✼¹      

     I often equated loving Lycus Sebastian Malfoy to the ocean. Pure and deep and steady. All-encompassing and wide and freeing. Unfailing in every possible way.

     But if loving Bas was the ocean, Lucius was the storm.

     He was rage, fury, thunder. Destruction and death.

     No, he never killed anybody himself. He will have his fair share of torture and tormenting in the years to come, but there is no blood on his hands. It was his heart that craved unrest. It actively seeked to destroy goodness and virtue — or at least that which was not dictated by people like his family.

     Strange things started happening halfway through our Sixth Year. Students were occasionally missing from class for days. Word had it that they had been sent home for emergencies. When they came back, they told their friends there had been an accident. Their parents were dead. Many of their parents were Muggle-borns.

     I never thought to ask because these children stayed far away from most of the Slytherins for fear of being mocked or ridiculed, so whatever I knew was only through the grapevine.

     Consequently, the string of incidents seemed to dowse the Pure-bloods in a boldness never seen before. The professors tried their best to curb the bullying, but there was only so much they could do. The worst of it happened behind the closed doors of the Common Rooms or bathrooms. The boys were merciless with their jinxes and the girls were cutthroat in their taunts. The hospital wing began to fill quickly with Muggle-borns sporting broken noses and bruised heads, jelly-legs or a case of nonsensical babbling.

     They did not take it lying down, however. While the string of dead parents seemed to bestow the Pure-bloods with a distorted sense of superiority, it also gave the Half-bloods and Muggle-borns the final push of courage they needed. They fought back with equal determination — talked back, hit back, hexed back. There was news of uprisings and violence from parts of Britain, but we barely paid attention. A war of our very own had broken out in our Eden, and everyone wanted a piece of it.

     Lucius came to me one day. "There's a society," he said with an urgency I've never heard before. "Only for magic folk like us. I've been invited."

     He had recently fallen into the habit of boasting about the exclusive activities and clubs he'd been invited to instead of his brother, and I wasn't even sure I cared at that point. "What do they do?" I asked absently.

     "What has to be done," was his simple reply.

     His words chilled me to the bone. There was an excited gleam in his eye, and a dark passion in his smile that left me with a sinking feeling in my stomach, like I was drowning without even knowing.

     One day during Defence, I was summoned to the Dumbledore's office. I had not done anything wrong or spoken out of turn, and I wondered what in the world the Headmaster wanted with me. 

     Admittedly, I did not like the him very much. Having been a Gryffindor himself, he bore an undeniable favouritism towards the House of the Brave. They had the lion's share of his attention, leaving the other three with not much else.

     "I want you to keep a close eye on Lucius Malfoy," he said from behind his desk. I stood there dumbfounded, wondering if I'd heard him wrong.

     "It has come to my attention that Mr. Malfoy has been involving himself in certain extracurricular activities outside of classes," Dumbledore went on. "It is my job to ensure the safety of school, and so I would like you, Ms. Black, as a close affiliate of his, to keep yourself most aware of these pursuits, and to make me equally so."

     I folded my arms. "I'm sorry, Professor, but what makes you think I'm not already aware?"

     Dumbledore peered at me over his half-moon spectacles. "Are you?"

     I could have lied, said I knew all about it. Hell, I could've even said I was a part of it too; put that old wizard in his place. But even I knew that it would be no use. Dumbledore was a person who could take one look at you and know whose side you were on, even if you didn't yet know it yourself.

     "What will I get in return?" I asked.

     "Nothing," replied Dumbledore. "Nothing at all."

     I hated the way he was smiling, as if he knew a secret about me no one else did. The desire to disobey burned strong. "Then I shan't," I announced decidedly.

     If Dumbledore was surprised at my defiance, he didn't show it. Instead, he nodded once, slowly. "Very well. You may be excused now, Miss Black."

     I got onto the platform that would bring my back down. "Miss Black," he called after me. "It might do you well to choose the people you trust very carefully. Sometimes it is those we hold closest and most dear who will hurt us the most."

     The statue turned, the wings of the griffin obscured his long white beard from me, and then he was gone.

✧

     I hadn't wanted to spy on Lucius. It didn't matter that he had become pompous and stuffed-up, because I was convinced that whatever he had involved himself in was harmless; just another one of those elitist societies Bas had warned me about — all roaring and no flames.

