Disclaimer: J.K Rowling owns everything in the Harry Potter world.

This is a challenge fic between myself and 77DMK77. Check out the competition 'Change of Face'.

The Dark Lord was residing in his house. Why his father had allowed it, he could understand at least. He valued his life, just as Draco valued his. The screams he heard every day, and the merciless laughs that always followed, sickened him to the core. He had to watch, the Dark Lord wanted him to join the army of Death Eaters, and if he did that, he had to be able to observe a simple murder right? Wrong, is what he felt about the situation. He wasn't like his father. He would bow to his lord, and do as the man wished, but he was not ready to go and murder someone. He wanted to remain with a clean soul. But when the summons came to him that morning, in the form of his father, he knew that the Dark Lord had a mission for him. He just hoped murdering someone wasn't involved. He would never be able to follow through with it.

He had already showered, the warm fog that permeated the bathroom created a film of water vapor on the mirror, making it difficult to look into. Draco however, couldn't bring himself to worry about that, he had other mirrors in his massive bedroom. His father had drilled into him always to carry himself with pride. To make himself look worthy of being the Malfoy heir. But this morning, when Lucius had entered his room, just as he was waking up from a not so peaceful slumber; the Malfoy Patriarch had looked very solemn, a hint of rigidness that wasn't usually there, his alabaster skin paler than usual.

"The Dark Lord is requesting your presence at ten o'clock in the Drawing Room," Lucius said eyeing his son carefully for his reaction. But Draco showed no reaction, he merely nodded his head, and thanked his father for giving over the message.

Now, it was already half nine, and Draco was panicking. He wasn't dressed, and he wasn't ready to face the Dark Lord either. Whatever the man wanted he would have to obey, if he wanted to reach his sixteenth birthday. Having just turned fifteen, that would be a long way to go, and if he would not follow through with the Dark Lord's request, he would be killed promptly, and nothing his father or mother did could prevent it from happening.

Draco paused and took a deep relaxing breath. Severus had taught him the basics of Occlumency the year prior, and the first step was always meditation, to be able to clear one's mind. He needed this, if he wanted to act cool, calm and collected, he needed to force himself to relax and meditate his mind, if only to be ready to face his lord.

He sat down gracefully on the floor, letting his silk white robe spread out around him. With a wave of his wand, he lit the candles that were already set out in the small corner of his room, the fresh and calming aroma wrapping around him like a baby wrapped in a blanket. It reassured him immediately, and he let out a sigh of relief.

Draco closed his eyes, allowing his mind to latch onto the vision of a waterfall, streaming water rolling down and splashing onto rocks, the sound invigorating even in his imagination. Then, he imagined a large fire, the cackle of wood burning a welcome sound in his now calming mind. The last image he envisioned was that of a raven in flight. Large black wings spread out gracefully, flying into a cloudless blue sky. The flaps of the wings sounding almost like the heavy beats of a baker pounding against his dough.

No other thought went through Draco's mind, and he opened his eyes, blissful and happy. His mediation session was a lot shorter than usual, but nonetheless, he felt ready to face the Dark Lord. A quick tempus told him he had only ten minutes left until his presence was required, and so, with a surprising elegance, he got up, and swiftly put on the clothes a house elf had set up for him in the midst of his meditation.

The clothes were that meant for a party. Grey chinos, a silk aquamarine shirt, a silvery white tie, and a set of black dress robes. He was a little startled that the house elf had set out for him to wear Italian loafers, but he didn't ask questions. He was dressed in a matter of minutes, his hair combed back neatly, the tips softly brushing his shoulders. He didn't put it back in a tie, because he found nothing on his dresser to hold his hair together. He took it as a sign from whoever had given the order to the house elf, that he should be looking as good as possible for the Dark Lord.

He had three minutes left to get to the Drawing Room, and though his heart was pounding in fear, he knew he would make it. Instead of heading straight down the stairs, he headed to a small niche in the wall, that he assumed nobody was the wiser about. It was a secret passageway, much like the ones at Hogwarts. The dust that surrounded him was enough to make him sneeze, and before he could control himself, a sneeze could be heard echoing around the walls. He paled, hoping sincerely that it was not loud enough for anyone to hear. It was a low sneeze, he convinced himself, as he slid carefully down the slide. His robes were getting quite filthy, he noted with regret, but he wasn't overly concerned, a quick Scourgify before he exited the other door would make him look proper once more.

