Oblivion
Chapter 1:
I'm not going to puke. I'm not going to puke. I am not going to puke. I am a fucking Malfoy. We are strong. We are elite. We are royalty. We absolutely do not fucking puke from fear or whatever the hell this is. Or cry. What the fuck? I am definitely not going to bloody cry. Or puke. I will stop hyperventilating now. Now!
Draco Malfoy sat on the edge of his king size four poster bed in his elaborate quarters at Malfoy Manor breathing raggedly. One minute he was just sitting, staring blankly at the silver and green striped wall. He didn't even know now what he'd been thinking about, couldn't find one solid thought that had set it off. The next moment he was clawing his chest with shaking hands while fighting for the air that his searching lungs just couldn't seem to find. Of course, that's how it usually happened these days. Randomly. It wasn't quite so spontaneous in the beginning.
When the panic attacks had first started back toward the end of sixth year they'd taken him by surprise, to say the fucking least. The first time it happened was permanently etched in his brain. He'd finally, finally fixed the Merlin forsaken Vanishing Cabinet. It was done. He would live. Well, for now anyway. He'd left the Room of Hidden Things exhausted and trudged down the corridors to the dungeons, following the familiar path to Snape's musty quarters to tell him it was time, and the man had snuck him out of the castle in the wee hours of the morning, long before the sun was due to rise along with the old building's inhabitants. They'd gone to a dark, deserted corner of Hogsmeade and Apparated to a designated landing spot within reasonable walking distance to Malfoy Manor. Snape had spoken not a word on the short trek to the distinguished manor's gates, but Draco was unconcerned. The man had been peeved with him for some time, not that it mattered. Nothing mattered now. He'd completed this part of his task and without his bitter Defense Against the Dark Arts (ha!) teacher's help, mind you. They approached the gates, raising their left arms with sleeves pulled back revealing their Dark Marks, and kept walking straight through the wrought iron bars as if they were nothing more than ghosts or mist. Draco was in good spirits. Well, maybe he wasn't happy exactly, but this was the least shitty he'd felt in he couldn't remember when, which was good for the bloody white peacock strutting across his path. A day ago he'd have sent a killing curse at the animal just for existing and looking happy about it. Now, he simply side stepped around the creature as he watched the heavy front doors of the mansion open. Narcissa Malfoy, looking for all the world as if she were dressed for afternoon tea with Pureblood royalty like herself and not at all as if she were awakened in the dead of night, stepped out onto the grand front porch with its splendid columns. Her blue eyes found Draco's grey ones, and he watched the tension evaporate from her shoulders. She opened her arms for him, and he stepped into his mother's familiar warm embrace. His brows knit together with quiet concern. She was thinner, bonier than the last time they'd seen one another, though her elegant emerald green robes did well at concealing it. Then again, wasn't he as well? Surely the stress he'd been dealing with was equal to that of his mother's.
"My son," Narcissa said with a small, tender smile, cupping his face in her bejeweled hands and placing a kiss lightly on each of his sunken cheeks. "Severus," she said, looking over Draco's shoulder to the greasy black-haired man standing there. "Thank you."
"Your thanks is neither necessary nor warranted, Narcissa," Snape drawled, inclining his head stiffly toward her, his black robes floating in the cool slight breeze wrapping it's way around the porch. He gave Draco a pointed stare, his cold black eyes revealing no hint of emotion. "Young Mister Malfoy here has refused my assistance all year. Nevertheless, it seems the job is done. Is he here?"
"Not yet," said Narcissa. "I thought it only proper that Draco be the one to summon him." She smiled warmly and encouragingly at her only son.
Draco controlled his facial expressions flawlessly but unwillingly cringed on the inside. Yeah, that's exactly what I want. To touch the fucking monstrosity permanently marking me as one of his and have the nightmare himself show up, he thought. He'll be proud of me! I'll be one of his most trusted, most needed subjects. I could be at his right hand if I pull all this off. I could have real power, he warred with himself, disgusted that his thoughts had ever strayed anywhere but to his loyalty for the Dark Lord. Of course, it's not like there were any other choice anyway. Of course he had to come. Of course Draco would be expected to summon him. Of course.
