Chapter Text
Blinding flashes of lightning flitted over the clouded night sky like curses on a battlefield. Thunder exploded in their wake, loud booming sounds against the backdrop of the continuing downpour, heavy raindrops hitting the ornamental glass windows of Malfoy Manor. Unperturbed by the onslaught of the elements, Draco Malfoy was swiftly making his way through the empty corridors of his ancestral seat. Thick bee wax candles were painting long, flickering shadows on the walls and filled the air with a calming scent, that felt distinctly out of place. A remnant of his mother's soothing touch, that had outlived her passing.
Once, long before the lingering touch of darkness had tainted the rooms and painful memories had begun to lurk behind every corner, Draco had been proud to call this place his home. Not that life at the Manor had been all rainbows and roses before the resurrection of the Dark Lord, but Lucius utter lack of fatherly skills and uh... hands-on approach to punishment had been somewhat bearable as long as his mother had been there to counteract it from time to time.
Generations upon generations of Malfoy's had walked this very halls and Draco knew of least three of his ancestors, who had dedicated their lives solely to the development and strengthening of the protective wards that surrounded the Manor as well as the surrounding grounds. Stories that had turned into legends and myths came to life when one took the time to converse with the portraits lining the walls and ancient magic thrummed through the air like the song of a battle drum. Promising strength and protection to those of Malfoy blood and woe and heartbreak to their enemies.
Unfortunately any sense of safety and comfort Draco might have previously derived from that knowledge, had been shattered on the day the Dark Lord had chosen his home as future residence. Lucius, faithful lapdog that he was, had allowed his master entrance and thereby single handedly destroyed any protection Draco and his mother might have been able to claim, turning them from powerful pureblood nobility into helpless hostages in their own home.
Whenever Draco visited the Manor, he couldn't help but ask himself if Lucius had even an inkling, how much his actions that day had destroyed. Did he realise how deeply the strength of their ancestral magic, magic that originated in the desire to protect the Malfoy family at any cost, was intertwined with the well being of the living family members? Was he able to feel how the former strength slowly withered away, as he allowed his wife, the reigning Lady of the Manor, to suffer insult and injury at her sisters hands? As he ordered his one and only heir to accept a brand of eternal servitude? Could Lucius feel how the magic flared up in helpless protest, when his only son's chest was torn apart, deadly venom cursing through his veins, as he, the self proclaimed pater familias, stood by and watched?
Century old magic reduced to a faint shadow of its former glory, its nearly faded hum buried deep beneath freezing layers of misery and pain. By far not the most egregious crime Lucius had committed at the Dark Lord's behest, but the loss of the inherent sense of belonging Draco had always associated with the Manor made his ongoing self imposed isolation all the harder to bear.
Draco exhaled a pained sigh at the thought of his friends, shortly before he turned around the last corner into the corridor that would lead him to the drawing room. Unsurprisingly for a former Slytherin ruler, he had never had a shortage of political affiliates during his school years. Crabbe and Goyle, whose parents had both been business associates of Lucius, were a prime example. Since financial incentives didn't provide the most fertile grounds for loyalty and true friendship, there were precious few, who Draco considered to be more than tentative allies and by this point in time the majority of them had fled the country.
Sure, he had felt sad when they had left. One by one, taking an illegal portkey to the US. But whatever sorrow the loss of his childhood friends had given him, paled in comparison to the overwhelming relief that filled his heart. This brave new world of the Dark Lord's creation was no place for young women like Pansy and the Greengrass sisters, where their only allowed perspective in live was the fate of a glorified broodmare. And whilst Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott were both still in Britain, Draco hadn't had a real conversation with either of them in almost two years.
The Greengrass sisters had been the first to go, since their father hadn't been prepared to sacrifice the happiness of his daughters in order to scurry favour with the new regime. Young pureblood brides of noble breeding were in exceedingly high demand, even before the war had decimated their already low numbers even further. In the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts the Dark Lord had declared motherhood the highest honour a pureblood witch could aspire to. Furthermore he had stressed the necessity of immediate marriages so that the witches in question could enter their husbands protection as fast as possible. A thinly veiled threat, especially for Slytherin standards, which was followed by a veritable marriage boom amongst the pureblooded elite.
