Draca Malfoy and the Chamber of Secrets Chapter 1 #Malfoid Spanking Story

 Draca Malfoy and the Chamber of Secrets

By Yu May

Chapter I: Pure-Blood

[Please note: this story depicts sequences of corporal punishment and emotionally abusive parenting. I made every effort to treat the topic sensitively. Reader discretion is advised.]

Draca Malfoy was lying on her stomach on her bed, pouting. During the ride home on the Hogwarts Express, Draca had been quite looking forward to the summer holidays. Finally, she would be free from Crabbe and Goyle’s stupid questions, not to mention the constant reminders of Potter and his little friends.

Draca had celebrated her twelfth birthday alone at Hogwarts on June 5, during the last week of term. She had expected to be welcomed with hugs and kisses, not to mention birthday congratulations. 

Instead, Mother and Father had been waiting for her, along with Draca’s pet eagle owl, Altair, which was perched on father’s shoulder. Her father was holding the envelope which contained the results of her final exams from her first year at Hogwarts.

Without a word being said, Draca knew exactly what was in store for her when they arrived at home.

“A spanking. Some birthday present,” muttered Draca. 

Lifting herself up onto her elbows, Draca twisted to examine the six bright-red cane marks on her behind. She had purposefully left her bottom bare, to give it time to cool off.

Draca had hoped that passing all her classes would have counted for something. But she only achieved a grade of A for “Acceptable” in History of Magic, Transfiguration, Charms, and Herbology. This was good enough to avoid failing, but she had to get her grades up to an E for “Exceeds Expectations” in order to be on track to earn an N.E.W.T. in any of those subjects. 

Even worse, Draca had been outscored in every single exam by Hermione Granger, a mud-blood. Her father had heard all about Miss Granger during a meeting of the school’s Board of Governors. Apparently, Granger was the first student to achieve perfect scores in every exam in over fifty years. 

Draca had known all along that Granger was an obnoxious book-worm, but she had at least hoped to earn the top grade in her best subject: Potions class, taught by Professor Snape. But Draca had missed two points on the written portion of the exam, falling just short of the perfect grade required for a grade of O for “Outstanding.”

This defeat had been the last straw for her father, Lucius Malfoy. “At least you managed to not flunk out in your first year,” he had said. “But that’s hardly an accomplishment, Draca. A witch with your noble heredity, your blood, outclassed by a muggle-born? You have every possible advantage over filth like that. There can be no excuse for mediocre performance for a Malfoy.”

First, Father had caned Draca, giving her six of the best instructors. After Father was finished, Mother had made Draca fetch an ebony wooden hairbrush, then given Draca a second round of paddling over her knee. This was Mother’s quiet way of saying that she fully supported her husband’s decision to discipline Draca. 

Sometimes in the past, Mother had intervened on Draca’s behalf, asking Father to reduce Draca’s punishment for minor offences. But if Draca ever did something that threatened her safety, or her future, she knew her mother could easily match her father as a stern disciplinarian.

The only silver lining was Father’s final announcement after Mother had finished: “That will suffice for your punishment, Draca. You will go straight to bed, without supper. I am confident this will motivate you to study hard this summer.”

The punishment was actually much lighter than Draca had expected. After all, just last Christmas, she’d received multiple canings for her poor results on her midterm exams. What really bothered Draca wasn’t the discomfort of the lingering marks left by Father’s cane and Mother’s hairbrush. It was the bitter knowledge that she’d been beaten in her best class.

For Draca, that insult was far worse than any injury.

Draca heard footsteps in the hall outside her room, and tensed. She wondered whether she was about to be released from her early bedtime? Or whether her parents had changed their minds and determined a second round of punishment was indeed warranted? But the footsteps only passed by her door, and disappeared. 

Draca sighed with relief.

Then, there was a crack like a whip, and someone popped into existence right next to her bed. Draca squealed in shock.

It was Dobby, the house elf. He was a short, miserable looking creature with large, bat-like ears. He wore no clothing, except for a grubby pillow case, holes cut in the corners to act as sleeves for his arms. 

