, along with Nott and his father, an old white-haired man. His mother is not present, and Drea knew that she had perished long ago. Even as Father and Nott Sr. begin to speak, Drea steals away with Theodore and finds a quiet place near the edge of the viewing platform, both taking a seat on a bench that overlooked the water.
"You look... like you're having a rough go of things." Nott comments as he sits. Drea sighs as she stares out over the cold lake bottom, still hoping to catch a glimpse of the kelpie.
"I am." She confesses. "I can't get... all of that out of my mind." Drea only uses the most vague of terms, but Nott seems to understand even so, staring out over the lake. She's grateful that he doesn't look at her. She wouldn't even want to look at herself in her current state.
"Y'know, My mother passed a few years ago." Nott says out of the blue. "My father was crushed. He still is.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. She had a fatal accident involving an improperly mixed potion. He's not taking it well. He still talks to her, sometimes, when he thinks I can't hear. He roams the halls of our house at night, as if he might find her in there in the darkness. He's refused to thrown out any of her things, saying she'd need them later." Nott sighs, shaking his head. "He's gone utterly mad with grief. That's how I feel when I look at you. That you've gone mad with your own sorrow." She wanted to hit him. To slap him across the face, to give him a black eye the way Weasley had done to her. But she can't muster up the strength to do anything but sigh.
"You think I'm crazy?"
"No. I think you're a cauldron about to boil over. You need to relieve the pressure before it bursts and sends you over the edge."
"With you?" She suggests, finally turning her gaze to him. He wasn't an unattractive boy, curly brown hair and sharp features, not too dissimilar to her own.
"No, not with me. Not unless you wanted to. With anyone who understands. You need to relieve the pressure." His eyes are still locked on the various pillars of kelp that stretch upwards from the bottom of the lakebed, reaching towards the light of the sky with rubbery leaves. Even as she turns back to the darkened waters, she spots movement in the corner of her eye.
"Look!" She squeals, pointing at the shape. The massive Kelpie that lived under the lake was darting among the lakebed. It appeared to be a gargantuan horse, the shape cloaked in the strands of yellow kelp that composed most of the lake bottom, even as the majestic creature darted through the beds of the large plants. She can't help but feel as if this was how she should have seen a unicorn for the first time.
The Malfoys bid their farewell to Nott, preparing to travel upwards and out of the lake. She waves goodbye to Theo, taking one last glimpse of the lake bottom before ascending the stairs. The kelp seemed an inspiration to her, growing in the darkness and reaching up towards the light, standing up tall as it did. Perhaps she'd have to do the same.
When they return to their Manor in Wiltshire, Drea has all but put Potter's lack of response out of her mind. But... Nott was right. She needed someone to talk to. Perhaps Pansy? Though, she wasn't sure Pansy could keep her mouth shut if she confided in her. Crabbe and Goyle were essentially giant sacks of burlap when it came to anything except eating or being physically strong. Theo himself? That seemed to be her best candidate, even as she unpacks from the trip and considers her options. Though as moonlight creeps through she prepares to get ready for bed, she hears a bit of a commotion downstairs. Creeping silently on bare feet, she arrives at the landing to find Father and several of his friends going through Father's office and some of the display cases littered throughout the manor, sorting various objects into piles. She steps out onto the landing at the top of the stairs, calling to Father.
"What's going on?" She asks as she descends the stairs, hand on the railing in the relative darkness. Father glances up, exchanging a quick look with Macnair, one of Father's closer friends who had no children her age. Father then hands what he had been holding to Macnair, before moving towards her.
"There's been some legal changes at the ministry. Avery's home was raided yesterday, and he believes it's only a matter of time before they visit us." Father rarely shared his troubles with her, though she was glad he did so in this case, even has he takes her hands and leads her to the foot of the stairs. "You needn't concern yourself with our business. We're just going through everything that the ministry might deem as "problematic" and moving them to the cellar. We will be fine." His voice was smooth and confident as it always had been. Behind him, Macnair retrives the old book in the case Father kept in his office. Following her gaze, Father releases her and approaches Macnair.
"The ministry will not care for that. It is... old. Not of much use." He says as he retrieves the book from Macnair's grasp. Then, he approaches her.
"Take this one, hide it among your school things. They will not think much of it there." Drea nods, happy to be included in Father's business, whatever business that might be. Then, she ascends the stairs back to her room, tucking the worn old book into her trunk of school things. Thinking nothing of it, she will return to bed even as Father and his friends continued their clandestine work.
The Nightmares don't come.
The next morning, Drea wakens early and rested, a far cry from how she had been feeling so often as of late. She's almost back to her old self, which Mother seems to notice at breakfast. Dobby has his ears bandaged and she briefly wonders what he had done to think he needed to punish himself.
"Drusilla, good morning. You seem well." Mother comments, tearing her thoughts away from Dobby.
"Yes Mother. I feel better." It wasn't a lie, so why did she feel so uneasy saying it? Why did she feel so uneasy in general, as if this was just the calm before the storm.
"That's wonderful. School lists have arrived. It's on the writing desk." Drea nods, quickly scooping breakfast into her mouth so she can see what she needs to buy. It looks like there's quite a few new books on the list, in addition to the previous year's textbooks.
"We'll visit Diagon Alley in a week or so, your Father has been rather preoccupied with the Ministry's new regulations. Arthur Weasley and his meddling..." She mutters to herself. Seems like her opinion on the Weasleys was quickly reaching her parents. That was fine by her, even as she takes the list upstairs. Something weighed on her mind, and maybe writing to Nott would alleviate it.
Back in her room, she takes a seat at her desk. Seems as if the old book Father had given her was laying on the desk, open to the first page. That was odd, she'd remembered tucking it into her school bag. Perhaps Dobby had disturbed it and not replaced it properly, which would certainly explain the evidence of his self-punishment. As she reaches for a roll of parchment to write her letter on, something catches her eye. T. M. Riddle carefully inscribed into the first page, faded with age. Why did that name seem so familiar? Carefully, she begins to flip through the pages. One by one, then rapidly as she finds each one in turn to be blank. A blank book? Why was this something Father had kept on display? Why had he given it to her? Her questions only mount as she finds every page in the book to be blank. As she lifts the book to toss it back in her bag, a sheaf of parchment slips out from near the front. How had she missed it, she wonders as she picks up the parchment and reads it.
Drusilla,
This book is important to me. You may use it and write in it as you please for the time being, but please ensure you erase what you write before you are finished. Use the book as you please.
Father.
That was... odd. It didn't seem to be in his handwriting, and it seemed strange that Father wouldn't tell her about the book and how to use it. Crumpling the parchment into a ball and tossing it over her shoulder, she returns to the book. Retrieving her wand from her trunk, she prods it. Nothing happens.
"Revelio!" She commands, waving the spell. The book does nothing. Either it's a completely mundane old book or is somehow hiding it's abilities. The latter was much more likely than the former, given the way Father had kept it on display in his office. Experimentally, she retrieves her quill and the silver ink, writing in the book experimentally.
"Drusilla Malfoy."
Her surprise is monumental when the book answers back, a tidy script appearing beneath her own writing.
"Greetings, Drusilla. Let me help you."