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Chapter 14: Lymphoidei
🕑 Added 2024-06-19 18:35:52 +0000 UTCSaying that I didn't feel a pang of regret after Oedon would be a lie. She had been my creation. She could even be said to have been my child yet it had been me, the one who killed her, who killed someone who only wanted to live.
It was true that Oedon was dangerous but wasn’t I the one to make her in such a way? Wasn’t I the one who shaped the aether to make a being so full of apathy and cruelty?
How could I judge when Oedon hadn’t chosen to be this way? How could I judge her when I was the one who determined her nature?
I repressed a sigh as my classroom began to reappear, the void around me morphing back into what it originally was.
A storm of ashes swept through all the room furiously, gathering at different spot before beginning to congregate, to take humanoid shape.
The process was fast, statues of ashes becoming more and more human-like until what was unmistakably living humans stood before me.
They blinked, some of them opening their eyes, shock and fear evident. Those were the ones who would be the most easy to deal with.
They didn't seem as traumatized as the others. It's not that they weren’t. It's just that unlike the others, they were still relatively sane.
On the other side, others didn't react as calmly. They began to act mad. They began to act like frenzied beasts.
They cradled their heads in their palms, some of them whispering broken sentences, whispering about blood and eyes.
Some burrowed their fingers into their eyes, screaming, some others began to hit themselves.
I saw some of them began to lash out, to direct their madness at their sane compatriot.
I guess I had to deal with that as quickly as possible. Maybe I went a little too hard on them, maybe a little.
Sure what most of them faced were human-like monsters that would have been crushed by Mahoraga but I couldn’t forget the fact that Yharnam was a place where madness was as contagious as a sexual disease which was like a lot.
Normally, the right thing would be to make them see a therapist, one they probably would have to see all their lives but fortunately, I had magic and it was easy to cheat with it.
I just needed to weave it, to command it into something that would be calming enough for them to not be ravenous mad but not too much that they wouldn’t feel affected at all by what they went through Yharnam.
“Please, can you not to do that?” I asked. I had to try first with normal means right?
Woah, the Greengrass girl looked very offended. If looks could kill, well, I'm sure Jigsaw himself would baulk at how messy my death would be.
I know that I put her through a realm filled by nightmares and literal eldritch monsters which fair was kinda not cool when you weren’t that powerful but on the other side, it gave her true battle experience, good survival skills, made her stronger, much stronger and other stuffs she should really appreciate after when she will discover them.
Well, Okay, maybe I had overdone it just a little, just a little.
I snapped two of my fingers against each other, an invisible wave erupting and rolling toward them, well this is what it should have been at least.
This was why it was kinda surprising when some of them saw it. I watched some of them abruptly move, trying to distance themselves from it, to dodge it.
They didn't of course but the simple fact that they had tried, that they had seen it was interesting in itself.
Insight was a mechanic in Bloodborne that allowed you to buy particulars items, summon other players in co-op.
Insight also showed more of the nature of the world. The way it worked in the game was that you gained it by discovering new places, bosses, beating those bosses and if you were knowledgable enough by using the madman’s knowledge.
The simple fact of having more insight changed the nature of the world around you. For example, with Zero insight, you weren’t able to speak with the doll.
Only when you had at least one point in it that you could, that she turned from an inanimated doll into a living and moving one.
Insight could also be said to change the difficulty. I wouldn’t say it made the game more difficulty per say but more complex.
A priest with a normal lantern you fought against suddenly had seemingly cancerous eldritch growths on it.
The attack patterns of the beast suddenly changed becoming more varied, more arcane-like.
Insight represented the ability to perceive the truth of the world. Because Bloodborne took place in a cosmic-horror universe, the superficial physical forces of nature represented a very small portion of the reality of existence. There are arcane and eldritch laws that exist far beyond what humanity can normally perceive.
It was a little bit like in the nasuverse, a world where the human order was imposed, followed but that wasn’t necessarily the truth. The difference between this eldritch truth and this human order was the simple fact that the terrible truth of the great ones, of the cosmos couldn’t be supplanted. Instead, it was necessary to avoid it as best as possible to not become mad.