     Still, I found myself stealing sidelong glances at him. Lucius and Alistair Nott were glued at the hip, always stalking the hallways with their shoulders wide, arms swinging, and chins in the air. Where they went, people scattered.

     They knew that the power these two boys held was not in their wands or magical prowess, but the metallic shine of the Galleon. They could do no wrong, and if they did, they waved quills, not wands, to rectify it. To make people forget.

     There is a reason why war has transcended from swinging swords and shooting arrows to cold, wordless competitions between nations. Because true power does not lie in your ability to cast Reducto, or concoct Wolfsbane potion. It is the ability to silence your enemy without laying a single finger on them. It is in the contracts you sign, the cheques you approve.

     It is in the power of a name.

     It is in the power of the quill.

     It hit me like a brick then, how simple all of this was. Bas will never accomplish what Lucius could. It was not for his lack of ability, but his lack of cunning.

     Then I understood why things were the way they were, and how they would be, forever.

     No amount of effort would help the Squibs, nor the Half-bloods and the disenfranchised, and that was because a certain witch or wizard, with the name and the quill, sat in some faraway office at some faraway desk and said this was to be so.

     So one sleepless night, when I heard the bricks of the Common Room rumble, I slipped out of bed, put on my coat, and followed Lucius out into the dark.

     Through hallways and round corners and past the cloisters, he walked. I stayed a careful distance behind, guided forward only by the gleam of his silver hair and constantly shrinking silhouette.

     Dumbledore's words thundered so loudly in my mind I was certain it would wake the entire school. What was so insidious about this society that concerned the Headmaster enough that he needed me, of all people, to find out? Did it have anything to do with dead Muggle-born parents? 

     But if I said I followed him purely out of curiosity, I'd be lying.

     There was a part of me that was hungry; desperate to see what Lucius saw, heard what he heard, knew what he knew.

     What I found did not satiate my appetite, but only served to grow it tenfold.

     On the sixth floor, three doors down the boys' lavatory, Lucius disappeared into a room. I knew how it looked like; I had peeked inside once or twice in passing. It was an unused professor's office, tastefully furnished with simple but well-made furniture, and on its windows hung red velvet drapes with a yellow corded rope that you could yank to draw them together.

     Light slivered below the door, the shifting and glowing of candle flames. When the door shut behind Lucius, I counted to thirty and went up and pressed my ears to the polished wood.

     There were about three voices I recognised, and two I didn't. They spoke in hushed, urgent tones.

     "He's on the move. I've just gotten word," said Alistair Nott.

     "When do you think we'll get to meet him, d'you reckon?" asked one of the unfamiliar voices, a husky baritone that curled with a thick Irish accent.

     "During the Christmas holidays, probably. He'll mark us once we graduate," Lucius replied. "That stupid oaf Dumbledore's made it difficult for him to enter the school. That's what my father says, anyway. "

     Even through the thick planks, Bellatrix's unmistakable voice sounded out loud and clear. "Speaking of Dumbledore, what're we going to do about the 'army'?"

     A faceless male laughter echoed in the hollow room. "We don't have to do anything — they're so simple they'll take themselves out. Have you seen the imbeciles he's recruited? Bloody Longbottom from Third Year? Gideon Prewett? They're children! Still got their thumbs stuck in their mouth."

     "Never underestimate children, Dolohov," said Lucius severely. "One of them has already expressed interest in joining us; a First Year. Severus Snape, I believe he said his name was.

     "A First Year!" Bellatrix exclaimed. "What could a First Year possibly do that would be of value to us?"

     "You'd be surprised, Bella. For one, he could recruit more of his sort into our ranks."

     "And what sort is that?"

     "The vulnerable," said Lucius. "The ones seeking revenge."

     There was a pause. When Bellatrix next spoke, her voice dropped into a whisper. "They say he's trying to make himself immortal."

     "That's impossible," interjected the Irish boy. "No one can live forever, not even magic folk!"

     "Well, he's already halfway there. They say he's learnt to split his soul into a dozen bits, and stores them in things that he hides in different places so you'll never find them. And even if you do, they're indestructible."

     "And the Ministry's said nothing about it?" Lucius sounded impressed — proud, almost.