'Pureblooded.' Draco sneered inwardly. 'Purity' is definitely the last word that comes to mind when you think about the consequences of the Dark Lord's little speech.
Children as young as fourteen got married to influential Death Eaters, twice or thrice their age, whilst most parents bit their tongue and accepted their offers, since the only available alternative was to face the Dark Lord's wrath. In sixteen year old Astoria's case Draco had overheard Rosier proclaim his interest in her, during a Death Eater meeting, which had immediately spurred him into action. At first informing Daphne of the 'happy' news regarding her sister and then offering to get both of them out of the country as fast as possible.
In contrast to her sister, Daphne had already received an offer from Blaise Zabini, however it was more an act of brotherly protection than a romantic proposal. Blaise and Theo went way back and Daphne had carried a torch for Pansy since third grade. In a society that insisted on the conservative interpretation of marriage as a means to produce children, neither of them could have ever hoped to be with the person they desired.
However, when the chance of escape had presented itself, Daphne had jumped at the opportunity, explaining to Blaise that both of them deserved better than a life long commitment borne out of convenience and a week later the whole Greengrass family had taken an illegal portkey to the USA, one of the few remaining possibilities to smuggle people out of Britain after the Dark Lord had shut down the borders. Interestingly Pansy had taken the news of their disappearance way harder than Blaise and she followed them only a year later to the States.
Her own marriage contract with Draco had protected her from the fate the Greengrass sisters would have faced, however neither him nor Pansy had been all too enthusiastic about going through with it. With the noteworthy exception of a single unfulfilling kiss after their disastrous Yule ball date, their relationship dynamic had never evolved beyond the boundaries of mutual friendship and support. They acted more along the lines of annoying little sister and overprotective brother rather than two teenagers with an impending betrothal contract, which resulted in way more fights than could be considered healthy for any marriage.
In addition, Pansy was wicked smart, resigning herself to a life as trophy wife and mother, didn't hold much of an appeal to her. Especially at the side of a husband, who had become less and less emotionally available as the years went on. Or at least that's what she had explained to Draco at the time, accompanied with a nagging monologue that it was quite pathetic to be hung up on the same witch even after four years and unacceptable not to disclose her identity to his best friend. Of course Draco hadn't told her. Instead he had distracted her with a quip about Blaise being his best mate, which had sent Pansy into a pouting fit of epic proportions. Thinking about her indignant shrieks never failed to bring a small smirk to his lips.
Organising a portkey had already gotten more difficult by the time Pansy had confessed her desire to leave Britain, which was why it had taken him almost a month to get hold of one. There were some tears on Pansy's part when they had said their good byes and maybe, not that he would ever admit as much, but his eyes might have prickled a teensy tiny bit with unshed tears. They would have made a rotten pair, but he loved her in his own way. Sometimes he liked to imagine the surprised look in her eyes, when she realised that the portkey hadn't delivered her to France as they had agreed to. Or the small smirk, when she found the crumpled piece of paper with Daphne's last known address. They had never discussed it per se, but Draco knew that Daphne's little crush wasn't as unrequited as Pansy had always made it out to be.
After Pansy had finally left the country there were only Blaise and Theo left, and if it had been Draco's decision, he would have sent both of them straight after the others. However, barely a month had passed since Pansy's departure, before the Dark Lord had managed to erect a new barrier around the UK, adding to the already installed anti apparition wards and capped floo network connections, which made every mode of unregistered international magical travel virtually impossible. Some desperate souls even tried their luck with muggle transportation, but not even those remained free from Death Eater influence.
From then on, things had only gotten more dire. One year post Hogwarts, the Order of the Phoenix, the last known bastion of resistance, had already lacked the numbers to pose any serious threat. Not only had they struggled to recruit any new members, whilst the Death Eaters had no scruple to enlist less than willing participants as a first line of attack. Basically curse fodder, pressed into the Dark Army by threats and coercion. But they also had difficulties to keep up morale amongst established members. Many had fled to France or the States immediately after the battle, either joining the local movements pressing MACUSA and the French ministry for action, or, in a majority of cases disappearing from the political map altogether. Britain had been abandoned as a lost cause.