Chaos died as reason prevailed and my students stopped finally acting like beasts.
“I think we need to have a conversation.”
*scene*
The Professor, the monster who made them go through Yharnam, Rias stood at the forefront of the remade classroom.
She looked different now to Astoria. It's as if before she had been blind and now she weren’t.
She could see threads of colour, almost like a giant tapestry connecting every cranny of the room and even beyond together.
She could see spheres of light beating where the heart of her classmates were, each one different, each one unique, each one similar.
She could see the little imperfections that she once didn't. The pores on the skin of the others seemed gigantic.
She could see and count if she wanted every trace of sweat and dirt on their clothes and their skins.
She knew that if she squinted, she would be able to see more clearly with details the little living things that seemed to cling to everything.
With one look, she knew deep down that she could read the body language of the others surrounding her more easily than an open book.
This is why when she looked at the teacher, she felt fear but because the teacher wasn’t like any of them.
Her skin was literally perfect, devoid of any imperfections, of any worldly debris. The little living things clinging to everything left a wide berth around her as if she was sacrosanct.
Her beauty that already seemed otherworldly before now seemed divine. It was as if the professor had been directly crafted by godly hands.
What made Astoria sure that she wasn’t like them was her power. Power suffused every inch of her being.
Her power was an endless pit, one Astoria knew she could continue to look into and would never be able to find the bottom.
Eileen had spoken of old blood, of the blood of gods being the source of everything that went wrong in Yharnam.
Astoria wondered how wrong things in Great Britain would be when one of those gods, of those great ones had chosen to play human.
The air was thick with an invisible tension, one so thick it felt as if it could be cut with a butter knife.
The students were looking at the teacher the same way they learned to when confronted with the beasts of Yharnan, with fear and caution.
They were all sure of one thing. The only reason why they had come back to life was because of her.
The majority of them had died in Yharnam, some perishing due to madness, due to beasts or even due to themselves.
They could remember it all, every moment in the accursed city. More than that, they knew what they each went through.
It's as if the knowledge, the experiences of life and death they each had was shared between them.
They knew that the nightmare they miraculously escaped from would come back to haunt them if the teacher ever wished and none of them would be able to stop it.
"Today," the professor began, her voice resonant and firm, "you delved into a concept that straddles the boundary between understanding and madness. I speak of Insight."
Some of the students exchanged
glances. Insight, there was a gravity and a terrible familiarity to the word. The red haired Professor’s piercing eyes scanned the room, ensuring every student was attentive. She gestured and from the nether, it came. A large, ornate book was lying on her desk, its cover embossed with a symbol of an all-seeing eye.
"Insight," she continued, "originates from a realm of knowledge far removed from our typical studies of charms and potions. It is a concept from a world much like ours, yet twisted by eldritch truths and cosmic horrors. It is a form of enlightenment that grants one the ability to perceive things as they truly are. This perception, however, comes at a great cost but,"
She paused her eyes travelling to each of them before her eyes stopped and seemed to pierce through Astoria’s “But you probably already know.”
She paused, allowing her words to sink in. The room was silent, save for the too-loud melody of the heartbeat of scared children. The professor lifted her hand, and with a flick of her wrist, the book opened, pages flipping until they settled on a detailed illustration of a creature with multiple eyes, the image of it hovering above for all of them to see, a creature hard to look at, a creature that reminded Astoria of Yharnam.
"Imagine," she said softly, "the spells and enchantments you know. They are structured, logical, built upon a foundation of centuries of knowledge. Dark arts, as many of you have been warned against, tap into forbidden powers, bending the natural laws at a cost. Insight, on the other hand, transcends both light and dark. It is not merely power. It is vision. It is understanding. "
"Insight,” the professor continued “is often gained through profound experiences—encounters with the unknown, the unravelling of mysteries that defy conventional wisdom. These experiences can be enlightening, yet they can also shatter one's mind. To see the world with Insight is to see its deepest truths and most terrifying realities."
The red hair moved to the middle of the class, just standing in their midst. She seemed to be unaware or uncaring of the raw terror and fear her presence inspired.
Above them, the ceiling changed, becoming a window into the cosmos, bathing them with the long shadows across of the high up fiery stars.
