Chapter Text
They were all downstairs, discussing something. Probably something about him.
Gods, he hated that. He truly found it vile when people talked about his fate.
After watching how pathetic his father had become for a man without a nose, Draco decided he didn’t want that life for himself. No. He wanted to control his future.
And no, he was about to become a goody-goody like Potter and his brain-dead friends, either. Salazar. They formed that little group called Dumbledore’s Army.
“Disgusting,” Draco muttered under his breath as he flipped through the ancient tome.
During his sleepless nights, he’d sneak out of his room in the manor and use the hidden passageways to get to the library without detection. It was the only way for him to lull his mind without the use of potions or alcohol. The fucking cretin living in his house abhorred vices as it dulled their killing curse skills.
“Fucking noseless loser!” he hissed as he flipped even more furiously through the pages.
He especially needed it tonight after what he witnessed. Her screams echoed through his mind if he allowed it through the thick walls of his Occlumency. Her painfully writhing body as Aunt Bella’s perfected curse contracting every muscle played over and over behind his closed eyes.
Tonight, he needed something to blank out his mind. He walked through the stacks, fingers touching all the spines. A book drew blood from him. It wasn’t unheard of for the Malfoy Library to have that sort of tome. But it still irritated him all the same. So, he tore it from its home on the shelf, fully intending to Incendio it. But the title caught his eye, saving it from a fiery end.
Demonica Completica
Upon opening it, fire and brimstone wafted out of the singed pages. Maybe burning it wouldn’t have made a difference to it. His fingers swiftly flipped through the pages, finding dark ritual after dark ritual. Until…
A knock at his door drew Draco from his thoughts. He blinked and realized that it was morning. He had been up all night reading the instructions in the Demonica Completica. After a moment, he stowed the book away.
“Come in,” Draco said.
“Darling,” Narcissa hummed quietly as she entered with a tray of breakfast.
“Am I to have my meal up here?”
A grim curl to his mother’s lips had said all he needed to know.
“He’s not pleased with father,” he finally surmised.
“It’s best that you stay up here,” she said sadly. After a moment, she gave in to her motherly instincts and pulled Draco into her arms. A small sob fell out of her mouth. “My boy. My precious child.”
He felt a twist in his heart for his mother. He loved her dearly, and her love for him had been keeping him afloat since this horrible ordeal had started.
A realization stilled him. Even his father, a long-time follower of the Dark Lord, was being punished for a grave mistake. No one was safe. Even his own home. He was going to die.
Draco swallowed. He couldn’t die. Not yet. He had hopes and dreams before all this. He wanted to fly his broom again. He wanted to feel the wind rip through his hair. He wanted to live.
As if the book knew this, it burned in his pocket. It almost felt like a comfort.
“Alright, Mother. I’ll eat,” he said assuredly, hiding his true motivations.
Narcissa’s emotions were neatly tucked away. She smiled before turning towards the door. As soon as the heavy wood snicked shut, Draco warded his door, silencing it. He pulled out the book and reread the instructions.
The ritual didn’t need to be in a time frame. All he needed to do was draw a pentagram in a circle with salt on the floor. At the center would be a personal offering. Once everything was in place, he’d speak the summoning incantation.
Draco flicked his wand to clear the furniture and roll up his rug. From the tip of his wand, salt fell as he walked around, forming the necessary shapes. He finished and looked around his room for something. The only thing he could think of was the breakfast tray his mother brought up. It felt personal and good. Something a demon would like.
He hovered the tray to the center of the pentagram. Once there, he flipped to the page. With a clear voice, Draco said:
“Audi me
Te voco
Audi me
Daemon, te voco animo paciscendi
Accipe oblationem meam ut invitationem.”
A chill sent shivers up and down his spine. Though it was morning just a minute ago, the candles and windows went black. Darkness surrounded him and his senses. He could barely see a foot all around him.
“Fuck,” he seethed, hating the feeling of losing control.
“Hello,” an inhuman voice breathed against his ear.
Draco screamed bloody murder. He whipped his arms around, attempting to hit whatever spoke. There was no way for that to have come from a person.
“Who’s there?!” Draco yelled into the abyss. He struggled to hold his wand upright. Gone were his years of defense knowledge. Not even the stringent lessons from Bellatrix stayed in his mind. The only thing he knew was pure fear.
After another complete circle, the blackness continued to cling to his vision until it finally tunneled. At the very end of the path stood a hunched-over being. From this perspective, Draco couldn’t tell how close or far they were. Then it looked up at him.