The remaining few, hardly more than fifty witches and wizards, who had been either too brave or too stupid to save their own skin, had to spend their lives on the run. By now, three years post battle, Draco only knew of a handful survivors that had managed to survive the constant man hunts as well as made it through without getting sold out by one of their compatriots. Years of being hunted and the increasing hopelessness had turned trust into an exceedingly rare and occasionally dangerous commodity. One of the factors that made the already precarious balance act Draco was pulling off, more dangerous than it had to be.
Nevertheless he had, of course, considered to explain the situation to his friends. If not admitting everything to them, then at least giving them a few backhanded hints. Neither Blaise nor Theo would ever willingly betray his trust, that much he was sure of and maybe they would have reconsidered their foolhardy decision to stay in Britain. However, after many sleepless nights spent frustratedly pacing in the confines of his flat, in the end caution had won out, and over the course of the last two years Draco had slowly withdrawn from both of them, had tried to avoid them as much as possible. It hurt terribly, especially since both of them didn't take too kindly to his abrupt coldness, but in case Draco was discovered, both of them could at least claim plausible deniability.
Honest friendships, or really any form of meaningful relationships, had long turned into liabilities he simply couldn't afford. They were nothing more than weaknesses, waiting to be exploited as his godfather had never failed to remind him when he had still been alive. A valuable lesson in this shattered ghost of a world, where madness ruled almost uncontested and the fire of hope was reduced to a flickering spark in the darkness, threatening to die out at any given minute, its light buried beneath years of suffering, pain, loss and misery.
So what, if Draco sometimes felt like he might collapse under the heavy weight of solitude and self loathing? The semi voluntary estrangement from his former house mates and confidantes, seemed like a small prize to pay, considering it would guarantee their protection, when the filigree web of lies and deceit Draco had spun, inevitably began to unravel. He had enough deaths weighing on his conscience, adding his best mate and his oldest friend to that list was out of the question. Better to err on the side of caution and keep his distance, than endanger them by mere association.
It would be truly difficult to prove anything nefarious, when the three of them hadn't had a decent conversation in almost two years. His two friends probably assumed that Draco had thrown himself into the task of pleasing the Dark Lord. And despite the fact that the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, it was way better than taking both of them down with him when his background scheming finally got discovered. The fact that he was still alive, after five years of spying on the Dark Lord was rather miraculous.
Unmistakable whimpers of pain, muffled by the heavy black wood of an imposing door, alerted Draco to the fact that he had reached his destination, a realisation, which made him stiffen in uneasy anticipation. Somehow he had dared to hope, that Bellatrix wouldn't join them tonight. Flashes of the many tortures he had witnessed were whirling through his mind, while he quickly composed his expression into an unreadable mask.
Some things never get easier.
It only took Draco a moment until he felt ready to face the Dark Lord and his deranged aunt, the thundering waterfall that shielded his secrets from unwanted intruders, firmly in place and his face as cold and unforgiving as his hard earned reputation demanded. Rapping his knuckles on the door, the family insignias of his parent's houses reflecting the dim torchlight, he listened as the pitiful sounds ceased for a merciful moment of silence, while the cold hiss of the Dark Lord cut through the air like a sizzling curse.
"Enter!"
Without a seconds hesitation Draco pushed through the door, striding into the room with confident movements, before he lowered his head deeply in the deferential greeting the Dark Lord demanded from his followers. There was a certain routine to their interactions by now, especially during the more informal meetings such as this one, where they discussed the progression of the French invasion, with Bella listening in on occasion. Things were running smoothly on that front, so chances were high, that tonights meeting would be reasonably short.
Hopefully.
The picture that presented itself to Draco, upon entering the drawing room was devastatingly familiar. A broken heap of a person, lying on the cold marble floor, writhing in pain as curse after curse collided with the abused body. Voice reduced to hoarse wheezing due to hour long screaming. Blood was spilling on the ground, a pool of scarlet glistening in the eery green light, while the nauseating stench of steel and pain overpowered any other sensations.