"Imagine looking at a spell not as a simple incantation, but as a weave of the very fabric of reality. With Insight, one might perceive the true essence of a Patronus, not merely as a protector against Dementors but as a manifestation of one's innermost resolve and hope."
She turned back to her students, her expression grave. "However, this perception can also be a curse. Those who accumulate too much Insight might begin to see things others cannot—creatures and entities that exist beyond our realm. They might hear whispers in the dark, feel the presence of beings that should not be. The thing with insight, what makes it wondrous and a terrifying thing is that it allows you to see the world the way it truly is in case you have enough of it but in return…the same way you notice more things about the world, the more the world begins to notice you."
The room was filled with an uneasy silence.
The words of the professor felt like damnation, curses. She had opened their eyes through a blood baptism and unfortunately, it wasn’t something they could back from.
Astoria wondered if this how forcefully turned werewolves felt.
A hand rose amongst them and Astoria was shocked to realized that it was Harrison’s hand. It had only been Romilda, Emily, him and her.
It had only been hours but it had felt like an eternity. She didn't really know him but she knew without a doubt that she could trust him.
They had fought together. They had feared together. They had killed together. In ancient cultures, just one of those things would be more than enough to declare them sworn allies.
"Professor, does Insight affect our magic?" the boy asked.
The Harrison before her looked so different from the one before. If the Harrison of before had been a sheep playing wolf, the Harrison of now was a nundu seemingly uncaring of every concern he once had.
"Insight changes your very core," the teacher explained. "A witch or wizard with Insight may find their spells imbued with greater power, but also with unpredictable consequences. Your magic becomes a reflection of your newfound understanding. Visualization can help shape magic but yours unlike others is greater. A simple Lumos might reveal hidden truths in the shadows, while a Protego could shield you not just from physical harm but from eldritch influences. This is all hypothetical of course."
She walked among the rows of desks, her presence commanding attention. "Consider the Dark Arts. They require a sacrifice, a surrender to darker forces, a willingness to accept corruption. Insight, in contrast, requires a surrender to knowledge. It is an acceptance of truths that can unravel the very fabric of one's sanity. The Dark Arts corrupt the soul; Insight challenges the mind."
Evelyn stopped in front of a tall, lanky student named Thomas, who seemed particularly engrossed. "Thomas, tell me, what do you fear most?"
Thomas had been one of the Gryffindor students who had decided to leave the moment the first of them was killed by that Yharnamite.
The memories that had also been implanted in Astoria’s mind, that weren’t hers but felt as if they were told her a tale of a boy who broke, who had to be put down after hurting others and almost succeeding in murdering.
Thomas hesitated, then answered, "I fear losing control, Professor." I fear losing myself he didn't need to say. They all knew.
"Insight," the Professor said gently, "is about relinquishing control over the comforting lies we tell ourselves. It is about seeing the world in its raw, unfiltered truth. It will change you, make no mistake. It will make you different, perhaps isolated, for you will perceive what others cannot. But it will also make you wise, powerful in ways you cannot yet comprehend.”
“About losing yourself, about becoming like them,” the yharnamites Astoria thought, the muggles more monsters than humans “Don’t worry because unlike them, you have me."
Returning to her desk, the professor closed the book with a finality that echoed through the room. "Remember, my dear students, knowledge is both a gift and a burden. This lesson was to teach you what could be the consequences of dark magic. It was to teach you how easily it could trap until it warps into something completely different, something you would find abhorrent.”
*scene*
As the bell rang, signaling the end of the lesson, the students rose from their desk, hastily recovering their belongings. I watched them leave, as if the devil was ironically chasing them knowing that the seed of Insight had been planted.
Whether it would grow into wisdom or madness was a journey each student would have to navigate on their own.
One thing was sure though, sooner or later, I will have my silver bullets and if to do so, I had to push them a little, I won’t hesitate. More than that, it's not as if they wouldn’t be fine after.
I sat in my chair, half looking in the direction of the doors. Luna’s class should be the next one to come and I couldn’t wait.
I had looked enough through Luna’s head to know that she would not like me to directly intervene but there were a thousand ways to skin a cat.
