hen Lucius came back to his rooms to change out of his formal suit and into more comfortable robes for lounging about the house, he found is valet, Honeywood, looking distinctly as though he were trying to not look worried.
‘Is something the matter, Honeywood?’ Lucius asked, as the valet took off his overrobe, Lucius unfastening cufflinks and putting them in the tray atop the dresser, as he spoke. When Honeywood returned, he was holding out a small piece of parchment, upon which had been written:
Master,
I needed to go hide and be by myself, the other boys were being Upsetting and I needed to eat alone. Have not run away or gone outside don’t worry! I love you.
~ The New Boy
‘We think he’s somewhere in the secret passages,’ Honeywood said, ‘Evers is searching for him.’
Unbidden, and likely due to the decades of training in Legilimency, a thought from the boy’s mind came up in response, surfacing on its own. ‘ “For I am the cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.” ’ Lucius murmured.
‘Sir?’
Lucius looked up, and Honeywood was likely surprised to see a smile hiding in the piercing blue eyes. ‘Don’t drag him back if you find him, let him return on his own. He’s made clear his intentions, let us see if he honours them, as I suspect he will. In the meantime, I want to know how the other boys were upsetting him.’
‘As you say, sir.’
Honeywood did not approve of this attitude, that much was clear; Lucius knew he had to address it, or risk the servants bullying the boy, or viewing him as incorrigible and in need of punishment. ‘He is one of Apollo’s oracles, Honeywood; we must not tamper with how the gods tell him to go. There may be some design we do not see, here.’
The tension eased into something less mutinous. ‘Ah,’ said Honeywood, as he held out Lucius’ summerweight banyan of rather boldly striped silk damask, helping him put it on. Now that he was retired from the Ministry, Lucius indulged in far more flamboyant fashion choices, no longer young enough to be so worried about what others thought of him. ‘I shall fetch Evers then, sir, for questioning.’
‘Yes, thank you, Honeywood,’ Lucius murmured, sitting down at his vanity and beginning his daily ritual of balms and crèmes to moisturise his skin, which—like all with malformed collagen—tended to be thin and dry, even after the potions that helped to reinforce the weakness of joint integrity.
He refreshed the balm on his lips, and idly put some of his mink oil crème on his hands and face. He would have Moon do the rest of his body later, but for now, Lucius screwed the lid back on the jar of mink oil crème and opened the eyedropper bottle of orange blossom cuticle oil, humming softly as he put a drop on each his nails and rubbed it in carefully, buffing them very slightly with the chamois, careful not to indulge in the urge to make them glasslike in their shine—he’d done that all of once as a younger man, and the pain and discomfort of how thin his nails had been for weeks after was enough to teach him that lesson.
He wondered if the boy—it seemed odd to call him Mantis before telling him that was his new name—was testing him, seeing what would happen if he disobeyed; it seemed likely, he had that sort of personality, was that skittish. Well, if all he’d done was wander off to be alone, and had left a note reassuring that he was neither outside nor gone, Lucius didn’t see why he should be punished. Everyone needed to be alone sometimes, and slaves always had a rough time settling in, for the first week or so.
All that really worried Lucius was that Draco was home, and similarly wandering about in the bowels of the house… but, Lucius thought to himself, if Hermes had seen fit to guide them to one another, then it was supposed to happen.
It was rather exciting to have his routine broken like this, to know there was some big change on the horizon, to try and observe, and perhaps put the information together; but Lucius had done his share of hubris, and narrowly escaped deadly consequences—he would not tempt the Moirai a second time. He would be very careful, care for this cat of a slave boy, and take heed of the lessons of the Tragedies. One hindered an oracle at their peril.
⁂
He hadn’t really intended to wander further into the secret passages after finishing his plate, but it was very quiet, and the prospect of returning was deeply frightening, now that he knew he couldn’t trust anyone but Master to be soft with him, and so he licked his plate clean to discourage any vermin, and left it and his silverware and cup neatly bussed next to the hidden door, and took the fork with him as he explored. There was no light, here, but he didn’t mind, he couldn’t see much without his glasses, anyway, and was used to walking around in the dark.
He prayed a little bit, feeling the gods present here in a way he hadn’t in many years, and he spoke to Hermes again for the first time in a while. After fleeing his ex-husband’s lies and manipulations, he’d distanced himself from the god of lies, afraid to speak to him while he was so raw and hurting. He’d turned to his newly-forged connection with Apollo, needing the steady presence of the lord of light and warmth, particularly once he’d moved to more frozen climes. Still, it had been six years since he’d fled, and five since the divorce, and fortune had turned in such a way that he was inclined to think Hermes was trying to reach out to him, and reassure him he was still loved.
