Nightmares and Nocturnes

The Dance of Prospect

Chapter 14: The Dance of Prospect

The boy was taught to idolize the day, to find himself warmed by the rays of the sun, and to be thoroughly steeped in it, that he might glorify in what the monster had given him; and so, in the absence of day, he felt himself suspended, waiting for what might come.

The night girl, who comforted him in the dark, would point to the shadows, to things that seemed, to the day boy, to be merely tricks of the light - less blessings of sun and more instruments of torment, existing only so that he might be carried quite low in desolation, growing cold amidst the dark. But she, stronger for her suffering, would not allow such wretched defeat; she asked, instead, how he could dare to simply watch the world pass, when so many gifts remained, so many things still shone, even in the absence of light?

And as he looked upon her, he wondered how he had not seen; for though she was raised in darkness, she was brighter even than the sun.

. . . . . . . .

2002

. . . . . . . .

The Dark Lord cleared his throat, though no such gesture was necessary; the mere presence of his breath could spill silence over a room more effectively than any spell Draco had ever witnessed. Draco wondered momentarily if the Dark Lord did, perhaps, have something in his throat - if such things even occurred to the criminally immortal - but then the Dark Lord's eyes fixed on him and he forcibly shook his mind clear, ever the practiced Occlumens.

"This evening," the Dark Lord began slowly, "we will begin, as always, with you, Amycus." He looked lazily down the table and Amycus nodded.

"Some prospects," he grunted. "Spencer Whiddon graduates in the spring, and I expect he'll top the ranks of his class."

"Whiddon," the Dark Lord repeated, frowning. "Patronage?"

"Fawley on his mother's side," Amycus supplied, and heads at the table mutely bobbed in approval at the Sacred Twenty-Eight name. "Same as Damon Gosforth - cousins, I think - though that one's got another year."

The Dark Lord nodded. "Any others?"

"Too soon to tell," Amycus determined gruffly. "The younger Bulstrode boys have the pedigree - "

"I didn't care for the father," the Dark Lord interjected sharply. "Temperament was too - " he paused, pursing his lips. "Barbaric."

"The twins are relatively meek," Amycus said. "Pliable, I'd wager."

"There's an older girl, is there not?" the Dark Lord mused, curling his skeletal hands around his chin. "Brute of a chit, if memory serves."

"My wife," Goyle murmured quietly from his seat across from Draco, reddening slightly.

"Ah," the Dark Lord said, his eyes sliding over to Goyle. "Pity."

Goyle, wisely, said nothing.

"In any case, I expect a few more months of close scrutiny will do them some good," Amycus said evenly. "A bit more discipline."

Discipline, Draco thought, fighting a shiver. The Cruciatus Curse had taken on such deplorable new nicknames since he'd been in school.

"Very well," the Dark Lord said, flicking his wrist as though to rid himself of the topic. "Moving forward - " he looked up, glancing at Mulciber. "Darian?"

"My Lord," Mulciber began, inclining his head in assent. "We've apprehended one of the rumored members of the Ord- "

He stopped. The Dark Lord flinched.