At exactly 9:59 AM, Draco stood outside the Drawing Room his palms sweating slightly. Deciding not to take chances, he knocked swiftly, and waited for someone to acknowledge him. It therefore surprised him, when his father opened the door for him, rather than a house elf or himself. But again, he decided not to ask any questions.

"Draco," his father acknowledged.

"Father," Draco replied respectfully.

It was then that Draco noticed the Dark Lord sitting in a throne-like chair, eying him curiously.

"My Lord," Draco murmured, hurrying to the Dark Lord's side, falling to his knees, and kissing at the hems of the latter's robes.

"Young Malfoy," the Dark Lord returned, not taking his eyes away from the boy on the floor for even a moment. Draco felt like squirming under the deep scrutiny, but kept himself still and his gaze to the floor. He didn't feel worthy enough to stare into the eyes of his lord, and so, even though he was still being watched, he kept his head down, and hoped the Dark Lord didn't notice the slight flush to his pale cheeks.

Draco heard a soft chuckle, and with wide eyes, he looked up to face his lord, who though had finished laughing, still had a small smile on his flattened face. It looked very out of place, but Draco dared not mention it. He forced his head back to stare at the floor, and waited to be acknowledged. The tinkling sound of a laugh was not heard a second time, and Draco flinched, hoping the Dark Lord wasn't upset with him.

"I have a mission for you, young Draco," the Dark Lord said quietly, though his voice rang clearly throughout the room.

Draco began trembling; did the Dark Lord expect him to look up at him now that he was finally being spoken to?

As if the Dark Lord could hear his thoughts, his voice sharpened, and in a commanding voice ordered, "Look at me." Draco did, and was glad he was successfully able to hide the wince from his lord, as he looked into cold, red eyes.

"My Lord?" he all but squeaked.

"I need for you to get close to Harry Potter," Draco widened his eyes, of all things! "He has managed to escape me once too many times, and if you can get him into your clutches—" here the Dark Lord paused, as if wondering how to phrase his next sentence. "—well, yes, that is what I want from you, young Malfoy. Get Harry Potter to trust you, and then lure him to me, so I can finally bring him onto my side. Either that, or I will have you kill him."

Draco was glad that his knees were already on the floor, for he was certain had they not been, he would have fallen, and shown weakness before his lord. He felt like crying, there were so many things that could go wrong with this mission, and the biggest one of them? If all goes wrong, he'd have to kill Harry Potter.

"DRACO!" the harsh voice of the Dark Lord sounded out heavily into the room, and he did not sound happy. "Will you do as I demand?" he hissed out, sounding very much like the snake at his side.

Draco shook, his fear now very evident in his eyes, and the way his body trembled.

"Yes, My Lord," Draco whispered, his eyes closing briefly, though his head was still facing his feet, and he was sure the Dark Lord had not seen.

He was wrong.

"Crucio!" the Dark Lord screamed, anger and impatience clouding his voice. Draco yelled in agony, as every fiber of his being felt like it was aflame, burning him to a crisp, from his every bone, to the skin on his body. The pain felt as if it would never end, and tears spilled from his eyes, as he writhed on the floor, unable to form a coherent word.

"You will look at me when you respond to a direct question!" he lifted the Cruciatus curse, and Draco lay there panting, tears still streaming down his cheeks.

"Yes My Lord," he sobbed, staring at his lord directly into his red eyes, "of course my lord."

The Dark Lord finally seemed satisfied, and with a wave of his hand, he dismissed Draco, who still lay prone on the floor, curled into a fetal position. He felt gentle hands on him, and for a moment, could not imagine who it was, and then a soft voice called softly into his ear, "Come, my son, let's get you to bed."

Draco felt as his father bowed to their lord, and then once they had left the room, his father lifted him into his arms, cradling him, protecting him. Draco basked in the love that his father was giving him. He had never, in all his 15 years, shown this much affection to his son, but then again, Draco mused, never had he been tortured by their lord either.