It pained Draco to think that as a young child, before he had entered Hogwarts, he had bought into Lucius lies, who claimed that the blood of muggles and muggleborns was as muddy as the spiteful slur indicated. Regarding the matter in retrospect Lucius might have done him a favour, however involuntarily, by citing such an easily disproven claim as the basis for their supposed superiority over 'their kind'. Prejudice never fared well under scrutiny, not when the glaring contradiction stared you directly in the face, whenever a muggleborn got injured at Quidditch. As if Draco had needed any more proof that the notions of blood status were nothing more than a bad joke, after Granger had beat him in every class except potions for six years straight.
Granger.
The haunting vision of her wide whiskey coloured eyes, staring pleadingly at him, while his deranged aunt carved that thrice cursed word into her pale skin and Draco was forced to stand by helplessly like the pathetic coward the former Gryffindor Princess already believed him to be, invaded his mind. But it was soon chased away, as cackling laughter rang through the room, the shrill sound bouncing back from the ancient walls. Evidently his arrival wasn't enough reason for Bellatrix to stop her favourite pastime.
Just as well. I can wait.
Whilst Bella kept herself occupied by taunting her newest victim, the Dark Lord was leaning back on the elevated dragon bone throne, situated at the far end of the room. Gleaming eyes watching the whole display with silent satisfaction, seemingly feeding from each new wave of agony that crashed over the helpless victim. Witnessing their toxic dynamic could have been intriguing if their all encompassing madness hadn't threatened to tear the world apart in their never sated thirst for power. Foolish delusions of grandeur meeting the darkest recesses of a mind bereft of sanity and synergising into a dark maelstrom of destruction.
The Dark Lord and his devoted Lady. Ultimately united in their insanity.
Draco had to bite back the urge to cringe violently, as memories of their binding ceremony began to resurface. Even if it had been a purely political move, designed to quiet the quite accurate rumours perpetrated by the Order of the Phoenix, that the Dark Lord was nothing but a halfblood upstart using the platform of blood purity for his own nefarious interests, as well as quell the dissent against the ongoing repopulation effort. The mere idea that those two might actually consider to procreate with each other was a succinctly terrifying prospect.
Ugh. Thanks, but no thanks. Those two alone are terrifying... but their shared child? The stuff of nightmares...
Thankfully, they were already two and a half years into the marriage and pregnancy seemed to be the last thing on Bellatrix' mind. Instead she had taken Draco under her wings, claiming that as the last remaining descendant of the most ancient and noble House of Black it was his duty to uphold the family honour amongst the Death Eater. Under her tutelage the Malfoy heir had quickly climbed through the ranks, instantly earning a reputation as the legislative and rhetoric mastermind behind the Dark Lord's political success. Skilfully manipulating public perception through propaganda and well placed misinformation, thusly claiming a position of trust and influence amongst the inner circle. Nowadays there were few, who would be foolish enough to defy him, lest they risk the combined ire of Draco and his aunt and to a lesser extent even the Dark Lord.
Practically the Death Eater equivalent to royalty, Lucius should be so proud of me.
A sardonic smirk lurked around the corners of Draco's lips, before green light flashed and sobering silence descended over the group. Another life lost. Anger and helpless hatred began to boil beneath his calm facade, magnified by Draco's accumulated self loathing for his own continued complicity in the atrocious acts committed right in front of him. Allowing some of his distaste to show on his face, the young wizard stepped closer towards his relative, while she instructed Effie, one of the oldest Malfoy house elves, to take care of the corpse.
It was an open secret amongst the Dark Lord's inner circle that Draco, in what was perceived as a demonstration of true aristocratic arrogance, considered torture beneath wizards of their standing. Natural talent and proficiency in most of the legilimentic disciplines, the familial Malfoy magic was well suited for the more subtle branches of magic, evident in their long line of powerful potion masters and mind manipulators, made the infliction of pain as a means of obtaining information obsolete.
"You have requested my presence, my Lord?"
Snake like features arranged themselves in a nasty grimace, a frightening caricature of the indulgent smile they were probably supposed to portray. If nothing else, his inability to mirror basic human expressions, served as a powerful reminder just how little there was left of the young Hogwarts student by the name of Tom Marvolo Riddle. Who had been, by all certifiable accounts, charming and smooth talking, nothing like the shell of a person currently throning above them.