Quickly, Draca covered her bottom with her hands, and snarled. “Dobby! How many times do I have to tell you to knock before entering?”

Dobby bowed so low, his long nose touched the ground. His voice was high-pitched, almost squeaky. “Begging the young mistress’s pardon, but the master of the house has ordered Dobby to tend to his daughter’s wounds, and to be quick about it.”

Draca rolled her eyes, then folded her arms in front of her, trying to look glum. But Draca had to hide a smile. If Father had sent Dobby to heal her, it could only mean that Draca was no longer being held in a state of disgrace. “Oh, whatever. Do your work, servant.”

“Oh, yes, Mistress, at once. Dobby is so very happy to see Mistress Draca’s punishment is over.” 

Dobby bowed again, and raised a finger. Instantly, Draca felt a warm glow, and the angry red marks from her Father’s cane began to fade. 

Draca didn’t say a word. Once, when she was a toddler, Draca had thanked Dobby for helping her, giving him a hug and a kiss. Draca’s mother had sternly warned her that it was improper to treat a servant that way. Servants were not to be spoken to, unless it was to give them instructions or a direct order.

Not much later, when Draca had offered to let Dobby play dress-up with her, her Father had grabbed Draca by the arm and shouted at her. “Never offer clothes to the house elf!”

Her father had made Draca repeat the same lesson back to him, word by word, while caning her. Draca had learned the hard way never to treat Dobby with any sort of kindness or consideration, beyond the politeness due to a servant. 

But Draca was certainly grateful for Dobby’s healing magic. Without it, Draca probably would have spent most of her childhood unable to sit down comfortably. 

“That will do, Dobby,” said Draca, cooly.

Dobby bowed once, and disappeared into thin air with a snap.

Draca checked the state of her backside, and whistled at the sight. “Good as new.” 

She got out of bed, and dressed in one of her silk nightdresses. Draca’s mother had tried to have Dobby send a pair of them to Hogwarts, but Draca didn't want to be caught dead in anything so soft and frilly, especially not by her Slytherin classmates. But they were insanely comfortable.

Just as Draca was about to climb back into bed, she heard more footsteps, and paused. The sound was heavier than before, and there were more than one set of boots. A deep, gruff voice said, “But, Mister Malfoy, where are we supposed to hide something this big?”

“So long as it’s not in my house, I don’t care, Crabbe. Just don’t lose it, and don’t drop it,” answered Lucius Malfoy.

“But, sir… what if they raid one of our houses next?” answered a third man, rasping for air. 

“That won’t happen, Goyle. You don’t have as many enemies in high places as I do. It’s been over a decade since you were under suspicion. The Ministry’s probably forgotten all about you two by now.”

Draca tensed. The voices of the two men were too old to be her Crabbe and Goyle, the two boys who acted as her cronies and bodyguards at Hogwarts. So, it had to be their fathers. But what were they doing here? Father always complained that Crabbe and Goyle were barely proper wizards. They weren’t exactly the sort of people you could invite over for a cup of tea.

“Those Ministry morons do seem to forget an awful lot of things, don’t they?” grunted Crabbe.

There was a series of loud bumps, as if the two men had nearly tripped, and dropped whatever they were carrying. “Careful, you fools!” snarled Lucius Malfoy.

Draca tiptoed toward her door and pressed her ear against the keyhole.

“Say, why don’t we get your house elf to carry this?” said Goyle.

“I don’t want my slave so much as touching this antique. He’s far too valuable. Now, careful round the corner—don’t scratch the—”

There was a loud scraping sound, and as Lucius Malfoy berated Crabbe and Goyle, their voices slowly faded out of hearing.

Draca considered everything she had just heard. She knew her parents had been rearranging the house, but what her father had said about the Ministry of Magic was suspicious. Was he afraid someone was going to raid their house and find something illegal? But that made no sense to Draca. The Malfoys were highly-respected in the magical community. Her father was no common criminal. What could he possibly need to hide?

For a few minutes, Draca lay in bed, trying to force herself to fall asleep. When that didn’t work, she threw off the blankets. 