Sometimes, the key to being left alone was to make the other understand how much an error, how easily it could be for them if they didn't stop.
Petty witches thinking they knew everything about the world, thinking themselves the apex. I think I knew what to do with them. I think it was time for them to meet a real Witch.
*scene*
Sometimes, Lucius Malfoy wondered if he had made the right choice in following Voldemort.
Oh, the Dark Lord was powerful. There was no doubt about that. The man was driven, working, fighting for a cause he believed just.
Yet, it didn't change the fact that the man was cruel. Cruel to his enemies, cruel to his lessers, cruel to his followers.
Behind a false, amenable smile, The Malfoy hid his constant agony. The Dark Lord had learned that the artifact he had ordered Lucius to safeguard had been destroyed, and one of the things the powerful wizard hated most was failure.
The Cruciatus Curse was truly worthy of being called an Unforgivable Curse, one of the pinnacles of dark magic.
The Cruciatus was pain itself, weaponized. It destroyed you, splitting and cutting you from the inside, burning you until your body itself tried to shut down.
But the Cruciatus didn’t allow that, for more than impacting the physical, it also ravaged the mental.
The Cruciatus made you feel every inch of agony with a never-before-held clarity. It broke you, yet didn't allow your mind to escape.
It was a trap, a cage of terror and pain where everything was clear yet simultaneously so foggy.
The pain, the agony, they were etched in his brain, in his body, forever marking him. Lucius Malfoy would never be able to forget groveling, screaming under the wrathful gaze of the Dark Lord.
This was his punishment. This was his fate.
It made him feel a shred of empathy for the Longbottoms. They may have been enemies, unable to see the importance of the cause Lucius followed, but they had still been pure-bloods of good standing.
The Cruciatus seemed to preserve every inch of memory, of clarity in him when he was exposed to it, as if to make it hurt worse, yet it hadn’t been able to break his mind.
The Longbottoms had been many things, but one thing they hadn’t been, he had to recognize, was mentally weak. Yet their minds were broken, leaving behind only living corpses, leaving behind a child.
A child who would never truly know the love of his parents, a child who would only ever be a remembrance of glorious achievements made by his sires.
Was there a more wretched fate?
Lucius thought of Draco, of his son, alone, and just the thought of it felt as if a blade had stabbed him in the heart.
“Lucius, I called you here because of one thing. Your son, he is in Harry Potter’s year, isn’t he?”
And with those words of the Dark Lord, fear came rushing in. He tried to hide it behind a closed face, but he knew it probably served for nothing.
He had been called in the quarters of the dark lord soon after Severus had left.
The room exuded an unsettling yet mesmerizing ambiance, a testament to its new owner's mastery of the dark arts. Since he stepped inside it, passed the heavy mahogany door creaks that closed behind him with a finality that sends a shiver down his spine, Lucius felt as if he was a rat that had entered the Kneazle cage.
The air was thick with the scent of ancient parchment and a faint, metallic tang of blood.
The dim light emanated from a chandelier hanging precariously from the high ceiling, its candles flickering with an unnatural, eerie blue flame that cast elongated, dancing shadows across the room. These shadows seemed almost alive, shifting and twisting as if whispering secrets just beyond the grasp of your hearing.
On the other side of the room stood an imposing desk carved from black oak, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen reflecting the spectral light. The desk was strewn with scrolls and grimoires, their pages filled with indecipherable symbols and intricate diagrams that hint at forbidden knowledge, scrolls that weren’t there hours ago. A quill, seemingly plucked from a raven's wing, rested in an inkpot filled with a dark, viscous liquid that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
Behind the desk, a tall-backed chair draped in deep crimson velvet dominated the space, exuding an aura of authority and menace. Flanking the chair were towering bookshelves, crammed with ancient tomes bound in leather, some with titles in forgotten languages and others with spines bearing the scars of frequent handling. The books seemed to hum with latent power, their presence almost palpable in the still air.
The walls were lined with rich, dark tapestries depicting scenes of arcane rituals and ominous landscapes, their intricate designs woven with threads of silver and crimson. In one corner, a large, ornate mirror framed in tarnished gold stood covered by a heavy black cloth, as if hiding something too dreadful to behold.