Narcissa stepped back from the doorway and swept her arm out in invitation for the two men who entered the grand foyer. The crystal chandelier glowing with its many candles overhead cast beautiful rainbows of light across the vast entrance. The three of them continued through to the magnificent drawing room. Draco's stomach clenched at the sight of his father fidgeting excitedly in front of the fireplace and his aunt lounging non-too-ladylike in a wingback armchair, legs draped over one side, wand twirling between her fingers.
"Draco!" his father exclaimed, crossing the room in long, quick strides to place his leather-gloved hands on either side of his son's face. "My boy! I knew it. I knew you could make me proud!" Lucius Malfoy smiled triumphantly at his son. Draco didn't even attempt to smile back. Instead he focused his attention on not flinching away from his father's touch. It was much easier said than done. He mentally chastised himself for his reaction.
"Now, now, dear Lucius, let's not get ahead of ourselves," came the spine tingling voice of the witch sprawled across the armchair. Draco's aunt Bellatrix Lestrange leapt up and bounded across the room, standing on her tip toes to get nose to nose with him and saying in a sing-song, mocking voice, "We've still gots to see if wittle Draco can weally get us in his wittle school!" Her too sweet – the sickening sweet smell of rotting things - breath wafted across Draco's face. She spun, cackling, wild black hair flying, and danced across the room, arms over her head like a schoolgirl singing, "Call him! Call him! Call him!"
Draco looked to his mother who nodded her approval. Taking a deep and, damn it, ragged breath, Draco lifted his left arm out in front of him and pressed the Dark Mark there with the forefinger of his right hand. Instantly he felt the all too familiar fire burning through his forearm that signaled the Dark Lord's approach. I can't believe I've fucking gotten myself into this, he thought for the thousandth time. I will make the Dark Lord proud, he smugly thought as well. The two feelings were constantly battling one another, one waning, one waxing, back and forth. He collected himself, making sure the expressions on his pale face were composed, just as Voldemort appeared in their midst in a cloud of black smoke.
"My Lord!" Bellatrix breathed. She was instantly on her knees and practically licking his dirty, boney bare feet. Draco barely suppressed a snort at her obnoxious obsession. He was torn between the unwanted need to shake with the repressed terror he felt anytime the man - if you could really call him that - was near and the awe he felt in his presence. He simply bowed his blonde head slightly and said in unison with the others in the room a solemn, "My Lord."
Voldemort, ever the proud leader, beamed at his loyal followers. He distractedly patted Bellatrix on the top of her head, a gesture which sent the woman into a whimpering fit as if he'd kissed her full on the mouth. She didn't seem to notice that all his attention was on Draco. The powerful wizard drew close to him, a triumphant smile on his snakelike face. "Draco," he hissed. "My son." Draco recoiled at the term coming from him, yet he was simultaneously proud to be called his son. Voldemort didn't seem to notice his reaction either way. "Is it true, child? Is it time? Have you finally completed this first part of your task?" he rasped.
"Yes," Draco answered. He didn't trust his voice to speak more than the one word. Apparently he couldn't be sure what tone would come out these days. His father would be horrified if his son's voice dared to sound anything more reverent.
Voldemort's faced split into an even wider monstrous grin. "Well done, Draco! Well done! Severus, did he manage this feat all on his own? Surely he must have leaned on your guidance, no?" he asked.
"Not at all, my Lord," Snape replied. "Draco was determined to please you of his own accord and therefore refused to reveal his plan to me until tonight when he had finished his… project."
"Ha ha! That's my boy," Voldemort enthused and clutched his shoulder with a grip like a viper's bite, causing Draco to involuntarily wince. Pull yourself together, idiot. "Come, Draco. Let us sit and hear your plan over a cup of tea, shall we?" Voldemort invited, as if there were the option to decline. There wasn't, of course, so Draco nodded and took a seat on the ivory sofa. His merciful leader took the armchair at the head of the room. "Now, tell me everything," he demanded.