It was about the time he was feeling maudlin and weepy about this that he became aware of the smell of water, and the wobbly light of it on the stones, as light reflected from somewhere. His feet hurt in a way that said he’d been walking a while, but with the potion Evers had given him with dinner, he had no way of knowing. He’d gotten a bit excited about his feet not hurting, and had once been quite a walker….
He felt rather than saw the dark open up around him, as he made his way further, and was grateful for his cautious feeling of every forward step, when the ground gave way to broad stone steps in front of him. Where was he? He slowly went down only a few steps, and lowered himself to sit. He wondered how big this cavern was, and where he was in relation to the house. He heard dripping, and little plashing noises, and could no longer see the reflections of the water, though he was sure, in an animal way, that there was water nearby, good and sweet water—and not exactly cold, either. But he’d also read about the dangers of underground water, and had no desire to drown in the dark.
The best way to tell the size of the room was an aria, but his voice had stopped being soprano a long time ago. Still, he could manage a few tenor notes, with the right song. Now, could he remember that song all the way through? Byrne’s trills were always on the difficult side, as skilled a singer as the man was; but by now, the song he was about to sing was well-practised, and had been performed before, so he was confident in it—especially alone, underground, in the dark. It felt closer to Hades and Persephone, down here, and that was comforting.
To all things housed in her silence
Nature offers a violence…
⁂
Draco’s perimeter spells had alerted him someone was present, and he’d doused the light of his wand as soon as he heard the unfamiliar voice and accent. He’d no idea what one of the slaves—had to be, there was no one American on staff—was doing down here, but he wasn’t about to lose his chance to see one. …Not that he had much of a plan for what to do or say, but still….
And then the singing had started, and Draco forgot everything at all. That voice swelled, loud and strong, over a haunting song that embodied the bleakness of winter and the shadow of lethal despair—all in a voice that was as skilled as an opera singer, but with far more expression, discarding opera’s formal beauty in favour of being able to pour more raw emotion into the notes.
Phrixus, with his fondness for jazz, would have adored it. The gods that dwelt in the dark were enjoying it, Draco was sure, and waited until the last echoes died away, trying to decide if staying in the dark and speaking was better, or if staying silent and slowly lighting his wand again was better. Something made him hesitant to show his face—but a voice in the dark was more anonymous.
‘That was beautiful,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ came the reply. ‘What is this place?’
‘The wellspring,’ Draco said, ‘the heart of the house.’
‘Ah,’ came the reply. ‘Why are you down here?’
‘I could ask you the same question,’ Draco replied, wry smile in his tones.
‘I asked you first,’ came the answer, with a cheeky laugh hidden behind the words.
‘Hm, fair enough,’ Draco said. ‘I’m trying to date the house’s construction.’
‘Ooh! Are you an architect?’
Draco was a little taken aback at the level of excitement, there. ‘I’m an apprentice.’
‘Neat! I wanted to be an architect once, but mostly I just like houses, not other buildings. I’d offer help but I don’t know anything about magical architectural periods, it sounds so cool!’
All of this was said rapid-fire, roughly at the same speed as a snitch, in a voice much more expressive than Draco was used to; he’d not really met an American, before. It was a little overwhelming, the volume of emotion and ideas that just poured out of them.
It was odd to hear a slave talking about something like ambition. ‘What are you doing here?’ Draco asked, delicately as he could.
‘Idunno,’ came the reply, much more subdued. ‘Being naughty, I guess.’
Draco muffled a snort, at the sheer self-aware humour of that. ‘And what do you think shall happen to you, when you get caught?’
‘See, that’s what I’m curious about. He said he didn’t punish, that his boys just didn’t disobey. N’est pas possible. So naturally I have to know what happens when I do. I gotta. For science,’ he said, emphatically.
Draco couldn’t hide the laughter, now. ‘I suppose you’ll find out.’
‘I hope he’s sensible,’ the slave went on. ‘He seemed sensible. One never knows,’ he added, ominously. ‘That’s why you have to say no to someone at least once, to see what they’ll do.’
Draco sensed the grim cynicism behind that, and did not comment. He had no way of knowing whether he should reassure or warn this boy, he had no idea what his father was like to his slaves.
He wasn’t even sure what his father was like now. He’d changed; and Draco was still young, but he recognised his parents as being people that might change—that perhaps already had—since he’d been small.
‘What do you do when someone says no?’ the slave asked, suddenly. There was weight there, all things considered.
‘It would depend on what they were saying no to, I suppose. Or who it was,’ he added.