On a pedestal near the window, a crystal ball glowed softly, its depths swirling with shadows and faint, ghostly images that defied Lucius’ comprehension. The window itself was a stained glass masterpiece, its panes depicting a midnight scene with a blood-red moon casting a haunting glow over a desolate landscape, The light filtering through it bathes the room in a somber, otherworldly hue.
The silence in the room after the words of the dark lord was oppressive, broken only by the occasional crackle of the blue flames and the soft rustle of pages turning as if moved by an invisible hand. Every object, every corner of the room, seemed imbued with a sense of purpose and history, whispering tales of dark deeds and powerful spells.
This was a place where time stood still, a sanctuary for a practitioner of the dark arts, where knowledge and power were intertwined in a delicate, dangerous dance. The beauty of the room was undeniable, yet it was a beauty that chills the soul, a constant reminder of the perilous path its owner treads.
The room was also completely different from hours ago. The dark lord had changed it. Something had made him do so, had made him remove his personal dark items from whichever place he had kept them.
The eyes of the Dark Lord looked eerily perceptive.
“Yes, my lord, he is,” he confirmed, but the unsaid words were you already knew that.
There was only one reason why Lucius Malfoy sometimes regretted following the Dark Lord, and that reason was his son.
Things were so much simpler and more straightforward when it was only him, even after his marriage when Narcissa became his other half.
He had known that some things would have to be done, actions he would not necessarily agree with that he would have to accomplish.
He had known that he could die. He had known that he could be hurt. He had known that he could end up on the losing side.
More than a decade ago, when the Dark Lord fell against Harry Potter, he hadn’t fought tooth and nail out of his own interest, out of personal fear.
Lucius had done so for his son. Lucius had given up, betrayed people he had called brother and sister, whom he had known since the dawn of his existence, for his son.
Draco had proven time and again that Lucius had been right.
Draco wasn’t a perfect child. He had a litany of flaws Narcissa and he probably didn’t help with.
Draco was arrogant, greedy, prideful, quick to anger, and cruel.
But Draco was also a loving child, one who could be kind, graceful, and so clever beneath all that pride.
Draco who saw them as gods, Draco who seemed to think every one of their words was divine edict.
Draco who hated violence, Draco who would be forced to kill because he wanted to follow in his parents' footsteps.
They loved their son, and their son loved them in return. Lucius just wished it hadn’t been the reason why Draco had latched so tightly to the Dark Lord's ideals, teachings.
“There is a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, one we could call special.”
The Dark Lord said the word special as if it was a curse, a bad omen you didn’t want to acknowledge but had to.
“I want you to share the following mission with your son.”
The Dark Lord turned to finally look at him, his red, malevolent eyes seemingly drilling a hole through Lucius’s skull.
“I want him to learn everything about the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. I want to know what she eats, with whom she's talking, her origins, her teachings, her morals, everything. I want your son to know her more than he knows himself.”
The Malfoy patriarch kept his surprise hidden. This was interesting, interesting and concerning because he could have sworn that he had felt something he thought he would never feel from the Dark Lord.
That feeling was fear.
The Dark Lord, an existence most saw as the pinnacle of wizard-kind, that some saw as divine, was scared, and it sent thrums of fear and excitement through Malfoy.
Lucius Malfoy had served the Dark Lord for a long time, and in all those years, he had never heard him sound scared.
Cautious when it came to Albus Dumbledore? Yes, he had seen it, but scared? This was new. This was terrifying.
The Dark Lord didn't fear the headmaster of Hogwarts. He probably saw him more like an annoying obstacle not easily removed than a real threat; at least, this is how Lucius saw it.
The Dark Lord didn't fear the one who defeated Grindelwald, one of the greatest dark lords in wizard-kind history, almost spoken of with the same cautious and fearful reverence as Morgana herself, yet he was scared of this new teacher.
He was scared of this new teacher, and it was Draco, his Draco, his son, whom the Dark Lord had chosen, no, damned!
He glanced briefly downward, at his cane, at his wand, before looking back at the Dark Lord. He had followed the man not because of the insistence of his father, not because the two of them had been good friends.
