December 22, 1991

The beauty of befriending those of the old families was that we were all raised the same. That is to say: mostly by house elves, with sporadic lessons from a governess and the usual negligence that follows scions of wealthy houses. Even Millie, who is the daughter of a third generation half-blood and Lord Bultrode. Yet, still, the Bultrode’s had a fortune to rival the Notts —which is not to say either could match the Parkinsons or Zabinis. Or that the Parkinsons and Zabinis matched the Greengrasses. Or that they, in turn, could match the Malfoys. Crabbe and Goyle are at best three quarters of a Bulstrode, but with a full pedigree to back them up. All of us were raised different, of course. Daphne was educated by a Frenchwoman who liked her switch. Pansy’s father doted constantly, and showered her with affection while her mother taught her strict etiquette. Madam Zabini had a governess for each child, and chose to gallivant with her newest husband. Vincent was taught quidditch by a retired Holyhead Harpy, and Millie learned the game much the same. Draco and I shared a single governess until we were old enough to receive our Hogwarts letters —but Mother was never fully hands off.

Within old families there are similar rules. Never show your weakness without intention. Do not embarrass the family name. Always stand proudly above your lessers. Never be caught acting a fool. These rules are hardly said aloud and are rather pressed upon with action. Even now, as the lot of us headed to the field round back, Draco and I led the pack. Not because this is our home but because we ranked the highest. Were we in Nott Manor, it would be much the same. Just as it is at school.

Draco and I, flanked by Daphne and Blaise —Pansy and Theo close behind. Millie jostling Vince and Greg, always.

“Quidditch, yeah?” Draco said as we arrived at the field storage, where we kept our brooms and the spares. Draco had been forced to bring his broom back, due to one too many letters home from Snape.

“Happily.” Blaise grinned, as he cast a quick alohomora.

“Who’s what then? I’m after seeker,” Draco said as we tossed a broom out to each of the snakes.

“Beaters,” Grunted Vince and Greg as one.

“I rather think I’d be a good chaser,” Came Pansy, with a nod from Daphne.

“I’ll be keeper,” Millie grinned.

“Seeker?” Blaise asked, and I nodded to him.

“Go for it. Theo —chaser?” As he nodded, I clapped, “Good. Daphne’s with me then.”

Blaise, Vince, Daphne and I went up against Draco, Greg, Theo, and Pansy. Millie would be keeper for both teams, and we’d only use half the pitch.

Pulling out the quaffed, bludger, and snitch, we all got into position.

Blaise and Draco hovered near me as I prepared to release the flying menaces.

“3, 2,” I unhooked the lock and grinned, “Go!”

And we all took off into the air.

I don’t play nearly as much as my brother, but that is not to say I’m terrible. I’m good enough as a chaser —the quaffle is never far from my bat, but being a seeker requires more intensity than I like to give to a game. I’m much intense enough off the pitch.

Blaise is not quite as reflexive as Draco is on his broom, but neither have spotted the snitch. Meanwhile, Vince hesitated as he went after Pansy, which caused her to say something unsavory about his character. He didn’t hesitate when he beat the bludger towards her after that —but Greg never had such a problem as he launched it towards me. I dodged and found myself pacing with Theo as we both went after the quaffle. I was more used to our brooms and so, when Theo bucked, I nearly paused. But before I turned to face him I remembered who I was playing with and leaned forward, into the chase. Sure enough, Theo ‘recovered’ with a hiss and appeared upside down beneath me.

“Don’t bother with a Wronski Feint —I don’t give a damn if you fall!” I shouted at him, a grin on my face, my eyes never leaving the quaffle.

“Wronski is for seekers, that was an Kafka!” He shouted back as he fell behind to dodge another bludger from Vince.

It was only a moment before I caught up to the quaffle and caught it —before throwing it and sending it flying towards the far hoop, just in time to catch Millie on the outs.

I wasn’t so lucky the next time. Or the time after that. But Daphne got it in a couple of times, until Draco, prat that he is, began shouting.

“I’ve caught the snitch!” His mad grin was enough for us all to pause and snicker, as he said some unsportsmanlike words to Blaise —who looked both annoyed and entertained.

We played a few more matches through the morning, Draco caught the snitch twice more and Blaise once but Daphne and I had caught up for on of those games. We still lost 3-2. But it was all in fun.

“Oh, look at him,” huffed Daphne, “he’s a sore winner.”

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“I think it was rather brilliant,” Vince grinned.

“You think tarts at tea are brilliant, too, but that doesn’t mean anything,” Pansy laughed.

