Memories Moste Macabre

Chapter Two

Watery sunlight fell through the open curtains, just enough light to coax Draco's eyelids apart. It was his fifth day of sick leave, and so far he had done nothing but sleep, eat, drink and fill out paperwork. He had left his bedroom only for absolute necessities. His arm had now gone completely stiff, making him feel more like an invalid than he had reason. It was pathetic, he told himself. He ought to be making use of the time – it was a commodity he was unused to of late. Last night he had convinced himself that the time had come to clean the manor of its filth. Not the kind that a house-elf could clean, but the sort that only magic and willpower could cleanse.

Once his eyelids had lost their sleepy residue, he dressed in his training gear and strode purposefully towards the hidden door under the carpet in the drawing room. The basement beneath had been a well-known secret in Malfoy Manor. As a child, Draco had known that it existed, though he was never allowed to descend into its murky depths. Only as a late teen had he seen what was held beneath the floorboards; they were memories he wished he could scrub from his mind. Shaking his head, he placed a hand on the smooth oak door, which led to the stately dining room.

An overwhelming stench of mould and decay met him as he pushed his way into the room. There was a visible layer of dust coating the large ornamental rug that ran the length of the cavernous fireplace at the back of the room. He knelt beside it, curling his lip at the fustiness emanating from the material, and flipped it back on itself, revealing the hatch leading to the dark heart of the manor. Draco lit his wand and steeled himself to delve once more into its depths.

Every step down the creaking stairs was more difficult than the last. The ominous feel of the old building seemed to palpably grow the further he went. The air seemed thicker, more malleable; it was bitingly cold as he reached the bottom step, his breath fogging in front of him. Foot catching on the rough stone beneath his feet, he stumbled into the dungeon. It was quite small, considering the size of the manor. It comprised of only a few short corridors, with around ten rooms in total. Six of those rooms were used to hold prisoners, Draco remembered. He tried to push the memory of old Ollivander's screaming from his mind, but it played over and over again in his ears like a banshee's cry.

Shutting his eyes tightly, he walked past the torture chamber, only opening them fully when he stood at the end of the furthest corridor. The remainder of the rooms in the dungeon were used for the storage of 'special' items, namely whatever cursed and illegal items Lucius could get his hands on. The Hand of Glory was still stashed away amongst the pile of dark artefacts, Draco's own stain on the name of Malfoy. There was one room, though, which had been solely left to his mother to store her most prized and cherished possessions. It was a room that Draco had only entered once, to retrieve his mother's will. It was to this room he was now headed, feeling that if he had to cleanse the rancid bowel of the manor, it was best to start in the more pleasant room and work his way towards the worst of it when his arm was not so stiff. It would not be useful to be caught off guard by a cursed object with only one arm to defend himself.

The door to his mother's vault was ajar; he must have left it open when he rushed from it before. He pushed it open silently, taking in the objects included in Narcissa's most precious belongings. There were stacks of jewellery boxes, which contained all manner of jewels and precious metals: necklaces strung with lustrous pearls, and rings with diamonds and rubies so large that they would weigh down the whole arm. Narcissa always did take pleasure in beautiful things, so this collection did little to surprise Draco. He would have them moved to the family vault for the time being, until good use could be made of them.

There were other assorted items of finery too: paintings, ornaments and gowns. The further back he moved, though, the less luxurious the items became. Row upon row of books lined a grand bookshelf, each one looking as though it had been read more than once. Draco had never known that his mother was such an avid reader, and the surprise was a pleasant one. It warmed him to know that there was more to Narcissa Malfoy than fancy pearls and perfect etiquette.

Something caught his attention out the corner of his eye. Turning towards the edge of the vault, he saw a collection of children's toys. They must have been his as a child, he supposed. Amongst the rocking horses, toy broomsticks and ever-spinning tops was a box. There was nothing outwardly unusual about the box, but it held his attention none the less. In fact, it was quite difficult to tear his eyes from. It was an ornate thing, but obviously antiquated. Carvings of gruesome faces adorned the lid; it seemed to Draco as though one of his father's possessions had found its way into his mother's store.

Unease washed over him as he crouched beside it – perhaps this was to be his first dark artefact to eradicate from his home. The wood felt worn under his fingertips, as though it had been opened many times before. There was no sophisticated lock, just a little latch holding the top closed. He flipped it decisively, and snapped the lid back quickly. For the second time in a week, Draco had the desire to rub his eyes. There was no dangerous poison, no cursed jewellery, and no book of darkest arts. There was what looked like a very old hand puppet.

It was crudely made into the form of a jester, though it did not look even remotely funny. The jester's face was made from wood, carved into harsh lines and painted a sickly grey colour. The eyes were almost lifelike, they were so realistic: bright blue irises surrounded pupils so black that they looked infinite. The body was a piecemeal of scrap wood and what looked like an old sock, so roughly hewn together that the whole thing clattered and swayed as Draco lifted it from the box. He could never remember seeing it before.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he put the doll down on top of the box and slid his hand in the hole between the dangling legs, the rough wood scratching his skin. It lay limp and lifeless on his hand, the legs creaking slightly as they swayed with his movements. Gazing into its eyes, Draco's fingers found purchase on the mechanism which would move the mouth.

"Why don't wizards wear flat hats?" he said in his best croaky, parrot-like voice. The eyes wobbled alarmingly as its wooden mouth banged open and closed.

"Because there is no point in it!" Draco answered his own joke, tipping the doll's head back and making it give a guttural laugh.

"Even your jokes are a disappointment," a voice spoke that was not his own.

Draco gave a start and stared at the thing on his hand, which he was sure had just spoken. Its beady eyes turned on their own accord to gaze into his own. Draco gave a startled cry and tugged at the head to rip it from his hand, causing splinters of wood to drive deeper into his already grazed hand. The puppet did not come free.

A sly laugh slipped from the jester's lips, so cold and callous that it gripped Draco's spine like an icy hand. He shook his arm violently to throw it off, but it just jangled and clacked as the wooden limbs banged together.

"Why are you so keen to remove me, boy? We're only just getting acquainted."

The voice was familiar in its malice, as though his late father was channeling his spirit through the awful contraption.

"What are you?" he asked it sharply.

"Me? Why, I am you, of course. Or what you could be, if you choose. Your path is not already laid out, you know. You could be great."

The puppet's voice was like a charm, twining around Draco's senses and filling him with ease. It was melodic in its tone, soothing like a child's lullaby; it pulled on his thoughts and shaped them into its own.

"What do you mean, you are me? I've never seen you before. What dark magic is this?" Draco's voice rose in irritation, anger beginning to boil in his blood.

"Until you put me on, I was nobody. Your blood gave me life. It is weak, your blood. Your father was right about you."

Draco lifted his wand to blast the horrid thing to smithereens, but it spoke again.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Who knows what might happen?"

"I'm willing to find out," Draco replied. "Reducto!"

Sybil's hands shook as she shuffled the deck of tarot cards.