Lucius had, after all, hated his father, and the only reaction he had when he had learned that the man had croaked had been to dance.
Lucius had followed the Dark Lord because he had been sure that with the might of the man, he would be able to create a world worthy of any child of his.
He had wanted to create a perfect world, a sane world for Draco, where pure-bloods like his son would not be shamed because of their glorious ancestry, a world where their traditions, their arts wouldn’t be turned into illegal due to the masses, a world where the true essence of wizard-kind wouldn’t be twisted beyond repair by the seemingly endless tide of Muggles, Muggleborns, and squibs.
The Dark Lord was asking, no, ordering him, to sacrifice his most precious treasure.
He glanced back again at his wand and saw his hand shaking.
He wasn’t sure himself if it was because of anger or fear.
Lucius Malfoy looked at Tom Riddle, and in that moment where red and pale blue gazes clashed against each other, the father of Draco Malfoy thought of personally striking down the man to whom he had devoted most of his life.
He knew that things would most likely not go in his favor. The Dark Lord was the Dark Lord, and even though Lucius was a skilled duelist, he was far from being close to the proficiency of the Dark Lord.
Lucius Malfoy would probably die if he tried anything. Lucius knew it. Tom Riddle knew it.
More than that, even in the unlikely case that he succeeded, the other followers of the Dark Lord would make sure that he and his wife would painfully regret his act.
At least, in that implausible case, he knew that Draco would fall under Severus’ care, and Lucius knew that the man cared as much for Draco as Narcissa and he did, that he would choose death before letting anything happen to the boy.
The grip Lucius had on the head of his wand tightened, the muscles of his arm becoming taut, his body ready to disregard the agony coursing through him at each instant to move, to kill, and it seemed to Lucius that it was the same thing with the Dark Lord.
This is why he was surprised when he didn't see flashes of the Dark Lord's wand; instead, what came out of the Dark Lord's robes was a severed hand, Voldemort’s severed hand.
Lucius’s wand was out of its holster, pointed toward the Dark Lord, yet he knew he must have looked like a puffed-up merperson, unable to hide his surprise this time.
The Dark Lord put it on the table near him, still looking into Lucius’s eyes, appearing completely calm, unafraid, unbothered by the fact that he was being pointed at by Lucius’s wand.
Fear and surprise coursed through his veins, battling for domination.
“Your mind isn’t tricking you, Lucius,” the Dark Lord spoke. “I wanted to learn more about her, verify if the claims, the
expectations Dumbledore had of her were justified or if he had finally lost it. He hadn’t lost it.”
The severed arm of the Dark Lord on the table was proof of the veracity of his words.
“Then, why do you ask me to sacrifice my son, my lord?”
Lucius pushed down the fear, the fear that made him feel as if he were suffocating. The Dark Lord, for whichever reason only he knew, hadn’t reacted negatively yet.
“Haven't I given you enough, my lord?”
The words felt like blasphemy, yet they felt so right to say. What hadn’t Lucius given? He had given his wealth, his honor, his dignity, the ancestral house of his family. Lucius could tolerate giving everything except for his son.
“The thing, Lucius, is that I never asked you to sacrifice your son. No, instead, I had asked you to save him,” the Dark Lord spoke, his voice seemingly filled with divine ambrosia.
It reminded Lucius of before, at the beginning, when the Dark Lord was less harsh, when his followers died for him not because of fear but of pure charisma.
“What?”
“The teacher had been able to do this to me while being at Hogwarts. The new teacher had been chosen by Dumbledore to crush our revolution, to grind to dust my Death Eaters and me.”
Voldemort took a step forward, in the direction of Lucius, uncaring of the wand following each of his movements. “Do you think my followers will be spared? Do you think your children will be spared?”
The Dark Lord stopped his advance, his forehead centimeters away from Lucius’s wand. “Do you think Draco will be spared? You're not an imbecile. This is why I chose you to be a part of my inner circle.”
Lucius tried to imagine it, a scenario where a much more powerful force ended everything he fought for, ended Narcissa and him.