It's okay, Draco reminded himself. It's done. He's happy. He's proud. I'm safe. My mother is safe. For now, at least, we're safe. He'll value me now. My family will have a true seat of power again. It'll work. It has to work.
Draco told the small crowd about the previously smashed Vanishing Cabinet he'd been working every available hour to fix, forgoing sleep and nourishment - not that he went into that detail as his mother would just be more worried and the others wouldn't care and he'd just sound as if he were complaining. He told them how its twin resided in Borgin and Burkes'. Together they set a date and made a plan to get the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Together they plotted the next step, the most crucial step, in what was essentially Draco's initiation into the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord's service: the murder of Albus Dumbledore. Don't think about it, Draco told himself. Don't feel any bloody damn guilt. Focus. The old git has to die. Focus on your safety. On Mother's safety. He's chosen you for this. This is your moment. Be glad. Tonight, you've accomplished something. Tonight you've bought yourself a shred of respect, and, more importantly, you've bought yourself time.
If only it had been that simple, he thought now. But nothing ever was. The appointed date and time had come, and Dolohov had stepped into the cabinet in Borgin and Burkes' first. The echoing scream the rest of the assembled Death Eaters had heard coming from its depths let them know that something was not quite as it should be. Draco and Snape had waited by the other cabinet in the Room of Requirement, but nothing happened. An hour after the agreed upon time was when Draco had first felt the tightening in his chest. Where were they? Thirty minutes after that his Mark had burned, and he knew. That was when he'd first lost the ability to breathe.
Sure, he'd had breakdowns before, namely while trying to repair the damn cabinet and hitting dead ends, believing he'd run out of time and he and his family would be killed. The realization that he had been wrong, however, that it wasn't fixed, that he had called the Dark Lord and failed, that was what sent him over the edge into a full blown panic attack.
So the cabinet hadn't quite been fixed, and Dolohov had spiraled around in the middle of nothing and everything at the same time for close to a month before he was recovered. Oh, had Draco paid at the hands of the Dark Lord for that mistake. He glanced down at his chest and stomach now and pictured the scars underneath his white button up shirt. He hadn't even known the Cruciatus Curse could leave scars before then. Apparently, after a certain degree, all torture leaves its mark. He'd fixed the cabinet properly in time, but it did little to redeem him in the eyes of the Dark Lord. His mistake with the cabinet coupled with his failure to kill Dumbledore himself added up to put the Malfoy family no longer at the top of Voldemort's list of favorite people. (Of course Snape was at the very top of the fucking list for successfully killing the old wizard.) Panic attacks had become the norm after that anytime the Dark Lord was in his presence. He was usually able to just hold it together until they'd parted ways and he was alone, but he inevitably always broke down. It was pathetic and weak and not at all becoming of a Malfoy, but there was little he seemed to be able to do about it.
This time, however, Voldemort was nowhere in sight and hadn't been for several days. Nevertheless, there Draco sat on his bed clutching at his bloody fucking heart, trying to keep it from popping straight out of his chest. He contemplated going into the lavatory and raiding the shelves for a vial of Calming Draught, but he wasn't ready to admit that defeat just yet. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. His heart continued to race, and his vision was becoming blurry. In. Out. In. Out. He was slipping out of consciousness in earnest now. Just as he decided, Fuck it, just let the darkness come, he heard an excited call of, "Draco!" from down below. Resigned and more than a little disappointed to no longer be allowed to black out in peace, Draco took a few more ragged breaths and heaved himself off of his bed. He stumbled into the loo and, knocking over several bottles in his search, found the Calming Draught, popped the cork with clumsy hands, put the bottle to his numb lips, and drained it in one gulp. By the time he took the few steps to reach his bedroom door the effect of the potion had already come over him. His breathing was regular, his heartbeat was steady, and his cheeks were no longer flushed. The only evidences left of his episode were a faint sheen of sweat and unkempt hair which he smoothed as he trudged down the staircase. He was supremely disappointed and disgusted with himself for having to resort to using the potion, but as he rounded the corner into the drawing room and saw the three "guests" in it, he thought that maybe it was for the best. After all, he'd have never been able to control his unexpected reaction to seeing the three people Voldemort wanted most without it.