Funerals and Weddings

For disclaimer, summary, story codes and other information, please see the prologue. Additional warning: this chapter includes punishment

Chapter the tenth: Sins of the Father
Five months earlier
21 August
Malfoy Manor

[Here Draco paused and sighed heavily. He knew he needed to get this out before it could poison his system irreparably, but he didn’t think he could say the words aloud. Casting about, he transfigured a broken branch into a small table, ended the charms on his journal and quill, and began to write. – end of Chapter the Eighth]

Father greeted me and motioned me to a chair. He told me he had exciting news. It seems the Dark Lord was quite impressed with the number of O.W.L.s I received, especially the “Outstanding” scores I earned in Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts. So impressed, in fact, that he was considering allowing me to be initiated into the ranks of the Death Eaters before I turn 17 in February.

I’ve longed for the glory of serving the great Dark Lord my entire life. My father is a right bastard, but he’s still my father and I am a Malfoy. My father is the head of the House of Malfoy and he is a Death Eater; as heir, I have been raised in his mould. My first clear childhood memory is of my father punishing me for erring in the manner in which a Malfoy should comport himself. I think I was about four, and there was company at the Manor. I foolishly bounced onto the settee my mother directed me to; in doing so, I jostled the witch sitting at the other end and caused her to spill her tea. I remember freezing, staring in horror as the tea pooled in her lap and darkened the woman’s robes. I knew I had made a serious mistake. There was silence and then my father spoke in his most controlled, cold, and deathly quiet voice: “Draco. Come here.” Somehow, I managed not to wet myself in fear and I walked to him, eyes on the floor. I stood there, trembling, for what seemed like an eternity; my father is highly trained in the art of torture. Then he said, “Over my knees, Draco.”

I remember finally meeting his eyes, mutely begging him not to punish me in such a way in public. He narrowed his eyes, then glanced down at his lap. “Now, Draco. I’ll only add one stroke for your insolence in not obeying me immediately; I suggest you follow my instructions before I lose my patience.” I had climbed up to his lap then, stretching myself over his knees. I’ll never forget my mortification when he flipped my robes up onto my back and yanked my pants down to my thighs. A bare-bottom spanking—in front of an audience! His cool hand rested on my bum, then lifted and I couldn’t help but brace myself for that first blow.

*SMACK*

It stung but I managed not to cry out. He paused. “Draco…” he said warningly. I had forgotten to count! “One, sir!” I quickly said.

*SMACK*

“Two, sir!”

*SMACK*

By the fifth stroke, I was crying despite myself. Hell, I was only four!

It seemed, as always, that the blows got harder and fell faster as he neared the end; this wasn’t my first spanking and it would not be my last. A horrible thought has just crossed my mind—did my father get…aroused…when he spanked me? That would explain why the blows fell so much faster. Surely not. That time when I broke my new broom when I was ten and he paddled me—he was panting and flushed when he was done. Was it exertion…or excitement?

Enough. It’s making me ill to even think on it. What was my point? Oh yes, the role of the Malfoy heir. There are things that one must do and things one must not do when one is the Malfoy heir—hence the spanking for spilling the tea; a Malfoy is not clumsy or gauche. And my father knows that the best way to ensure a lesson is learned is to reinforce it with pain and humiliation. Like I said, my father is a bloody bastard.

Bastard or no, I’ve spent my life trying to win his approval. Moulding myself into a perfect little copy of my father. I’ve grown up listening to stories of the great Dark Lord and the “glory days” of the Death Eaters. Theodore Nott and I used to play “Death Eater” together as children, using play wands to destroy Muggle towns we’d create from sticks and grass. When the Dark Lord returned to life last year, Father immediately re-entered his service. I was eager to join as well, to meet this great leader, to earn my father’s favour. I was disappointed to learn that the Dark Lord had no use for under-age wizards; I would have to wait until I was 17.

And now, Father was telling me my dream might come true sooner than I hoped! I wanted to jump for joy, but that would never do. As casually as I could, I asked Father if perhaps the Dark Lord would use me as a spy from within Hogwarts. I was hoping Father would tell me that was exactly what was planned; I fantasized about providing the Dark Lord with the key piece of information he needed to defeat Dumblefuck once and for all. I would be honoured over all other Death Eaters…my father would be so proud…

Father burst my bubble by saying that he didn’t know the Dark Lord’s plans for me, other than the fact that the Dark Lord was looking forward to giving me the Dark Mark himself. What an honour!

That’s when I made my mistake. I didn’t think before I spoke. I asked Father how I could continue my education if I were to take the Dark Mark. I was so excited at the prospect of serving the Dark Lord at last, that I started to babble a bit—the Mark would be rather obvious at Hogwarts, and of course it was important for me to continue my studies, I was far too intelligent to allow my superior mind to rot, so perhaps I could hold off getting the Mark until after graduation…

I didn’t realize the effect my words were having on my father until he slammed his fist on his desk. I was shocked into silence. Father never lost his cool. I just sat there, stunned, when he came around his desk and lifted me to my feet by the front of my robes.

“You refuse to receive the Dark Mark?” he roared in my face. Never, ever, have I heard my father raise his voice. He was ice, not fire. I tried to explain to him that of course I wanted the Mark, I hadn’t meant it that way, that I was simply thinking aloud of how I could best serve the Dark Lord by spying—but he would not listen. He was ranting about being betrayed by his own blood, the shame of having a coward for a son, the humiliation of an heir such as I. I swear, his eyes were wheeling in his head. His spittle dampened my face. I could do nothing but stare when he shoved me away from him and raised his wand at me. He stared back at me, then calmly, coolly uttered a spell I never thought my own father would direct at me: Crucio.

I have never felt such pain in my life. Every cell in my body was on fire. It was agony beyond description. I know I screamed; my throat is still hoarse. When he lifted his wand, I could do nothing but gasp for air. Before I could catch my breath, the knives were back, slicing my body into pieces. I begged, I pleaded for mercy. Again, he lifted his wand, giving me respite for just a moment before recasting. The agony seared my soul.

At last, it ended. I have a vague memory of my father spitting on the ground at his feet before I apparently blacked out, because the next thing I remember is waking up in my bed. Every bone, every muscle in my body ached. Fuck, even my hair hurt! My mother told me later that a house elf had found me and summoned her. She said I’d been unconscious for close to 24 hours.

I spent all day in bed, letting my mother’s healing potions and spells do their work. I only have a few mild aches now. I had to get out of the house, so I came here. But what do I do now?

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A/N: Yes, I know that Draco’s birthday is in June (according to hplexicon.com) but I didn’t know that when I started this story and I sort of need his birthday to be in February, so please excuse this stray from canon. ? As always—please review!!! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, esp. Mart and Lani. ?