“He’s a gnat,” I sighed, watching Theo laughing as Draco and Greg made a face at Blaise —whose annoyance seemed to be growing as his entertainment dimmed, “But he’s my brother.”

Putting Zabini out of his misery, I went and wrapped an arm around Draco’s shoulder, “Yes, yes, you’re the worlds greatest seeker, but I want to play chess.”

Immediately, Draco’s smile faltered, “Do I have to? Against you?”

The best part of chess is memorization is key —and that is something I’ve yet to be bested at. And Draco knows it.

-

It is post-lunch and pre-tea, when I’m caught alone by my father. He still has yet to return my wand, but I know —now that the other snakes have arrived— it is only a matter of time. I’ve seen the look on his face when he’s caught them performing charms and showing off, and I’ve to simply smile and laugh. I know he finds it unbecoming of a Malfoy to be a bystander.

So, it is with great expectations he finds me. He is in fact holding my wand. But he does not hand it to me, or offer it up. Instead, he grimaces.

“Let us… talk, Medea.”

And, because there isn’t a way to say no and still receive my wand, I follow silently as he walks down the hall. Toward his study. The very same that I had redecorated with bombarda and blood magic.

Only, it no longer looks as it had. Which I knew. I knew he had had an elf repair it near immediately. The wood was returned to its proper shape and the pools of my own blood were vanished. The books I had thrown and destroyed were either repaired or replaced. The most interesting tidbit being that even the order of the books was identical to the position they were in prior to my outburst.

I felt a cold tendril snake through me and coil around my heart. Something harsh and hateful drew the taste of bile into my mouth. But it wasn’t directed at my father, not this time. The fact that Dobby had punished himself hardly mattered when I looked at the way my father had been sure to erase the evidence of my outburst.

“Sit.” His voice was cold. It was brusque. But it was not angry, or hateful, or full of disdain. It was simply my father. Lucius Malfoy.

“Yes, Father.” I say as I go to sit in the leather sofa off to the side, surrounded by end tables and two other chairs. But Father catches my shoulder.

With a shake of his head he gestured with —don’t flinch, Medea, don’t show weakness— his staff towards the desk. Mute, I make my way to the very seat I had stolen. I had called it my throne and let my anger rampage from this seat. And now my father wanted me to sit there again.

“Let us try this again, daughter.” He said, once I was seated, looking up at him as he stood across from me his hands covering the top of his staff, “Use your words. Tell me what has happened. Tell me what you refused to say before.”

The cold chill intensified within me. It was something I was unaccustomed to —this anxiety. Terror, yes. I have felt terror. Panic, that as well has haunted me this term. But the itch beneath my skin, the fill of my stomach, it told me, ‘You have disappointed him. He will not stand for it. And he will not love you for it.’

But I swallowed it down. I shoved that voice into a box deep within. Because even if Father hated me, my love was not the type that required reciprocation. My love was ruinous. Obsessive. It was no holds barred.

“You punished Dobby.” I said, quiet. Too quiet. So quiet I was sure he couldn’t hear me.

But he did, and he released a heavy sigh.

“No, I didn’t.”

And I knew it was true. Because Dobby had not said it was Father. In fact, Dobby had punished himself, as he always had. But it was learned.

“You may as well have.”

At this, he nodded.

“I don’t like this side of you, Medea. Why do you view the elf with such regard? Why is it your equal?”

My eyes snapped to my father and I felt my lip curl, “I never said that.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“I said I liked him. I valued him. I asked you to protect him while I was gone,” I tilted my body back, trying to sink into the chair far enough to hide from the sharp gaze of my father, “And you said you would. You promised me.”

A strangled sound came from my father, and then he was in front of me, barely a foot away and kneeling so we were eye level. I couldn’t find it in me to look away from him.

“I did not break my promise, child, and you know it.”

And then my arms were wrapped around him, my head buried in my fathers chest.

“With love and venom, Father. I’ve never forgotten.”

“I know, darling, I know. Love and venom.”

-

It was late, and I was spinning my wand over my knuckles, when Pansy caught sight of a dark marble chunk on my dresser. It had markings of silver and green and gave off a light glow in the dark of night.

“Is that—“ She started.

“From Samhain?” Daphne finished, as she came over.

“Not that stone you found, right?” Millie clarified.

I pulled out my wand and tapped the stone, allowing it to release the musical hissing noises it had let out on Samhain.

“The very one.” I nodded.

“Why have you kept it?” Millie stared at the stone, her brow furrowing. But Daphne’s eyebrows rose.

“Isn’t that…” Her question faded away as she looked at Pansy’s awestruck face. Pansy took it upon herself to continue.

“Parseltongue?”