Slowly, Draca opened her bedroom door by a crack. Sure enough, there was a scuff in the wallpaper at the end of the hallway that ran around the corner. But no one was in sight.

Draca tip-toed down the hall, and went downstairs. There was a faint green glow coming from the drawing-room. Father must have lit the fireplace. Then, Draca heard her mother’s voice. She sounded slightly desperate. “What are we going to do, Lucius? What if they think to look under the–”

“It will be fine, Narcissa. My tip came from a reliable source. Weasley doesn’t have enough evidence to authorize a raid yet. Not without higher approval from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. And even if he manages that, the hidden compartment is protected by a greater spell of concealment.” 

“But, Lucius, there’s just no room! That hideaway was only meant to hold three people, not a collection of dark magical artefacts.”

“Then I’m sure Mr. Borgin will take the lesser objects. At least the ones that don’t carry any serious curses.”

Draca held her breath. She knew that some of the antiques they owned carried curses, but this was the first she had heard anything about dark magic.

From inside the drawing-room, Dobby spoke up. “Begging the master’s pardon, but perhaps if Dobby could use his own magic to–”

There was a nasty cracking sound, and Dobby howled in pain. “Silence, slave!” hissed Lucius Malfoy. “Do not speak unless spoken to. I don’t trust elfish magic for this work. Some of these objects are invaluable… irreplaceable!”

Draca heard a series of soft slaps, and knew that Dobby was hitting himself. “Bad Dobby! Bad, stupid, Dobby!”

Once, when Draca was very young, she had laughed at the way Dobby would always punish himself, so that Master Malfoy needn’t bother to raise a finger to do it himself. But as Draca grew older, and came to know the sting of the cane herself, she no longer found Dobby’s pain so amusing.

Draca dared to peek into the drawing-room. Her parents were crouched in the middle of the room. A fur-lined rug had been pulled aside to reveal a trap door which she’d never seen before. The moment that her father closed it, the outline of the trap door vanished, along with its handle.

The whole time, Dobby continued to furiously slap his own face. “Bad, bad, very bad Dobby!”

Her father’s voice was drawling, almost bored. “Yes, yes, bad Dobby. Now, go check on Draca, and make sure she’s asleep. I don’t want her wandering out of bed tonight.”

Dobby stopped hitting himself, then glanced briefly in Draca’s direction. To Draca’s horror she saw Dobby’s eyes meet hers, and ducked behind the doorway. 

“Yes, Master. Dobby will go at once,” said Dobby, calmly.

Slowly, Dobby began to walk toward the drawing-room entrance. Draca held her breath, and started to retreat back to her bedroom. Dobby would never play tattle tale on Draca, if he could possibly avoid it. Of course, if the master of the house ordered his house elf to answer a direct question, Dobby would have had no choice but to obey, and answer truthfully.

But Dobby had a knack for finding loopholes in the magical laws that bound him as a slave to Lucius Malfoy.

Once, when Draca had broken an antique vase, she’d begged Dobby not to tattle on her. The house elf willingly accepted both the blame and the flogging for the broken vase, and then had punished himself for a whole week. 

But since Lucius Malfoy had never asked who actually broke the vase, Dobby had never outed Draca for doing it.

As Dobby backed out of the drawing-room, bowing, he caught Draca’s eye. “Does Dobby have the Master’s permission to use apparition, and go straight to young Mistress Draca’s bedroom, sir?”

“Yes, yes, just get out of my sight, Dobby. That’s an order.”

Instantly, Dobby disappeared, with a snap. Feeling a cold sweat on her brow, Draca stepped away from the drawing-room. 

Draca knew that all she had to do was get back to her room, carefully, without her parents seeing her, and Dobby could be trusted not to reveal her secret eavesdropping.

Then she bumped against a display that held an antique vase, and it smashed to the floor.

For a few seconds, Draca stared at the broken pieces of the vase.

“Draca… come join us in the drawing-room,” said her father.

Draca stood tall, and strode in, just as if this had been her plan all along. “Good evening, Father.”

Her father was seated on a high-backed leather chair, gripping his walking stick. Her mother stood behind him, looking aghast. 