     "Oh, please," scoffed Bellatrix. "If anything, Jenkins supporting the Squib marches is only making the rest of the Pure-blood families angrier. You wasted that thousand Galleons on my sister's stupid campaign."

     "It served its purpose," said Lucius.

     A wave of anger washed over me. I wanted to storm in there; gaze upon each of their shocked faces and announce that I had heard everything. My grip tightened on the cold stone that framed the archway as I steadied myself. It would not be wise to let on that I knew. What if I was able to exchange this information for favours from Dumbledore in return?

     Reluctantly, I tore myself away from the door and dragged my feet back to bed. And as I lay in bed that night, I thought about what I had heard, about marks and armies and immortality, trying to make sense of it all. Most of all, I thought about the thousand Galleons Lucius had thrown at me, like throwing scraps to a stray. But I fancied myself of a relatively rational mind, and decided I would pretend that I hadn't heard it at all.

     However, even as I forced myself into an uneasy sleep, the indignation and anger seethed below my skin, bubbling and steaming, waiting for a chance to explode.

✧

     Night after night, I followed Lucius. Each time, a different room, a different part of the castle. I sat outside with my ears pressed against a door or wall for minutes on end until my neck screamed in protest.

     They spoke of undercover operations; acts of treason and infiltrations of the Ministry; of secret armies of monsters and werewolves that operated in the cover of forests. They spoke of death; of torturing and murdering with words the Professors had warned us not to utter even under most dire circumstances. 

     Each night provided a progress report on either of these topics, but there was one thing that was a mainstay in their conversations: a wizard they called the Dark Lord. The greatest of all -- he who would change the wizarding world as we knew it, forever.

     His name was Voldemort.

     Formless, he was a wisp that travelled the roads of the night skies, obliterating anything and anyone who stood in his path. Cold, cruel, ruthless. He would keep you alive for as long as you bore some use to him. When he was done, so were you. He did not take prisoners.

     His followers bore a mark: a skull and serpent branded onto your body to signify who your soul belonged to. Already, they had left a trail of dead behind them. Dozens — no, hundreds — of Muggles, Muggle-borns, and the people he called 'blood traitors': Half-bloods and Pure-bloods who sympathised with the enemy. They were no better than if they had been birthed from Muggles themselves.

     Names of interest surfaced. The Prewetts. The Bones. The Weasleys. The McKinnons. They were liabilities, and had to be axed. Their bloodlines should not be allowed to continue lest they spread their disease of impure blood.

     Over time, a strange familiarity had started to grow in my chest; a line that stretched across the space between me and the dastardly group behind the door. Soon, there existed an entire map of their plans in my brain. I knew intimately the details of Voldemort's weekly movements, the names of his right-hand men, and those of every member of Dumbledore's army. I could list off the Muggles they had slaughtered and each newly-knighted member of Voldemort's ranks. People who called themselves Death Eaters.

     And with familiarity came the dissipation of fear. The initial concern and worry that had wrought me in the beginning flaked away, until there was nothing left but raw curiosity and an unplaceable desire for... something.

     Power? Riches? The former I had no use for, the latter I had more than enough of. 

     I soon realised it was a family I craved. Somewhere I could belong, where people were fierce and loyal, who did not scream at daughters, who supported my desire for security and wanted the same for themselves.

     I did not tell Bas or Dumbledore, or even Ronnie, about Lucius and Bella's nightly adventures. Perhaps if I had, things might not have turned out the way they did. If I had, they might have stopped me from going home to Black Manor for Christmas.

     If I had, I might not have met the dark wizard who would promise me the world and its destruction.

     I might have saved Bas.

     I might have saved Draco.

༻❁༺

     Click.

     "I did not want it to happen." The words squeeze themselves from Narcissa's throat. I do not ask what she means, because I know she will only tell me to wait, and because flashes of the early-setting sun bring about images of Monty and his stern reminder. Be home before sunset.

     "I know." Saying anything else would not have been right.

     And I do know. I know how it feels to feel alone in a crowd of hundreds, to find someone who makes you feel like you belong somewhere; to love them until right and wrong blend together and the distinction between fact and fiction no longer exists. Poison from their lips taste like honey; their words are gold spun from hay².

     I also know how it feels like to find someone who finally shatters that mirage and makes you doubt it all.