Tommy, Son of a Dark Lord

Chapter Eight: LIfe

          Lucius was called away to meet with the Dark Lord when Gregory Goyle showed up in the floo of Draco’s room.  He looked upset and Oliver let his brows furrow in concern.  It felt odd to be worrying over a boy he’d hardly known, but when Greg asked to come through, the pinched sound of his voice had Oliver authorizing it immediately.

          Goyle stood in the middle of Draco’s room, a place he’d visited on many occasions, and he looked around.  He nodded a few times, looked at Oliver, then shook his head.  “Is he still alive?” Greg asked and Oliver felt his stomach drop.

          “What do you mean?” he asked, though he suspected he knew the answer to that.

          “Draco.  My best friend.  The one you look like, but don’t act just like, and don’t sound just like, and don’t keep your room just like.  Is Draco Malfoy, the real Draco Malfoy, still alive?” Greg had begun to shout and was backing Oliver into the wall, pointing his finger and poking Oliver in the sternum, repeatedly.

          Oliver felt the waves of panic rollover him and he looked around for escape.  He saw none, and when he turned back to the bigger boy, a tear was rolling down Greg’s cheek.  “I . . “ he began.

          “Then, he’s not.  I guess I knew it.  Why else would you be here.” At this point, Greg was tired of holding back his tears and the flood gates opened.  The tiny rivulets that ran down his face dripped onto his cloak spread out in two wet stains. He found himself held in the arms that looked and felt so much like his best friend, that it choked him up and started him to sobbing.

          “I don’t know if he’s alive, Goyle.  I just don’t know.  I was told to be here, to keep up this ruse or forfeit my life.  I had no choice, really.  The alternative . . .” But Oliver couldn’t begin to describe the torture that he had endured before offered the chance to live out this lie.  Greg looked up and shook his head again.

          “See.  Draco would’ve been giving me hell for ruining my most expensive silk cloak.  You’re not him.  Who are you?” he asked.

          “My name was Oliver Wood, but he’s dead now.  It was in the paper, the one that I bought that first day, in Diagon Alley.  I can’t be him anymore, either.” Oliver had burned the paper when he’d had a chance and cried in Draco’s huge bed all night.  Now, as he looked into the pale blue eyes of Draco’s best friend, Oliver had wished he could show it to him.  “I don’t know if I can do this.”

          “Well, you’d fool most people, the ones who didn’t really know him.  But, not me, not Crabbe or Millicent, Pansy or Potter, for that matter.  You just have a few, well a few little things to fix.” Greg wasn’t sure, but he really wanted this Oliver Wood to succeed at his ruse.  If Draco was still alive, then his doppelganger’s success was necessary.  “I could help you.  I’ll teach you how to be Draco!” his tone said excitement and Oliver watched him with renewed hope.

          “I’d appreciate that.” He said and Greg grabbed him and held him tightly.  The hug was so sincere that it didn’t faze Oliver like most touches had recently.

‘

Lucius sat in the largest of the lounges, reading the daily Prophet and sipping brandy from his last snifter.  The rest had disappeared, probably stolen by one of the less refined of the Dark Lord’s followers.  He looked up briefly as an owl landed on the windowsill and looked around the room.  It seemed to be searching for someone, and he sighed as he rose, put down his paper and glass to see to it.

          “Stand still, you bloody bird.” He griped as he retrieved the note from its leg and shoo’ed it away.  “No treats for inept fowls.” He called after it.

          The note was clearly addressed to Draco and he shook his head as he called for one of his houselves. He directed the little beast to bring Master Draco down, and waited as she scurried off to do so.

          Oliver arrived moments later, looking rushed and slightly out of breath.  “No need to rush, Son.  It’s merely a letter from your friend Gregory.” Lucius told the boy, smiling when Oliver brushed off his shirt, rubbing the sweat from his hands.  Lucius watched him, noting a few small details that had begun to concern him, of late.

          Oliver read the letter, smiling at a joke Greg told him and shaking his head over the bits of gossip the boy had relayed.  ‘Did Draco Malfoy really care about such inane details, or was it simply that the other boy wanted an excuse to write him a letter?’ It seemed off, to Oliver.

          As he neared the conclusion of the missive, Oliver started to walk out of the lounge, nearly colliding with the door frame as her tried to multi-task, reading and walking simultaneously in unfamiliar surroundings.  He had only been in this room two previous times.

          Lucius called out, just in time to keep his son from gaining a concussion to go with his other odd behavior.  Oliver looked up, avoided the door and smiled sheepishly at the Malfoy Patriarch.  That was the straw that broke the aristocrat’s back.  He waited until Draco had disappeared up the stairs, and went in search of his wife.

          Narcissa was in the kitchen, scolding an elf on the proper way to clean her favorite dishes.  The ones that her mother had given them for a wedding present.  She looked tired and out of sorts, just as she had for the last few weeks that they had been home.  Lucius waited until she looked his way, then he waved her to follow him.  When they reached his office, one of the rooms that had needed the most work, he sat her on the small divan and held her hands.  “Cissa, we have a problem.” He began and she whimpered in fear.  “No, not that.  I believe that Draco. . . . I think that boy is not our son.”