Lucius tried to imagine Draco, what his son would do after losing both of them. If Draco hadn’t been sorted in Slytherin, Lucius and his wife had bet that he would have been a Hufflepuff because Draco more than anything was loyal.
Loyal to them, loyal to those he cared about. Draco would do everything possible to avenge them. Draco would choose death before forgetting, before forgiving.
“Your son, Lucius, your world, he would die,” Voldemort whispered in Lucius’s ear.
The Dark Lord was now behind him. Lucius hadn’t been able to see him move. He didn't know if it was because he had been stuck in his mind or because of arcane magics only the Dark Lord knew about.
It made Lucius realize that he was now at the mercy of the Dark Lord, this Voldemort so alike the man he originally followed, at the mercy of Voldemort, the origin of the agony that sped endlessly through his synapses.
“Your son, Draco, would die unless,” the words were honeyed, clearly a trap, a trap he knew was coming yet that he probably wouldn’t be able to escape, “you make him follow my order.”
The remaining arm of the Dark Lord closed around Lucius’s wrist, around the wrist of the hand holding the wand. It was a vicious grip, almost reminiscent of a snake trying to break a prey.
Lucius Malfoy knew that if the Dark Lord wished to, he could break his arm as easily as a troll could. Lucius believed it without any doubt.
“Myths speak of heroes killing greater monsters, of Beowulf with Grendel, Arthur with Vortigern, Theseus with the Minotaur.”
Slowly but surely, Lucius’s hand was pushed down by the Dark Lord, almost gently, until his wand was directed completely downward.
“But to kill a monster, to kill a dangerous foe, you first need to know what makes it tick. To hunt, you need to know your prey.”
“But my son,” Lucius tried to object.
“Nothing will happen to your son because I know Dumbledore. He will protect the children of my followers as long as he can, as long as they aren’t personally involved with our most, let’s say, public actions.”
Lucius lost his grip on his wand as the Dark Lord removed it faster than he could realize. He could have sworn that he felt almost a scream, a cry from his wand, but wands weren’t living beings.
He watched the Dark Lord play with it out of the corner of his eye, twirling it dexterously between his fingers, playing with Lucius Malfoy’s only weapon, playing with what truly differentiated him from a Muggle.
A wand more than being a tool was proof, a wand was the identity of a wizard.
Lucius felt it glide back into its holster, back in its original place.
The Dark Lord was now before him, his back turned, yet it still felt as if Lucius were trapped in a pit filled with snakes, where only one wrong move would mark his certain demise.
The Dark Lord stopped at the window, his gaze seemingly lost in a place only he could see.
“It is simple, Lucius,” the Dark Lord spoke without looking at him.
“There are three possibilities. The first one is that I'm wrong and my orders get your son killed. The second is that I'm right, nothing happens to your son, and we lose. In this scenario, we both know he would follow us soon. After all, he loves his parents so much. The third and last possibility is that your son follows my orders, helps the cause, and ensures that we will all survive, that he survives.”
“You’re a clever man and a loving father. I know you will make the right decision.”
This was a dismissal, Lucius knew it. He turned and reached for the handle of the door, his mind still trying to make sense of everything, trying to think about what was best.
He opened the door. He was stopped from stepping out by words that sent chills through his veins.
“You've always been loyal to me, Lucius. I'm sure what happened was due to your paternal instinct battling against your rationality. I can’t promise I will be as merciful and understanding next time.”
“Understood, my lord,” he said with all the dignity he could muster before closing the door behind him and falling on the carpet like a doll with severed strings.
Lucius regretted having followed Voldemort because he realized at that moment that his most treasured gift would more than likely be destroyed because of his actions.
Lucius just wanted the best for his son. Which parent didn't? Was there truly anything more undoing than a son?
Comments
Mrmeme101
Are you going to continue infernal comedy at some point? As in frequently or semi frequent updates?
Antonio Adams
Great chapter loved it
Halfrican
Great chapter. Thank you
Jason Smith
Hahaha thanks lol
allen 1996
Damn, Shakespeare would be proud of you
Jason Smith
The most merciful thing in this world is the inability of the human mind to comprehend all of its contents. Insight is looking at the universe and saying, "I don't need your pity"
Jason Smith
Thanks for the chapter!
