December 16, 1991 (Part 2)

Red. The edge of my vision. My thoughts. My magic. It was all red. Anger and betrayal coursed through my veins. Only it had nowhere to go. My wand was still with Father, grasped so tightly I was shocked it had not snapped. And Draco was useless, he hadn’t even brought his wand with him to eavesdrop.

Perhaps that was harsh —to call my brother useless.

“Medea, that was stupid of you.“

Nevermind. He was a prat. Useless and all.

Snapping, I turned on my heel and shoved my brother, my forearm resting on his clavicle, “Shut up, Draco. Unless you want me to snap your wand myself, you’ll leave it alone.”

His face went red, and he wrapped his fingers around my wrist, pushing me off him, “What is the matter with you! You were never—never like this before!”

Without another outlet, the rage that so often bubbled in my veins came to bear.

“Oh, look, my prat of a brother —feeling unseen? Can’t have something not be about you? Fine,” I hissed, “I’ll help you out.”

Perhaps had my wand been in hand I would have used a hex. Instead, I snapped my hand out and slapped my brother with enough force that I felt my skin sting. And it was with horror I realized what I had done.

It was worse than an unforgivable.

My brother was crying. Because of me. Because I was out of control.

“I—“ I choked on my words, “I’m sorry.”

My hand hung there, a foot from my own face. My brother, hot liquid running down his cheeks. I met his eyes and he looked away, I saw his hands tighten into fists and I knew without a doubt I owed him a debt. Our games were never meant to hurt one another. Not like this. Never like this.

I had allowed my faults, my doubts, my rage, to control me. And now I had to let my sense take back over.

I pulled my hand back.

“Brother, watch.”

Draco raised his eyes.

I brought my strength to bear, twice as powerful as before. I struck my own cheek.

I kept my eyes on Draco as he flinched.

And I did it again. This time the pain in my cheek radiated heat.

And again. I caught my nail on my lip and felt the sting of drawn blood.

But now I had paid thrice for my crimes.

“Stop.” Came the horrified whisper of Draco, my brother, my other half. Where I was rage he was disdain, where I held numbness he held zest.

“Castor and Pollux, Coco,” I hissed out, gripping my sides, “I’m sorry.”

His arms wrapped around me, “You owe me, Dea.”

I didn’t miss the way his voice broke, as I broke down in his arms.

-

“Cissy, she didn’t just disobey me. She disrespected me.”

Lucius threw the vinewood wand across the table, disgusted at the very thought of the spell his daughter had cast.

“We have coddled her.” Came the measured, sweet toned voice of his wife, “What is it that we say, Lucius?”

“Love and venom.”

“I believe it is time for the venom.”

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“We have allowed them both to be sheltered from the cruelty of the world, my love.”

“Should it be you or me?”

“Me,” Lucius growled, “I will always be the cruelty —you need not dirty your hands.”

Through war and peace, Lucius would protect Narcissa. She was the love of his life. The shield to his sword. If their daughter required discipline, he could be the villain.

It was a role he knew well.

-

The dungeons of Malfoy Manor were dark and dingy and filled with portraits painted to be in pain. This was somewhere I had only seen in my memories, where death eaters tortured and starved wizards and witches that opposed their regime. A true blood daughter of the house of Malfoy should not be down here — not at my age.

But here I was.

Out of control. You let your rage fuel you. Your fear. You are too weak. That is why you are here—

“Medea.”

I turned to look at the towering form of my father, dressed in all black.

“Father.”

“I have allowed you too much freedom, it seems.”

His voice was cold, detached, and his hand waved leisurely as he spoke. If I hadn’t known him during the war, I would think the act was perfect as is. But my memory was his downfall. I could see the line in his brow, the way his shoulders carried too much tension. They mimicked the Dark Lord he had served so loyally in the past —the very shape of the man who would crucio a friend to punish a perceived slight.

Ah, but we are Malfoys. That was always in our blood.

“I will not apologize.” Cold, as detached as him. I had to be.

I knew what was coming.

It hadn’t happened before, but I was older now. Capable of true disobedience.

“Ah, at least there is that,” came Father’s sneer, “Kneel.”

Should I fight? No. I knew what I had done. I had fought Father. Attacked him in rage.

I knelt.

“Lift your arms.”

I did so.

Without warning the strike came from the very staff I had to fight myself not to flinch away from. The very staff that Father carried with him at all times. The staff that killed and tortured and maimed.

I did not scream or yell or flinch. I took a deep breath as the staff hit my back once again.

“Twice for the first bombarda.”

Thump. Whack. I continued to breathe, even as I felt the skin of my back begin to swell.

“Twice for the blood traitor rhetoric.”

Thump. Whack. Crack. I did not cry.

“Thrice for the blood magic.”

Whack. Smack. Thump. Crack. I did not scream.

“Four times for the disrespect.”

I continued to breathe even as the pain overcame all other senses.

“Stand, Medea.”

I couldn’t.

“Stand up, Medea.”

Whatever broke in Father’s voice gave me strength. I brought down my hands and rose. Slowly, I shifted my weight onto a single leg, gathered my will, and finished standing.

“I’m up.”

“Look at me, Dea,” and I did. Grey eyes met grey eyes and Father placed his hand on my should and whispered a broken, “Episkey.”

“I wish I could hate you for this, Father.” I whispered, against my will, as the knots on my back began to mend.

“I wish you could too.”

He released me and left the dungeon.

No blood had been spilt, but life had changed.

Unconditional love was never meant for a villain. I let my cunning slip away from me. My planning failed and I had failed to adapt.

-

Without my wand, I went for a run.

One mile.

Two.

Ten.

I ran until I felt my body breaking. Until the very fiber of my muscles felt it was tearing itself apart.

Pain of my own machinations was different. It was better.

With love and venom.

I understood.

Days passed like that. No wand, no Dobby, no Father. Simply me and my thoughts as I ran until I collapsed into bed with a potion to mend my beaten muscles. Draco didn’t even bother to try and stop me, he simply watched from the side as I fell apart all by myself.