“Draca Malfoy, please explain why you are out of bed, after being sent to your room,” said her Father.

Draca steeled her breath. “I heard strange noises, so I went to investigate. I was worried we were being burglarized.”

“You have always been an intellectually curious young lady, Draca. It’s no use keeping this from you forever, so we might as well explain our family’s situation.”

Her mother looked even more worried, but with what clearly required an effort, she kept her silence.

Finally, her father sighed. “Tell me, Draca, what did you learn about the legacy of Salazar Slytherin in school this year? Surely, you must have retained something from History of Magic.”

Draca stiffened. She wasn’t sure what this had to do with either her family or her eavesdropping, but she was happy to change the subject. “Salazar Slytherin was one of the four founding members of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, along with Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Godric Gryffindor.”

“Every child born of wizarding parents knows that. But Salazar Slytherin did far more than found a school of magic. He was without a doubt the greatest wizard of his age… perhaps of any age. Did you know that Merlin himself was one of Slytherin’s first students?”

Draca nodded. “Sure. The House of Slytherin has always produced the best.”

Her father made a scoffing noise. “Yes, the House of Slytherin. That is a lovely name. But do you ever wonder, Draca, whether Slytherin himself would recognize your house as his? Whether we are truly worthy to carry on his mighty name?”

Draca blinked. “What do you mean? We’re an excellent house. The best in the school.”

“I understand you have a half-blooded witch in your class. A Miss Bulstrode. Do you know her?”

Draca gulped. “She’s… she’s in my year. Big girl. Looks nearly as tough as Crabbe and Goyle.”

“And does Miss Bulstrode demonstrate great talent for the magical arts, in your opinion?”

Malfoy shrugged. “She’s all right, I guess. Not as good as me in Potions.”

“All right, you guess? Well, I suppose that’s something. But consider, Draca, how much things have changed. Slytherin himself insisted upon teaching only pure-blooded students. Yet in our day and age, the house that bears his name and crest allows half-bloods to enter. I admit, with so few of us left, it may be an unfortunate necessity. But still…”

Her father trailed off, then seemed to collect his thoughts. This time, he spoke in what Draca recognized as the bored, drawling voice of a true aristocrat. “What was Slytherin’s legacy? What was the moral principle that guided him?”

“He… Slytherin believed that training in the magical arts should only be offered to those within all-magical families.”

“And what do you believe, Draca?”

This last question took Draca completely by surprise. She thought the answer should have been obvious. “Well, of course, it would be better if all the students came from wizarding families, wouldn’t it? So that they’re brought up knowing our ways.”

 

Her father leaned forward in his chair. “And do you know why Salazar Slytherin only took pure-blooded witches and wizards as his students?”

Struggling to speak, Draca shook her head.

Her father kept talking, his face grave. “Because, for well over a thousand years, for as long as magical folk have lived, those without the gift of magic have constantly sought to wipe us out. Whenever Muggles find magic, wherever they find it, they cannot bear the knowledge of its existence. It is in their nature. That is why the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy was finally signed into law. To protect us from… their kind.”

Draca forced herself to nod. “Of course,” she said, “I understand why we don’t want them to know about our kind, but… aren’t Muggles kind of a joke? What can they do to us, without magic?”

“They have hunted us, Draca. They have tortured us. They have burned us.”

“But—I thought there were ways of protecting against that. Sure, a mob of Muggles might catch you, but all it took was a simple charm to—”

“What if you lost your wand, Draca? What if they caught you unawares, while you were asleep? What if… one of them was your husband, or your child, and sold you out?”

Draca shivered. “In that case… you’d never be safe.”

“Exactly. That was what Salazar Slytherin so wisely understood. You see, Draca, magic is in our family’s blood. It has to be passed down, from father to son, from mother to daughter. And there are so few pure-blooded families left. Slowly, but surely, we are dying out.” 

Her father gestured to the tapestry above the fireplace. It depicted the Malfoy family crest, two black dragons surrounding a shield of green and black. The crest stood at the base of a towering tree with long, winding branches that stretched up to the ceiling. But as the tree extended outwards, its last, thin branches came to an end with her own name, beneath her parents’ names.