‘Fair enough.’
‘Are you aware you’re a slave?’
‘What kind of a question is that?’ the boy laughed, a full-throated and rather theatrically villainous cackle. ‘Am I aware—you’re hilarious, kid. How old are you?’
‘I’m twenty-five, thanks.’
‘Ooh, a quarter-century man!’ did not have any mocking to it, simply whimsy. Put that way, it did feel like an accomplishment. ‘Anyway, yes, I’m perfectly aware. I’ve been captive under worse and less direct circumstances before. Freedom’s a lie when you’re crippled or poor, anyway.’
Draco tactfully didn’t comment; he knew why his father walked with a cane, but he himself had been spared the Malfoy family curse in that regard—and of course, he had never been poor. He knew his obligation to them, taught this by cousin Vespasia, an elderly widow who had paid for several poor artists and musicians’ education, and was patron to them, and kept them in her large manor in Florence. She also made a point of regularly going about and spreading largesse by tipping street performers generously. Draco had listened to poor people talk about their work, their lives, but he’d not really understood what it felt like. He’d never been worried about such things as cold, or hunger, or rent.
However, he knew about these things now, knew that they existed, and that it was part of his obligation to ease them. That’s what taxation was for, and why noblesse oblige, and patronage of artisans and craftsmen, existed. Just as they cared for the Grovewood around their manor, going about and making sure every tree and bush was well and thriving as it should, so too did they have to do the same to the people under their care. Being noble wasn’t just about what you were allowed to do—that power over meant responsibility of, or you had no right to the power over at all.
He wondered if his father had realised that about being a parent, and was making so much effort to be more expressive of his approval because he realised he’d erred. Draco had spoken at length with Aunt Phrixus on that matter; and it had given Draco a great deal of perspective, to hear from other relatives, older than Father, about who Fa was, to their eyes. Draco realised now that the War he had been born at the end of had affected his childhood deeply—that the raw, tense nerves he had were something he had picked up on in his parents before he was old enough to remember it directly. Now that he was older, the idea that the Dark Lord had been around when he’d been so small, that his parents had been entrapped in his cult so young and with a child…. They’d been younger than he was now when all that had happened; and it was… strange, to realise that, at his age, his father had been parenting a toddler while in a death-cult that specifically preyed on his very real and concrete fears of his child’s safety in a world increasingly happy to assimilate into Muggle culture with no resistance….
All the learning Draco had done in the past few years, all the stories about when his parents had been young, what other relations knew them as being, had, also, given Draco a few hints on their sexual tastes, at least in aesthetics. For example, he knew by now that Mother liked girls with generous curves—tits, hips, belly, thighs—particularly if they were pregnant or nursing. He’d learned this from a comment cousin Vespasia had made while they’d been strolling, when she’d seen a heavily pregnant woman laying in the sun in a park, her hand idly stroking her bared belly, and said something to the effect of how much Narcissa would have found that very flirtatious. At the time, it had been one of those shocks one had to prepare for when speaking with older relations, but in retrospect it had made his mother more human, to know she had earthly appetites.
Phrixus was more elegant in his phrasing; but had still mentioned, here and there, little things that hinted. That alluded. How Father and Mother had never been sexually attracted to one another’s sex, but ‘while she was pregnant, that was as close as your father ever came to desiring her’. It made Draco curious. What about pregnancy was so attractive? Did they bond over that? And what did it mean for the new boy?
‘May I ask an indelicate question?’
Another rather villainously plummy laugh. ‘So polite, talking to me like I’m a real person, and everything.’
There was mockery there, but it was long-standing tradition for canny slaves to wryly comment on such matters as station and class. That was their rôle in plays, after all, to point out how much they were relied upon, the power without power.
‘Are you the new slave, the one with the womb? The one sent by Apollo and other gods?’
‘I might be!’ the slave said, retaining plausible deniability behind that easy, smiling tone. ‘Why?’
‘What does my father… like?’
A pause. ‘Do you want to know the answer? Truly.’
‘I do.’
‘Why?’ came the challenge, but all japery was gone now, and only gravity remained.
Draco gave that some thought. ‘I feel as though I don’t know him as a complete, adult person, I suppose,’ he said slowly. ‘He and mother are in a lavender marriage; they’re friends, but there was always that certain something missing.’
‘Ah, I get it. Well, the answer is Inflation. I don’t know what wizarding kink slang calls it, but that’s what I call it. Collection of kinks. I’m his newest toy balloon. Water balloon, that is.’
Draco… had not expected that answer; but then again, it made a lot of things make sense.