Fear gripped him.
It had everything else but eyes. In the recesses of his mind, Draco knew that thing could see.
Gasping for air, the young Malfoy heir fell to the ground, realizing that the being was him. A grotesque, distorted version of him.
The demented Draco lurched its body towards him. From the other end of the room, it began its stalk towards him. But it didn’t matter. He closed his eyes, accepting his fate.
“My compliments to the chef,” a kind voice floated towards him. “I don’t suppose you made it?”
Draco sucked in a breath before he opened his eyes. No darkness. No malformed Malfoy in sight. He was in his bedroom. The furniture was still soldiered along the wall. His grey eyes landed on an older man at the center of the pentagram. The breakfast tray floated in front of him as he ate.
“Are you—” Draco felt his mouth move. A jumble of words, thoughts, and feelings fought to emerge.
The man smiled at the young wizard. He seemed kind. Maybe Draco got the ritual wrong. How could this man be a demon? He looked harmless.
“Draco,” the man said. “I’m the devil.”
A pause sucked the air right from him. How did he know his name? Also, wasn’t the devil at the top of the pecking order? Didn’t he intend to just summon a demon instead? Why was the devil, the one that all the Muggles seem to fear, here in his bedroom right now?
The man chuckled. “I see you don’t believe me.”
“Well, I thought I only summoned a lowly demon to help me…” he trailed off, a bit embarrassed to admit he, Draco Lucius Malfoy, needed help.
“Ah, yes. I thought Malfoys got the best of the best?” the man joked. He took another bite of toast with marmalade. “Superb.”
“Yes, we prefer it,” Draco replied snottily.
“Then that answers your question. I’m here because no other demons under me would be good enough to handle a request from you.”
“Alright.”
“And what is your request?” The man licked his fingers upon finishing his breakfast.
Draco thought for a moment. He hadn’t fully put together his request. He thought that asking to survive this war from a demon would just be enough. But now that the devil was in his midst, he needed to adjust his expectations.
“I’d like to survive this war. No matter what happens, everything just works out for me. I’d like to be free and, erm, famous. Maybe a Quidditch player, but unlike Potter, I’d win by my merit, not by luck,” he rushed out.
The man smiled with a genuine twinkle in his eyes. “Done.”
The young Slytherin was baffled by how easy it was to get what he wanted. He blinked, regretting that he didn’t ask for more, as the devil didn’t seem to want to offer more.
The devil placed his hand over his heart. “Draco Lucius Malfoy, I, Lucifer Lightbringer, Lord of Hell, grant your wish.”
Draco stood there absorbing the moment. He couldn’t believe that it was that simple. A small voice in the back of his mind told him it shouldn’t be.
With a wink, Lucifer disappeared, leaving behind the salt pentagram and breakfast tray. When he cleared away the evidence of the ritual, it seemed that a pentagram was burnt into the flooring. He quickly unraveled the rug to cover it.
That night, for the first time in a long time, Draco slept soundly and without anything to aid him. He was glad for it because he needed all his strength for the Battle at Hogwarts.
“You are a sniveling fool, Lucius!” the Dark Lord hissed, his grip tightening around his father’s neck.
Draco watched in horror as his father sputtered and grappled to stay alive. His mother shook and cried beside him. This was hell, watching his father die at the hands of their master. A snap and the flicker of life from Lucius went out.
Narcissa screamed at the sight of his father falling to the ground like a bag of potatoes. It pained him to do so, but Draco held her back, not wanting to lose yet another parent. Between their hands was a handkerchief that his father had given to his mother.
“Voldemort!” Potter’s voice called from the other side of the field.
With the attention now on the boy who lived twice, Draco and Narcissa ran to Lucius’s lifeless body, not caring what was happening around them.
“Oh, Lucius! Lucius, please,” his mother pleaded to no avail. His hands were already cold. Gone. Dead.
Furious tears streamed down Draco’s face. This was not part of his plan for the future. What the fuck?! He was to get through this war with both of his parents! How could—
The devil.
In a fluid motion, Draco stood to his full height.
“Draco?”
“Get Father’s body out of the fray and hide. I’ll be back for you,” he said without a second glance. He walked through the trees of the Forbidden Forest. It felt like an age since he’d been there. Memories of a cowardly first year during detention flooded his mind. But he shoved it away, needing it clear to perform the ritual once more.
Draco found a clearing. With the salt pentagram and his father’s handkerchief at the center, he read off from memory an incantation.
