Chapter 10:
Autumn's Frosted Kiss


When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark
Makes its mark
On the flowers, and the misty morning grieves
Over fallen leaves;
Then my olden garden, where the golden soil
Through the toil
Of a hundred years is mellow, rich, and deep,
Whispers in its sleep.


Faint and far away their ancient griefs appear:
Yet how near
Is the tender voice, the careworn, kindly face,
Of the human race!
Let us walk together in the garden, dearest heart,
Not apart!
They who know the sorrows other lives have known
Never walk alone.


Meet me in the gardens.

The voice seemed to echo, hauntingly beautiful in its essence, and Draco’s hands were colder than usual. He felt like a lord, and like a little child -- like the herald of things he did not understand. The feeling was sudden, a burden he did not wish to carry, but could not get rid of it.

He took a deep breath, and looked away from the spot where the letter had burned to its admittedly - there was no other word for it - creepy end. “Master Malfoy,” Braine’s deep voice floated up to him, once again. “The lord and lady await, you know.”

He twitched - it made him angry, that the ghost could manage to not allow him some peace - but, wrapping the anger into coldness, only replied with a calm, “I shall be down in a minute, Braine.”

For a few moments, after which, he did nothing - did not even move from the spot he stood at - and then, very abruptly, as if unable to decide what the best course of action would be, he pushed open the door of his room, and stepped outside. The corridor stretched in front of him, carpeted with an imposing dim gray, but Draco had no time to appreciate that. Hunching up his shoulders, he descended the staircase, walked the length of the main lounge, and opened the door to the dining hall.

“You’re late,” Lucius Malfoy’s steel-like voice greeted him.

“I apologize,” Draco said smoothly, as he slid into a chair. He had learned two things, in the course of his years at the Malfoy Manor - never to displease his father, and never to be late for a meal with him. Punishment of some sort probably awaited him now, but he did not actually care, as he reached forward to pick an expensive plate.

“You will meet me in my room after dinner,” Lucius said coldly.

"Indeed, Father,” he replied calmly, as he raised a fork to his mouth.

Narcissa’s pretty eyes filled up with concern, and she laid a hand on her husband's forearm. “Now Lucius, I’m sure he didn’t mean it. You know how punctual he generally is, he can be excused this one time –”

“There is no need, Narcissa,” and Lucius’s tones were, if possible, even colder. “For womenfolk to meddle in the affairs of father and son.”

The fork in Draco’s hand paused on the way to his mouth. He glanced at Narcissa -- she had looked down at her hands, for a moment, and now gave a very jerky, very forced nod. There was something in Draco's eyes that was indefinable, but could have been anger. Lucius continued to eat, as if nothing had happened, and the meal wrapped up in a huffy silence that made Braine shake his head – the ghost’s own times had been happier. A Malfoy he might have been, but dinner-time at his house had usually been an event of conversation, tinkling glasses and loud laughter.

Draco left for his bedroom, the moment his father had swept out of the dining hall – he would have left sooner, but he was not allowed to, until Lucius rose. It was a Malfoy custom, that the Head of the House be the first to both grace and vacate the table, and Draco did not challenge it. Not because he did not have the will to, but because he thought it a rather insignificant matter, to waste his breath upon.

He knew he ought to go see his father, as he had been ordered to, but he was not in the mood, and punishment was no new thing. Not to mention, what was on his mind, right now, was neither his father nor any harsh treatment the man might have in mind, but the letter that had burned to its death, in his very bedroom.

In the gardens. It unsettled him, why he was unsettled by what might lay ahead. It was not Draco to be unsettled, to not know what to do, and how to act – at least, not in general. The letter had arrived an hour ago, and its writer would mostly likely have left by now, tired of waiting in the cold. But Draco twitched at the thought of it and then, before he could stop himself, he had picked up a cloak, wrapped it around himself, and fastened the complicated, very Malfoy clasp on it.

Then he was walking down the staircase, across the main hall, and towards the inner, double doors of Malfoy Mansion.

A jet of cold air hit him square in the face, the moment he stepped outside. It was another wintry day, and fogs curled into hazy shapes of silence in the distance, almost ethereal in their half-whiteness. The sky was black against the night, and stars shone like diamond pins, their edges aglow with blurs of silver-hot fires. It was a lovely scene, and it seemed to have sprung from an artist’s imagination, but Draco had little thought for it, much, much less time to admire it. His steps across the grass were almost jerky, and he nearly shouted out loud, when a sudden hand clasped itself on his mouth, and he was pulled into the darkness.