"Ah yes, Draco my son! Come closer. It's been entirely too long since our last meeting."
Sweet Salazar, have mercy on us all!
There were barely a handful of occasions in Draco's life, where he had felt true gratefulness for Lucius' rather uh... conservative approach regarding his upbringing. Who had regarded any unwarranted slip of emotions as unbecoming of a pureblood heir and therefore a punishable offence. However, hearing the words 'Draco' and 'my son' carelessly strung together in a sentence by none other than the Dark Lord himself, was definitely one of those incredibly rare moments. Even with at least a decade's worth of practice in concealing his true feelings, physically as well as mentally, Draco had considerable difficulties not to act upon his instant revulsion at the rather intimate address.
Better not to imagine the disastrous fall out such a slight would have provoked.
Covering his traitorous thoughts with another deep bow, Draco decided to go for a slightly less life threatening reaction. Instinctual self preservation, the daily bread and butter of any self respecting Slytherin. Lies spilling smoothly from his lips, he elaborated, all the while gagging inside, like always when he was forced to converse politely with the man, who hadn't hesitated to order the death of Draco's mother.
"You honour me, my Lord. Please accept my apologies if I have given the impression of being neglectful in my duties. The initial negotiations with the French Government proved to be more difficult and time consuming than I had previously anticipated."
Graciously acknowledging Draco's apology with a small incline of his head, the Dark Lord spoke, his formerly sharp voice smoothed out to a silky hiss. "Nevertheless, your advisors have informed me that you are doing admirably well in your efforts. As usual you astound me with your competence."
With an air of nonchalance, skirting the edges of haughtiness Draco replied, while raising one of his pale eyebrows. "High praise indeed. Not that Rabastan and Antonin are the most reliable of sources. They have both skipped almost half our meetings in favour of the lavish establishments Paris has to offer." Incompetent fools. "Nonetheless they are not wrong in their assumptions. The negotiations are actually progressing quite nicely, if I dare say so myself. Today I got the information that we can expect the official declaration of surrender within the next two weeks at most."
Not that I mind that the two of them are stupid enough to leave all the hard work to me. Otherwise it might have taken a real effort to organise and hide my secret meetings with my contact within the French resistance. Besides, if they had so much as an inkling of intelligence they would have realised that I wouldn't hesitate to throw them to the wolves. Discrediting them, can only work in my favour.
Visibly exasperated, the Dark Lord drawled, burning red eyes narrowing dangerously at the implication that some of his followers were slacking in their duties. Even first hour Death Eaters, like Dolohov and Lestrange, had no excuse for neither laziness nor ineptitude, especially not at the expense of high profile negotiations. "I was afraid something like this was going to happen. Obviously, your youth has given them the misleading impression, that they can take liberties without fearing the same repercussions as they would with any other commander of my forces. Do you want to be the one who relieves them from their misconceptions? Disrespect of that kind is better stifled in the bud, before it has the chance to grow into something more dangerous."
"It will be my pleasure my Lord."
A malicious smirk spread on Draco's face. Allowing his mind a sweet moment of indulgence, where he imagined all the nasty curses he could throw at the two dark wizards. Antonin Dolohov and Rabastan Leastrange, had quite the reputation for brutally manhandling their female prisoners. Teaching them a lesson had the potential of being rather enjoyable, at least as far as assignments by the Dark Lord went.
Pity, I can't go through with it.
As gratifying as the prospect of hurting those disgusting trolls was, it would accomplish little in the great scheme of things, since killing them was rather regrettably out of the question. Claiming some of their prisoners for himself, however, was definitely within the realms of possibility. Two each sounded like a more than reasonable prize and if he played his cards right Lestrange and Dolohov would still perceive it as a mercy on Draco's part. He already had some names in mind, not too high on the hit list that their change in ownership might cause suspicion, but all of them had family waiting for them in France.
Rhea Scamander, Dean Thomas, Morag MacDougal and Kiran Parkinson.