It didn’t take long.
“Oh, hello, Draco.”
Just like before, the devil seemed kind, even jovial, to see him. His father’s handkerchief flapped in his hand.
“Bring back my father,” he demanded coldly.
The smile didn’t leave the man’s face. “No.”
His breathing became labored. “Why not? I summoned you, and now I’m asking you to do something for me.” Draco pulled at his collar, feeling dizzy. His legs gave out then, and he fell to his hands and knees, gasping for air.
The devil stood beside him. “Let me rephrase. No. I only gave you the one freebie. Now, I want something in return.”
He blinked through his tears up at the devil. For a split second, he saw what all the muggles were afraid of. In that moment, he saw Satan, the lord of the underworld, the fallen angel, the Devil. Draco pushed back in fear, blinked, and he was normal.
“Anything,” he breathed.
“I need a champion of sorts.”
Draco furrowed his brows in confusion.
“A champion?”
“Well, yes. You see, after all this stuff,” his hand flippantly waved towards the ongoing battle at Hogwarts, “is said and done, there will be a lot of sinners on the loose. Say what you will about me, but I’m a very impatient immortal.”
Loud roars, screams, and the telltale sizzle of curses were heard beyond the trees. Draco ripped his gaze from the Devil towards the castle.
“Trust me, Draco,” Lucifer said, a little too close to his ear. “I’ll be a far more reasonable master than Voldemort ever was.”
He swallowed thickly. “As long as both my parents survive this.”
“It’ll be a happily ever after for Narcissa and Lucius.”
“And–and I only go after Death Eaters, except my father and myself. Once all of them are in hell, I’m done.”
The devil looked at him with a twinkle in his eye. Something close to how Dumbledore would look at his pawns.
“You said you’d be reasonable!” Draco barked desperately.
“Of course, my boy. I don’t want to fully corrupt you. I’ve been creating too many monsters in this world.”
Draco flinched at the word monsters but regained his composure. “What do I have to do?”
The Devil smiled at him serenely. Knowing his true nature, the emotion scared Draco. He released Lucius's handkerchief. The young wizard watched it flutter deeper into the depths of the Forbidden Forest. “Kneel before me.” He moved back to the center of the pentagram.
After a brief moment of hesitation, Draco did as he was told. The man placed his hand on his head. “Draco Lucius Malfoy, Unholy Spirit of Retribution, rise.”
As soon as he removed his hand, a green flame shot up from beneath him. Agonized screams filled his ears. It wasn’t until he realized that he was the one screaming. The fire engulfed his entire being. He breathed it in. He was becoming one with it.
Then he blacked out.
The after was a blur. He knew he was on trial, but they acquitted him of his crimes. The most bizarre thing of all was that he didn’t have a Dark Mark any longer. It was gone. His father’s, along with a few other Death Eaters, were still visible, if not faded.
Narcissa was the one who saved the family by lying to Voldemort about Potter’s death. Because of her bravery, Lucius only served house arrest.
They didn’t talk about how Lucius was dead for thirty minutes and miraculously began breathing in his wife’s arms.
Life moved on. Five years to be exact.
“Here he comes! The star Seeker of the Wimborne Wasps!” the announcer’s voice roared through the stadium.
But Draco couldn’t care less. He was on the job, trying to find the blasted snitch through a bloody storm. The match had dragged late into the night as a rainstorm came in. Droplets pelted him in the face as he ripped through the air.
Suddenly, in the distance, lightning struck, lighting up the dark sky. Draco saw a large shadow of a man in the sky. He wiped his goggles and blinked several times. Lightning struck again, and he saw a golden flash. The snitch.
His broom cut through the rain so fast that the water seemed to have suspended midair. Only a few meters away, now, he stretched for it. With his eyes singularly on the snitch, he didn’t see the flock of fwoopers until it was too late. WHY THE FUCK WERE THEY FLYING IN THE MIDDLE OF A STORM?!
“Fuck!” Draco yelled as he lost grip of his speeding broom. He felt rather than saw his mode of transportation slice through the rain, continuing its trajectory forward into the abyss of night.
“Malfoy has traded his broom for the snitch!” the announcer boomed.
Well, at least he got the snitch. His eyes went from the fluttering thing in his hand to the quickly approaching ground below him. By his calculations, Draco was a good two hundred meters above ground. He had about ten seconds, give or take, before his body smashed into the mud for all to see.
Because of the heavy rain getting in the way, no spells would save him. Nor could emergency officials get to him in time.
