Backlash

Chapter 2

Staring out at the stately demesne from the corner of his bedroom window, Draco Malfoy was lost in thought.

The wide sweep of territory spread insolently about the Manor, the lively vineyards charged with the wishful delight of summer; did nothing to settle his nerves. The chirpy cheerfulness instead managed to generously dwindle the sense of unease, that was as alien to him as beggary.

Draco was shuddering. He replayed his earlier exchange with his mother for what seemed like the thousandth time, which struck him with precisely the same potency as it did at the earliest. Blinking furiously, he closed his eyes and inspired, keen and deep.

It's time. She had said. I hope don't need to repeat myself son, for it'll be terribly inconvenient. And again, I hope I'm right when I say, you won't disappoint me. That you deserve truly and veritably to behold what you are to acquire.

Remember never to forget. Remember where you stand and what you stand for, the dutiful significance of the very name that distinguishes you and the power that comes along with it. Call to mind the numberless lessons you underwent, the ethics, the virtues, the sheer superiority of the blood the flows in our veins and the inept mediocrity of those that lack. Remember, that making choices is a fairly incessant ritual. And that everything; the light, the dark, the very sky that occupies he void of tomorrow depends on those choices. Sixteen is appropriately mature, a ripen age of confusion, doubts, and mistakes. It's far too easy to follow, Draco. To let go of your intelligence and follow the the crowd, do what anyone would. But you're different, son, I know you are. You won't fall into he same trap of dilemma as a no one, you're better than them, you need to prove it. And it's time to prove it. It's all in your hands now, Draco. The shape of things to come, their affinity towards our favour and even our lives are within your hands now. I trust you to understand it's significance, your significance. I'm so very proud of you, and I'll be more so in no time. The Dark Lord isn't forgiving, son. But he's ready to give us a chance, a chance to correct your father's mistakes, to prove us capable of thee Mark. He's ready for you and you shalln"t displease him. I'll send someone to fetch you when he arrives. She rubbed his shoulder affectionately and with that, moved towards the door.

Just by the door, she retreated. Oh, I almost forgot. Happy birthday, son.

He blinked back tears at her last words. The  clavier guise that held her eyes, the aloof air the surrounded her frame, was not something he was used to. He remembers last year, when she had hugged and kissed and embraced him as he grew a year older. How she peppered soft kisses on his forehead and requested him to grow no older as she'll always want him with her, in her arms. He remembers being embarrassed by the display of affection and he remembers cherishing every moment of it.

It's confounding, terrifying really, how much can change in mere months.

His mother was no longer the tender, serene land lady she used to be. A loving parent who wasted no occasion to prove her love for her child, and who in no means would almost forget her son's birthday.

The prior year has changed her. A change so prominent, patent and hurtful that it rendered Draco lost, frightened and so so alone, he wept. A ringing silence followed his wails and the beat of his heart was loud and harsh and vexing.

He's ready for you.

His breath shortened, arms waned and heart pounded even louder in the provoking silence, as it became clear as a fucking crystal what was about to happen.

He's ready for you.

His hands were shaking. Sticky with sweat  he placed his right palm on his left hand and caressed the clean, pale skin. Soft to touch and strangely innocent, the skin under his palm glowed as he traced irregular patterns with his nails and then in a swift lith motion, turned dull red.