Evidently satisfied with Draco's enthusiastic response, the Dark Lord pressed on. "Very well. Now onto more important matters. It has come to my attention that there have been some rumours going around. Apparently you, Draco, have acquired quite a title of your own, amongst my younger followers. You wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"
Suddenly Draco felt as if the solid stone floor beneath him had unexpectedly vanished, replaced by a thin layer of ice, the only separation between himself and an infinite abyss of darkness, ready to cave in at any given moment. He had never stopped to keep careful tabs on the inner workings of the rumour mill. Of course he had heard about his honorary title amongst the newest generation of Death Eaters, who evidently regarded him as somewhat of a role model, interpreting his rapid rise through the ranks as an indicator that the days of the inner circle as centre of power were already numbered.
Deluded fools, the lot of them.
However, his severe misgivings about their misplaced hero worship aside, Draco had hoped, evidently against all probability, that those whispers would never reach the Dark Lord's ear. There was no way to predict the mad man's reaction to the almost reverend moniker his younger followers had given Draco and this specific term was certainly pretentious enough that it could be perceived as undermining his authority.
Concealing his growing uneasiness beneath a mask of aloof disinterest, Draco furrowed his brows, as if it took him some time to remember. "I have heard some rumours, my Lord, but must admit that I didn't consider them worthy of my attention. Pretty words are usually nothing more than fleeting flights of fancy, quickly spoken and even faster forgotten."
High pitched, almost hysterical laughter snapped Draco's attention towards his aunt. Tauntingly she mocked. "Oh darling nephew, always so eloquent. Mummy dearest would be proud of you."
Bella's callous words cut into Draco's skin, making his fingers itch for his wand. It didn't surprise him really. For all her faults, a lack of sanity chief amongst them, Bellatrix had an uncanny ability to hit people where it hurt the most. To push their buttons until they broke under her attentive gaze, reading their reactions like an open book. Not that Draco planned on giving her the satisfaction of caving. As much as her mockery stung, he wouldn't risk everything he had achieved over the last three years, in a hasty bid to protect his mother's honour.
Forgive me, Maman.
Raising one of his eyebrows delicately at her, Draco removed every hint of sharpness out of his voice. Instead he took great pains to sound lazy, almost bored, coating his words in saccharine sweetness. "Bella, how charming of you to join our conversation! Let me assure you, dearest aunt, that the opinion of my mother has ceased to matter to me, the very day she dared to betray myself, our cause and our Lord to that weakly Potter boy. Reliving the world from her presence was the last valuable service my worthless excuse of a father has delivered to the cause and that was more than three years ago."
As expected, his aunt was sputtering in indignation, obviously dissatisfied at his lack of reaction to her taunts, whilst the red eyes of the Dark Lord darted between them with an amused glint. "Sharp tongued as ever, I see. Judging by your reaction, I take it you are not overly fond of your title?"
Draco scoffed derisively. "Any title, no matter how aspiring it sounds, is only as worthy as the powers that assign it. How could I ever carry one, my Lord, that doesn't reflect your wishes? What do I care about the buoyant fantasies of some deluded minds, when any honours I could wish for, come from you and you alone, my Lord."
Hopefully that's subservient enough to placate him.
Reptilian eyes fixed Draco with an intent expression, that made him squirm on the inside. However, outwardly he continued to project a calm and collected front. The Dark Lord and Bellatrix were both as ruthless as any predator, ready to strike at the slightest sign of weakness. Showing them that the topic unsettled him, would make this conversation far more dangerous than it had to be.
"So you merely doubt the legitimacy of the claim? I must admit I have a certain appreciation for the implied dramatics. The Black Prince... to my Dark Lord... Last descendant of two of the most powerful lines of Wizarding nobility. Young and magically gifted, with a mind for strategy and political finesse that most of my followers lack. I have come to value your counsel and you personify all the fine qualities of cunning and ambition my most noble ancestor demanded in his pupils and that I myself appreciate above most others."
As the speech went on, the Dark Lord's voice had turned from cold calculation to something akin to fondness, the same silky cadence he usually reserved for his terrifying pet snake or even Bellatrix. Prompting goose pumps to bloom on Draco's skin, while he struggled to swallow down the acidic bile, which was threatening to rise up.