All he could do was embrace the pain and subsequent soreness he was about to endure. On the way down, he looked to the stands. Lightning struck once more, lighting the horrified faces. Though one face didn’t particularly look too put out. In fact, he had that blasted serene smile on his face.
Draco sighed. He was hoping to take a hot soak in his bath. Maybe get some Chinese takeaway. He had to work to—
SPLAT!
His face pressed into the mud. His arms and legs splayed for all to see.
“Malfoy!” a voice cut through the pitter-patter of the rain. “Are you alive?”
His eyes slid to the blurred face of Padma Patil, the team’s Healer. He worked his jaw. “Yes, Healer. Much to my enemies’ chagrin.” In a quieter tone, he said, “And mine for that matter.”
“Alright, I’m going to levitate you onto the stretcher.”
Feeling returned to his body. Draco pushed himself up to his feet. He ripped his goggles off his face. The packed stadium was silent as they witnessed a miracle. He raised the snitch in the air, causing the place to erupt in cheers.
“No need, Patil! All I need is to sleep it off,” he said smugly.
Draco walked towards the lockers, leaving a stunned Healer. She had witnessed many of his death-defying stunts in the past five years. But each time, she was left baffled.
The medical community chalked it up to a strange but rare side effect of extreme exposure to the Crucio. They claimed that Draco’s muscles were thicker than normal (something that seemed to be talked about a lot in Witch Weekly, particularly about his thighs and arse), which protected his bones from shattering.
Of course, that was all bollocks.
“You know, I haven’t had this much fun since the gladiator games in ancient Rome!”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” Draco bit out as he stretched his neck.
Because of his star status and being uber-rich, he got the luxury of having a private locker room and shower. It also helped when he was tasked to do something for his other boss.
“You’ve singlehandedly brought glory back to the Wimborne Wasps. They had a losing streak, a century-long.” The Devil gave an impressed whistle as he examined the magazine covers, awards, and photo ops lining his walls.
“As much as I love flattery, I’d like to get this over with. I have a date with my jets in my state-of-the-art tub. If I’m feeling really cheeky, a spice bag with curry sauce while soaking in said tub.”
Satan chuckled before seriously setting his face. “The stalker is back in town.”
Draco straightened to his full height. The last time he attempted to take down Greyback, the beast had managed to shake him off and run away. Granted, he had attempted to take him during a full moon. And five years ago, when he had started this double life.
“Lavender Brown should be leaving her boyfriend’s flat to return home soon,” the devil said nonchalantly. “Best to strike now.”
With that, the prince of darkness left through the door.
Alone now, Draco took stock of his body. He was a bit sore from the fall, but he would be alright. It would be nothing when he finally dragged that cretin to hell where he belonged.
Still dressed in his Quidditch leathers, he stood with his fists out. He summoned the hellfires that had anointed him all those years ago. It engulfed him, singing off his human flesh, leaving behind the Unholy Spirit of Retribution.
He caught himself in the mirror, but staring back at him was the demon. Though his body was still broad, tall, and built like a handsome aeroplane, his head was of a dragon skull with long horns and green flames eternally burning around it. It struck fear in his victims. Something that he enjoyed all too much.
With a grotesque, jagged-toothed smile, he sank through the floor. Another benefit of this form was that he could move through shadows, way better than Apparating everywhere.
It was no secret who Lavender Brown was dating. Ever since the breakup of the Golden couple, the two had made the cover of the Prophet whenever it was a slow news cycle. The papers had snidely called them the Pyrite Couple. Offensive and entirely hilarious to Draco.
“Are you sure, Lav? I could just put on some clothes and walk you,” the Weasel King yawned into his hand.
Draco pushed his skeletal head up from the shadows enough to see Brown wrapped around Weasley’s bare, pasty waist.
“No, no, Won-Won. You have an early morning. If you walk me home, I’ll have to bring you upstairs,” Brown said, kissing him on the jaw.
The intimate scene threatened to turn Draco’s stomach. He tore his eyes from the snogging couple to find something amiss. Rapid movement around a disillusioned form caused flickering. Greyback was not trying hard to hide himself. If Draco stared hard enough, he could see him fisting his ham. What the fuck?!
Now he was going to hurl.
Brown finally extricated herself from Weaselbee. She waved before heading down the quiet street, completely oblivious to her stalker. Well, her stalker and now his stalker.
