Samuel Goyle's Monster

Gregory -- and that was his wife's father's father's name and so was a foregone conclusion -- was born a robust and bright young lad, a bit smaller than Samuel would have liked but healthy all the same. He was pleased, and his wife was pleased, and the Dark Lord would certainly be pleased as well once Goyle brought him the news.

They were on the cusp of great things, that's what the Dark Lord told him every time they met. The cusp of great things, and when great things were accomplished then his Gregory would have a great world to live in. His Gregory and Lucius's little Draco, and Crabbe's yet-to-be-born child.

His Lord asked him for just one small thing, one small favour to ensure that the next generation was as strong and loyal as his own. It didn't seem so much to ask. So taking his new-born son from his wife's arms and cooing at him softly, he let him suck the bluish potion off his fingertips till it was gone.

Just a small thing.


At Gregory's fifth birthday the three boys and Parkinson's rather unattractive daughter played on the grounds of Malfoy Manor, by special invitation of Lucius Malfoy himself, who often hosted the children.

"It's good to see your son looking so well," said Lucius, sipping on a drink that Samuel guessed was not tea and sitting well out of the sun. "He's quite quick, isn't he? He almost beat my Draco in that last game."

"Takes after his mother," said Samuel affectionately. His Gregory would do him proud, as no Goyle had done in generations.

"I'm quite surprised he hasn't grown so much as I would have thought, though," Lucius went on. "Look at him next to Vincent, Gregory's half his size."

"Vincent takes after his father," said Samuel slowly, for he couldn't deny the truth of that observation. "Greg's larger than Draco, though. He's doing all right."

"Well, Gregory and Draco have very different purposes, don't they?" said Lucius idly. "The way you and I have very different purposes. Do you understand?"

Samuel thought that he did, though Lucius wasn't speaking so plainly as he usually did with him. "Once, they did," he said uncertainly. "But things are different now than they were when the boys were born."

"No," said Lucius, slowly and sharply. "They are not. Nothing has changed, Goyle, do you understand me? Nothing."

"But--" he started, but he had long since learned not to argue with Lucius when it came to these things, or any things.

"The Dark Lord will return," said Lucius, in tones that could be heard only by the two of them. "And when he does, things will be precisely as he wanted them to be." Samuel actually almost questioned him again, but Lucius stopped him with a look. "You know he had great plans for your son, Goyle. He had great plans for all of our sons. Would you want for him to come back and exlude you from his plans?"

That, above all else, was a day Samuel wished never to see. "I didn't know," he said, and sat back to watch the children play.

When the boys came running up to them, after being charmed clean and presentable by Draco's long-suffering nanny, Samuel had a glass of Gregory's special blue juice ready. When Greg made a face after just one sip, he told his son it had made just specially for him by his mum, and that he'd best drink up.


When Gregory was eight he'd reached his mother's height, and had taught himself to cast leviosa after watching her use it for just half a day, to rearrange the library.


When Gregory was eleven he was nearly six feet tall, and had trouble remembering which end of his wand to hold.


"Honestly, Goyle, it's not that difficult," said Draco. "Do you want to get a Troll when the time comes round for our OWLs?"

"Of course not," said Goyle, but the words made no sense to him, twisting round in front of his eyes like nothing more than tiny little pictures. He didn't know what he needed this for anyhow. His family taught him everything he needed to know, and what he couldn't hex he could pummel.

"I don't think I've ever met anyone so dim as you," said Draco. "Except perhaps for Crabbe."

Greg, for his part, had never met anyone so frail as Draco. His father had long since told him he had to look out for Draco, wherever they were, because the Dark Lord would be very displeased should any harm come to him. Greg took his father's instructions very seriously indeed.

"What is that disgusting smell?" Draco asked, wrinkling his nose. "Did you have the cabbage at supper again, Goyle?"

"I didn't!" he protested. "It's just my drink."

His father had sent a new batch to him just a day ago, a wooden case lined with flasks, a small blue army. Dutifully, each week, he drank one of them with his breakfast, masking the taste with bacon and pumpkin juice. His father said it pleased his mum that he still enjoyed it, and somehow he always knew when Greg had drained a flask down the toilet instead of drinking.

"Well, it's revolting," said Draco. "Put it away."

Goyle kicked the case closed and shoved it under his bed. He'd just as soon not be reminded of it himself, even if it did mean struggling through more charms so he could at least appear to understand during their lessons. Despite his unpleasantness, Greg was glad of the fact that Draco took the time to help him with his lessons.

Only once did he ever wonder if Draco had instructions from his father of his own.


The last time Greg saw his father was the day before the battle, when his father had called him home for an extravagant meal with the family. Greg hadn't known why at the time; now he wondered if his father had maybe known all along that it would end badly.

They buried him on the family land, and it was two months before Greg went to Malfoy Manor again, now under the control of Draco who'd dealt with the transfer of power with surprisingly little fuss.

They drank Ogden's single malt in comfortable chairs by the pond and talked of the times before the war had changed everything, when they'd run about these grounds with not a care in the world.

Draco would probably marry soon, and have a child of his own. Greg had long since discovered that no decent woman would have him, and took his pleasures where he could.

"Remember when you charmed an extra tail onto the cat?" said Draco, chortling as he deftly spun his wand round his fingers. "Father was furious. Mother thought it was an improvement."

"No," said Greg, frowning. "No, I don't remember that."

"Well, it was a long time ago," conceded Draco. "When we were young."

Greg just shrugged, and filled his glass with the special drink he'd been taking his whole life. He found, after all this time, he'd finally developed a taste for it.

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