“Let go of me --" The hand was too strong to wrench off, and yet he could tell it was a woman's. To his surprise, he was not afraid - it only angered him, to know he could not push a woman away.

“Patience, Draco,” she said softly, as she twisted his arm, so that he could face her. She smelled of perfume, of expensive fabric, and he remembered, finally remembered the memory that he not been able to recall, all day. “Patience, my child.”

“Woman,” his tones were dead-calm. "I know you want a piece of me, but this really isn't the place."

"Idiot," she hissed.

"Did I mention -- it would be much more helpful, to your cause, if you let me go? I mean, it might ruin your chances with me, if you try to mishandle me. Just a... thought."

He saw her eyes narrow, and took his chance - the moment she loosened, in her anger, her grip on him, he wrenched free and, grabbing both her arms, twisted them behind her. "Now that our positions are reversed," he said sweetly -- and still coldly, still coldly. "It would be helpful if you could tell me your name, lady."

“Silly boy," she laughed, a mocking, almost taunting laughter. "Do you think you possess the ability to hold me?" She flicked her wrist, and he was thrown backwards, went skidding across the path. She laughed again, walking up to him and holding out a hand, to help him up. "Many names I have,” she said softly. “But you can call me Lashan, for in the Old Tongue it means the essence of dark love, and the touch of death upon the prairies, and the beauty and joy of immortal life.”

He did not take her hand, and rose to his feet. “You're not human.” It was not a question, but a statement; and he wondered why he understood it now, the fact that she was not human - it seemed to be written in her eyes, and yet he was certain no one else could have read it, there. Perhaps it was because she had almost let him know, herself?

"Ingenious, Draco." She took a step forward, and the scent of the shop engulfed him again. She had very white shoulders, he noticed. They almost shone, in the darkness. Or perhaps he was imagining it? It was hard to think straight, at any rate. Harder than it had ever been and -- and then she stepped away, and his head cleared.

"I see you're into me," he said coolly. "Enough to want to use whatever inhumane powers you have, to try to seduce me."

“Such a Malfoy,” she laughed. “I thought you were easy to overpower, Draco, but I see now you recover very quickly.”

“Can you tell me what your problem is?” He crossed his arms against his chest, and glared at her, but he knew he was pushing his luck - she was, as of yet, an unmeasured quantity, but he could tell she would not be too pleased by insolence. That said, he had seen a lot in his life, much, much more than most, and fear was not an option. Had not been, for many years, now. He had learned to turn fear into anger, or coldness, or harshness - he was an alchemist too, perhaps. One of emotions, though. He knew how to transform fear. Into calm. Into insolence. “Or do I have to pay you in cash? That always works, doesn’t it – cold, hard cash?”

That, that touched a nerve. “Foolish boy,” she hissed. He was almost sure she would grow talons and attack, but she remained a figure of poise, a point of light in the darkness. “You do not know who you mess with – but –“ her tones fell back into their charming, silvery melody - “That is not your fault, Draco. We shall set things right before you know it, and history will take the course it was always meant to.”

“Excuse me?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. “Sorry to dash your hopes, woman, but I would say it's pretty vile for a lady, to fling herself at the first good-looking man she sees –”

She slapped him across the face. It felt like fire, worse than a lot of things he had known. Draco staggered backwards, grabbing the nearest tree to regain his balance. “If you do that again,” he said coldly. “I will not hesitate to slap you back.”

“Do you think I would let you?” she asked softly. “You are made for great things, my child, but you do not understand. Reality -" She turned away. "Is harsh. If only you knew what power I have.” She turned to face him again, and held out a hand, once more.

‘Real fancy, lady. You certainly don't seem to treat me like your 'child.' That said, maybe you could explain why you grab me for a snog every chance you get? I would not say that I am not exceedingly handsome, but it is rather unsettling to know that the Creatures of the Underworld are attracted to me, or -”

“Shut up,” She grabbed his arm, and he did not try to break free, this time round, because was already aware that it would be absolutely useless. “Come with me, my child, and I will show you.”

The ground beneath his feet split open, like a plate of metal twisted into deformation by a powerful hammer, and a blue light burst forth, so bright that he had to raise a hand to shield his eyes against it. She pulled him towards herself, and he crashed into her like a toy a child has thrown mercilessly across the floor, and then the world had twisted into nothingness, and his surroundings were no more.

*

[] Reference:

+ "When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark -" - Henry Van Dyke, Autumn in the Garden by from Songs of Hearth and Altar.