Greyback was careful (even though he was yanking it in the middle of the street). He made sure to skirt around anything that would make a noise. His steps were silenced. But there was one glaring mistake, the fucking stench lingering on the werewolf. Unfortunately for Draco, his being in a literal shadow didn’t help. Even the daft Brown could smell him a few meters away. She looked hurried from side to side, wondering out loud if a rodent had died near the steps of her flat.
She unlocked the door and pushed her way in. The windows of her lower-level abode lit up.
Draco peeked up from the shadows, making sure to be obstructed from view. He saw the flickering of Greyback step closer towards the flat. The demon readied himself to stop the werewolf if he decided to break in. But for the first time in Greyback’s life, he made the right decision. He turned away.
Greyback took the long way back to an alley with a single light. Once there, he dropped his charm, casting his long shadow along the walls. Draco silently gagged as he latched onto his shadow. Unknowingly, the beast Apparated with a hitchhiker.
They landed outside of a marsh. The storm clouds from earlier had parted ways to allow the waning moon to pass through.
Now was as good as any to capture him, and he needed to get away from the stench. Draco rose from his shadow. His presence was known even before Greyback turned around.
“It was only a matter of time,” the aged beast grumbled.
The leather of his kit ominously squeaked as he pointed. “Fenrir Greyback, you’ve been judged for your crimes on earth. I’m going to drag you to hell this night.”
Draco knew he wouldn’t go down without a fight, but still, it would’ve been nice. Greyback bore his jagged teeth and roared. His wand extended, even though he knew that the demon before him was impervious to magic, including any and all Unforgivable Curses. Another side effect of being an unpaid employee of the Devil.
“Avada Kedava!” he hissed before making a break for his house.
The green spell erupted with such force that it knocked his arm back. The killing curse careened towards Draco. Just as it was about to hit his body, he summoned the green hellfire, engulfing his whole body and the curse. He stretched his arms on either side of him. The flames encircled the janky home, blocking anything from coming in or out.
Demon magic was powerful. Addictive. It was truly a blessing that Voldemort never found the Demonica Completica.
“You can’t hide!” Draco barked as he marched towards the flapping front door. As soon as he pushed his way in, furniture started launching at him. His fists smashed through, causing the wood to splinter.
Greyback roared at him. Draco did the same with just as much vicious force. The sound reverberated through the beast, striking fear into his heart. He fell back and scrambled into an overturned table.
Draco saw the exact moment when Greyback realized the end. His eyes were wide and pleading. His hand shook as they gripped together.
“Pl-please!” he begged, spit flying out of his mouth.
“Fenrir Greyback. You stand accused. Your punishment is eternity in hell!” He gripped his fist. The green flames of hell swallowed the werewolf where he sat. The screams became increasingly inhuman. Draco watched as the wizard reduced down to muscles and sinew, then to bone, and then finally to dust. The flames of hell extinguished, leaving the mark of the Unholy Spirit of Retribution: a dragon face in the middle of a pentagram.
Draco stepped closer to inspect his handiwork but halted when he heard voices from outside. He sank into the shadows once more.
“Blimey! I could’ve sworn I saw green flames. I thought the place had been set on Fiendfyre!”
Fantastic. Weasel king twice in one day. Draco should buy one of those Lottos. Not that he needed the money.
The door creaked open. With wands drawn, Potter and Weasley stepped in cautiously. All they found was the splintered furniture and the…
“What the fuck is that?” Scarhead blathered upon seeing the mark singed into the ground.
Fuck. Usually, Draco would be able to hide the markings so as not to draw attention. But since the Wonder Twins have already witnessed it, there was no going about it. But it's not like they'd understand what a pentagram means. As far as Draco knew, neither seemed privy to religious iconography.
Weasley did a flick of his wand. “Homenum Revelio!” A projection erupted from his wand, revealing only two humans in the shack. (Well, two humans and a demon lurking in the shadows, but the magic didn’t recognize that)
“Nothing. What do you reckon happened?” the redheaded wizard yawned into his hand.
“I don’t know. But this gives me the creeps. Reminds me of a movie Dudley forced me to watch once,” Potter squinted at the markings. A thought struck him. “Hermione should be back. She’d know about this.”
Granger? Interesting. Last he heard of the Golden Girl was that she had been making a name for herself in Italy. At least that’s what he got from the few and far between letters he received from Blaise. A name in what? He didn’t know. The Italian wizard seemed to keep a tight lip on what his post-Hogwarts life was like.
Whatever. It’s not like Draco cared. He should head back so he could soak and get some takeaway.