‘I’ve always wondered,’ the slave went on, ‘if kinks run in families. Like, I know for a fact I have some of my dad and mom’s kinks, just magnified because I had access to more and better porn… sorry, that’s just me talking. You don’t have to tell me what your kinks are, obviously.’
‘That’s just as well,’ Draco said, not sure why he was telling the boy this, ‘because I’m not sure. Meeting you… I’m… not even entirely sure about boys.’
‘What do you like about boys that doesn’t happen with girls?’
‘I thought it was cocks, but…’
‘Yeah, trans people can do that to ya,’ said the boy, unapologetically—even proudly. ‘Gender’s fake and made up. I like boys,’ he said. ‘For me it’s wrapped up in how they behave. I like boys, but really I am very specific about the kinds of boys I like. I like villains, I like boys like your father. And his friend,’ he added, thoughtfully.
‘Father has many friends.’
‘The potions master.’
‘That whittles it down to two,’ Draco said, aware they were playing a game, and enjoying it.
‘Hmmm, the cunty one that isn’t named Horace.’
Draco laughed. ‘You—you shouldn’t call him that—’
‘Ah,’ the slave lilted with mischievous glee, ‘but you knew exactly who I was talking about! He’s a bitch and I like him, though I don’t think I wanna like, fuck him or anything. I just like how him and your father banter, and he’s gorgeous. Who’s Horace?’
‘The other potions master.’
‘Hmmm, interesting, interesting. Much to think about.’
‘Oh?’ Draco was rather enjoying this banter. ‘Such as?’
‘Why your dad’s worse than him. Worse how? And in what way?’
Draco thought on what he knew of both men, adding in the new revelation about Fa’s inclinations.
Inflation, collection of kinks…
If the kinks were all grouped under that header, then… hm. ‘Could… feeding someone, be an inflation kink?’
‘Oh, girl! anything you can think of is a kink to somebody! First lesson of human sexuality. And specifically—gods yes, feeding and weight gain are definitely kinks. The most common inflation kinks, to be honest! Well, right after pregnancy—but straight people don’t really realise that one’s a kink, and haaaaate it when you talk about it that way.’ He laughed to himself. ‘Why, is that Horace’s thing?’
‘It well might be,’ Draco said. ‘I’m not sure. Outside of school, and as an adult, I’ve only really seen him at parties.’ He didn’t question the interjection—it clearly was one, and anyway, he was used to such things, the men in his family being how they tended to be.
Anything you can think of is a kink to somebody… Anything? ‘Is… being a slave your kink?’
‘I’m a submissive. I prefer being a pet, but I don’t object to the term slave yet. Speaking of, I’m gonna wander back now, and see how much trouble I’m not in.’
Draco heard the sound of him getting up—from the noises he made, he’d been sitting on the floor, and was not having a great time getting back to his feet. ‘Jesus,’ was a small mutter, then, louder, ‘Well, nice meeting you, kiddo. Good luck with the sexuality exploration!’
‘Thanks,’ Draco said, dryly. Strangely, there was no sound of footsteps, after that, and when he lit his wand again, the slave was gone. They hadn’t even known one another’s appearance, there would be no way of recognising him, unless he spoke, or indicated he recognised Draco’s voice. There was something odd in that, that made the whole conversation feel rather fairy in nature, like something from a dream….
He was left with a choice, Draco realised—he could simply not mention this, and see what happened—would the slave mention it? Would Fa see it when he used Legilimency on him next (did Fa use Legilimency on his slaves? It seemed more than likely)? And would either of them let on that they knew, or wait for him? Would it simply remain a sort of unspoken secret?
He lit his wand again, and went back to the blueprints.
⁂
As he walked through the dark, he contemplated the state of his messy heart, and the conflict between fearing pain and fearing neglect. At least punishment meant you’d been noticed, after all; to not even have transgression be acknowledged was… hm. Well, worse. What was that saying about how kids misbehaved to see where the boundaries were, to know they were safe because the boundaries existed?
Nobody had really done that enough, for him. The boundaries weren’t consistent, so testing them did not do anything, because one mistake and he was rejected wholly. So what now? What would happen? Would Master be consistent with his words, consistent with the logic he’d behaved with so far, consistent with the compassion he’d shown? Or was, once again, he just better at lying than the boy was at noticing deception? Either way, he supposed he’d learn something from it.
If he got ignored, it would make him tense, waiting for the transgression to be used against him in future. If he got punished, it would prove that Master lied, and nothing he said should be trusted. If someone else punished him, it proved that there was a hierarchy that Master allowed, a culture of bullying and hazing and gods knew what else.