“Do you understand why this is so important, Draca? Why our kind cannot mingle with their kind?”

Draca nodded. “Yes, father. Because, sooner or later, those who can’t understand magic will try to kill every last spark of magic left in the world… Or breed it out.”

Her father nodded. “Precisely, Draca… You are finally old enough to understand the grave situation our people are in, and now it’s time you understood something else about our family. Despite being the greatest of the Hogwarts Four, Salazar Slytherin’s wise counsel did not prevail. In the end, half-bloods were permitted to enter the school… and even mud-bloods, with no connection to existing magical families whatsoever. Those who hold to the legacy of Salazar Slytherin understand that, in order for our kind to survive, pure magical blood must be carefully preserved. But there are those, like Albus Dumbledore, who are prepared to sacrifice the survival of our world, rather than do what is necessary to save our kind. And they will go to great lengths to persecute our family, because we stand upon this principle: We refuse to be ruled over by those who hate our kind and hate our ways. We refuse to submit to those who hate magic…. We refuse to lie down and die. And we await the day when the heir of Slytherin will return, and finally bring an end to the eternal war that has been waged on our people.”

Draca nodded, very slowly. “So… what does that mean, sir? What do we have to do, to protect our family?”

With a graceful motion, her father stood up, towering over her, and gestured to the dining-room table. “It means we do whatever it takes. Even if our enemies would call what we do ‘dark magic.’ Hypocrites. As if there is any distinction between their magic and ours. That is why your mother and I have to hide some of these artefacts, Draca. Some of these date back to the time of Salazar Slytherin himself.” 

Draca stared at the objects on the table. There was a silver shield, but as Draca tried to find her reflection in it, she saw only a ghostly reflection of an old man looking back at her. There was an assortment of trophies, pendants, rings, and colorful gems. Finally, there was a stone chalice filled with a frozen liquid that looked suspiciously like blood.

His hand shaking, her father pulled out what looked like a small, black ledger, and flipped through the pages. “This is your inheritance. Your legacy. And no one has the right to steal it from you, not even the Ministry of Magic.”

Draca felt her heart flutter. For the first time in her life, she sensed that her father was speaking to her as something more than a simple child. “And what can I do? Is there anything I can help hide?”

“No, Draca. For now, it’s better if you keep your head low. The less you know, the better. But there is an important question you can answer for me. This Christmas, when we met you at the Hogwarts Express, you asked me about Harry Potter. You said that you thought he might be our enemy. I was very sorry to hear that. I had hoped, with his lineage…”

Suddenly, her father seemed to come out of a trance, but he kept the black book clutched tight in his pale white hand. “I need to know, Draca, is there any doubt in your mind about Potter? Is it possible that he might be persuaded to become our ally?”

Draca stared at her father. Outwardly, he was calm and collected, but there was a nervous edge to his voice. Draca shook her head. “No, sir. Harry Potter is our enemy. I’m sure of it.”

Slowly, her father closed the black book, and tucked it back into his coat pocket, almost lovingly. “Thank you. You have helped me to make an important decision. You may go, Draca. To bed with you.” 

Feeling an intense sense of relief, Draca turned to leave. But as she reached the door, she heard her father call to her from behind. “Ah, I almost forgot! There is just one more matter we need to address, Draca… I’ve warned you countless times before about not eavesdropping. Dobby! Come here, now.”

With a crack, Dobby reappeared in the dining-room, looking sorrowful.

Lucius picked up his walking stick, and gripped it. “Dobby, escort Draca to her room, and help her prepare herself for another caning. And when I am through… you are not to use any healing magic.”

Dobby bowed low. “Yes, master.”

“Draca, I used to give you six strokes for the standard punishment. But now that you have turned twelve-years-old, I believe that twelve strokes would be more fitting as a penalty. Do you agree?”

Draca felt her heart sink. Then she turned and bowed her head, matching the house elf. She had no choice, “Yes, father.”

[End of Chapter I]