Hearing a genocidal megalomaniac sing his praises, was an undeniably uncomfortable experience and Draco just hoped that there was a point to this whole exercise. Otherwise this ongoing word vomit could only suggest that the Dark Lord had taken a genuine liking to him, which held implications Draco simply didn't feel ready to contemplate.
Please, just get to the bloody point, already!
Almost on cue the Dark Lord chuckled and asked slyly, his darkly smooth voice slicing through the tense air. "A great king needs a powerful prince don't you think? Not exactly a successor, but a favoured follower. Privy to my plans and visions, free to share his thoughts without fearing retribution. Elevated amongst his peers, second only to myself and your aunt."
For a short moment Draco thought he might faint on the spot, the cursed words droning in his head. Even if the Dark Lord hadn't said it outright, his intentions couldn't have been clearer. Hysterical laughter threatened to burst forward, as Draco's mind struggled with the realisation that the Dark Lord actually wanted him as his second in command. The Black Prince. Poster boy for the new generation of Death Eaters.
Merlin, help me. That's just what I need. More time to spend with the crazy lunatic.
However, when said crazy lunatic offers you power on a silver platter, you'd damn well better display some gratitude. Therefore Draco was fast to lower his head in deference. Filling the lake surface that covered the most outward layer of his consciousness with feelings of awe and respect, whilst keeping his initial terror well protected. A necessary precaution, just in case the Dark Lord tried catch glimpses of his thoughts. "As you know, I am yours to command, my Lord. If that are your wishes I will do my very best not to disappoint you."
From the corner of his eye, Draco saw his aunt beaming at him with the same overflowing satisfaction which was evident on the Dark Lord's snake like features. "I didn't expect any different. Of course, there will be some changes. After the negotiations with France have come to a close, you shall return to my side permanently in order to complete your training."
His words sent a wave of anxiety through Draco's body, bringing memories of hour long trainings sessions with his aunt, that often ended in pain and blood: scrapes, cuts and even broken bones that he hadn't been allowed to heal just to prolong his suffering until the next lecture.
'Pain is the best teacher, nephew! Especially for pampered little princes like you.'
Draco had had to endure two years of brutal training until Bella had finally declared him a worthy descendant of the legendary Black duellers and formally accepted Draco's claim as her Head of House. Surrendering the family ring, that currently glistened on Draco's fingers, in an unusual acknowledgement of tradition. By then he had lost track, how many times Bellatrix had broken him into pieces in her quest to mould him into a truly lethal weapon: Combining the intense power and fierceness of his Black ancestry with the deadly accuracy and speed the Malfoy family had favoured for centuries.
He had always been a fast learner in school, second only to Granger and as loath as he was to admit it, the constant threat of agony certainly added a powerful incentive. Silent spell casting, once a seemingly indomitable obstacle, had become second nature and his wand, a willow unicorn combination, was undeniably useful but no longer a necessity. No. There was no way he could deny the ruthless effectiveness of his aunt's methods. Nonetheless, Draco could have gone without being offered a repeat of the experience with the Dark Lord taking his aunt's place as his instructor.
Despite his apprehension, he nodded curtly. "I will return at once my Lord. Now that the leadership of France has accepted the general outline of our terms, the remaining negotiations aren't much more than form..."
A loud pang interrupted Draco mid sentence, as the heavy door flew open, revealing the gaunt silhouette of Lucius Malfoy, ill fitting robes hanging loosely on his frame, hair unkempt and face shining with crazed fanaticism. Nothing like the imposing figure Draco remembered from his youth, who had been able to commandeer a room by sheer charisma and insisted on exerting absolute control over pretty much every aspect of his life, even his own family. Nevertheless, he couldn't help the heavy sense of foreboding as Lucius swept into the room, levitating a lifeless body after him, his face concealed by a dark piece of fabric.
How overly dramatic.
Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Draco opened his mouth, ready to fire off a scathing remark. However, before he could find his voice, he caught sight of a third newcomer and the words slowly died in his throat. Theodore Nott. Wavy brown hair ruffled, expression haunted, dark circles telling a story of sleepless nights. Looking as pale as a sheet he hesitantly trailed after Lucius and the mysterious captive, his light green eyes darting fearfully through the room.
Merlin and Morgana, this isn't going to end well!