He realised he’d feel more betrayed by Evers if that happened, really. He liked Evers. He wanted Evers to like him more than he cared about Master liking him; but that was pretty par for the course, since he’d been a servant for his short working life, and had always taken pride in service.
Did Master have a valet? He must have a valet….
He started to see the outline of light beneath doorways to other rooms. The first one was the kitchen, he knew that, and he heard the noises one expected there, not pausing, not giving in to the fear-driven temptation to listen and try and make out the conversations. Down that road lay madness.
The way back seemed longer than the way down; but the dark, and the task of remembering which was the next turn, kept him from spiralling too much. Even so, he was increasingly nervous, and his own imp of the perverse had started yelling at him about how he had screwed up for no reason, and was stupid if he thought this was going to end up like a fantasy or not eventually devolve into rape and violence.
Well, he thought at the imp nastily, he’d just left a very good suicide method at the bottom of those stone stairs. He could always flee into the passages, and drown before anyone knew where he was. There was a forest to get lost in, and this was England after all—you could die of exposure, here, and quickly, during certain times of the year….
That shut the imp up pretty good, but at a terrible cost.
He checked the floor beside the door, and found his dishes untouched, still there. The secret door was still latched, so no one had found where he’d gone. He listened now, hand carefully on the lever, kneeling low. This door had been in an alcove, half-hidden behind a plinth and a large urn full of flowers and glossy leaves.
When the silence had gone on long enough, he carefully but quickly opened the door again, carefully but quickly moving the dishes one by one so they wouldn’t rattle, and carefully but quickly slipped through, pulling the door shut again behind him. It was a small door, only about two feet square—a tight squeeze, one the other boys he’d met absolutely could not manage, which was the whole reason it had seemed a godsend.
He gathered his dishes up quietly and waited, listening, before slipping behind the curtain and out the other side of it. It was a large room, with many hanging curtains and decorative large plants, and other things that disguised the size of it. Evers had said this was the common room for the slaves. It was certainly pretty, and had lots of places to hide—but it was echoey, and he had not liked how the other boys had looked at him, or spoke to him. The misgendering was palpable, and he was too old to tolerate it or correct it.
He especially didn’t like the banter about him being a rejected or punished cow of the Mistress’. That hit too close to home on several levels.
So, he did not want anything to do with his co-workers—he rarely did. He didn’t like this room anymore, where those words lived. It was dark outside, and empty, had it become so late?
What would happen if he opened the door to the hallway? Still carrying his dishes, so he’d have an excuse to look lost, he slowly turned the knob on the door, expecting it to be locked.
It wasn’t.
Was he being herded toward Master’s room? Was that it? The thought gave him a cold, sick drop of terror, reminding him of when he’d come home once, after a journey of hours and hours hauling many suitcases with all his earthly belongings, to a dark house, only to find his wild-tempered host waiting in the dark so she could dramatically turn the light on, yell at him, and kick him out when he was the most exhausted.
The hallway outside was quiet, and the tapestries, thankfully, didn’t talk, the paintings mere still lifes that only swayed a little in their invisible breezes, or lapped the shore in the case of the one seascape.
He stood close for a little while and stared at the seascape in question (it was very large, and so he did not have to stand too awfully close). It was not his sea. It was a dark and stormy and cold sea, which felt like looking at a distant relative one did not know that resembled, but was not, one’s trusted parent. It was still a sea, but it was not his… but it was a beautiful painting, nevertheless, and he admired that its realism coupled with his lack of glasses meant it looked like a window, not a painting. His brain kept expecting it to loop, like a gif, but it never did.
He wondered if wizards did impressionism, or surrealism, and how those paintings would move. Why didn’t the sculptures move? What about calligraphy illuminations? Comics? Doodling?
Finding his way back to Master’s room was easy, but it was odd how empty the halls were. There was a tray outside the door, with the remnants of dessert on the neatly bussed plates. Carefully, he added his own stack, relieved to find a place to put it.
Now what?
He paced a little bit on the hallway rug. He had the clothes on that he’d had on when Master took him outside, so he wasn’t cold; but he’d left his shoes off so he could better feel his way in the dark, and they were still off. He didn’t like wearing shoes, no matter how collapsed his arches, he didn’t have good balance with shoes on, couldn’t figure out where he was without feeling it in his feet.
Well, the only way out was through; he’d always run, screaming, at anything that scared him, and he wasn’t about to stop now.
He knocked on the door, automatically rapping shave-and-a-haircut, like he had since he’d been a toddler and his father inadvertently taught him that it was just how you normally knocked on doors.
The door opened, and Master’s voice lilted out, sounding like he was smiling.
‘Come in.’