They finally reached his bedroom, and his father helped him take his robes off, along with his shoes and socks. Lucius covered him with the soft duvet, and then observed his son, as his son took off his shirt and chinos.

Draco got lost in thought, and was happy that his father was not in any rush to leave. He knew his father heard every word of the Dark Lord's demands, and he wanted to discuss it with the Malfoy Patriarch.

"Father?" he asked finally, once his clothes were all off, and he remained shirtless, and in his briefs. His father made no motion for him to put any bedclothes on, and Draco didn't push the topic.

"Yes, Son?" Lucius replied his voice warm, but his mask in place.

"You are aware that I've tried to befriend Potter in the past, right?" he asked, his voice still a little hoarse from the screaming he had done in the Drawing Room. His father merely inclined his head, waiting for Draco to continue.

"We are school rivals. The entire school is aware of our enemy status. We hate each other's guts, and well—he's just a damn right prick!"

"Draco!" his father admonished, "language!"

"Sorry, Father, but, well it's true…Potter is full of himself, and one thing I know for certain," Draco continued, his voice shaking slightly. "He will never go to the dark side."

"Then you will have to convince him, Draco." was Lucius' reply.

Harry Potter spluttered, as the fist of his beefy uncle came flying at him a second time. He was 15 years old, malnourished, small, and powerful in a world that his Muggle relatives didn't understand. To them, magic was bad, and since he had magic, he was bad.

His uncle didn't seem to understand that 15-year-old adolescents do not get beat up any longer. His cousin Dudley loved watching as his father beat Harry up, because as soon as he was finished, Dudley would wait five minutes, and then come and find him to do a repeat.

On this particular night, it was excruciating, he was going to school tomorrow, finally, and because of that, his uncle found it necessary to beat him even harder. His ribs were cracked in two places, he was sure of it, his nose broken, his ankle sprained, and his hands burnt. That had been his fault, partially anyway. He had been busy cooking dinner, when Dudley purposefully bumped into the frying pan, causing it to tilt on a sharp angle, and begin to fall to the floor.

Being Harry, he had used his hands to catch the frying pan. Unable to grip the handle in time, he took both his hands, and caught it at the bottom, thus both his hands being burnt. The Dursley's of course, hadn't said anything, except to complain that the food was 'too burnt.'

He wanted to throw a tantrum at that, because how fair was it that he had to do all the work, he was their slave, more than he was their nephew.

He wished piteously for his friends, and for the kindness Mrs. Weasley always showed him. He wanted Sirius to sit next to him, and laugh at all the jokes he told, even when they really weren't that great. He wanted to have someone at his side, who would protect him, and grant him everything that he yearned for.

Of course, such things weren't likely to happen, he was the Boy-Who-Lived, and everyone expected 'greatness' from him. Sometimes, he wished that he never had to fight Voldemort, he wished to have his parents alive too, but all these things were just dreams. A figment of his widely creative imagination.

And I really wish my uncle would ..to..PULP! Harry thought angrily. He was too scrawny to fight him though, and if he ever got particularly feisty, his uncle would just call Dudley to 'hold down the freak,' which Dudley was always more than happy to do.

Harry closed his eyes, having lost the energy to fight back. His uncle must have realized this, when Harry went limp in his arms, and with a hearty laugh, threw Harry to the side, and then went to watch the football game Dudley was in the middle of watching.

Harry felt too tired to move, he was all for sleeping right where he was on the floor, but if Dudley would get bored in the middle of the game, Harry would become his entertainment, and it would be impossible to even walk straight tomorrow, if Dudley got a hold of him again that night. He lifted his head up, leaning on one arm, and tried to find the closest place he could find comfort.

When his eyes passed by his cupboard, he smiled wanly. That would do. Dudley wouldn't think to look there, and it was only a few crawls away. He screwed his eyes shut, as a sharp pain flashed through his body. He gasped loudly, and clutched at his ribs, which were hurting by far the most. The TV had quieted, and for one horrible moment, Harry thought Dudley would come after him; it was therefore a relief when a grunt was heard, and the sound of the TV came back on.

Not wasting another minute, Harry crawled tentatively towards his old cupboard. It was a lot dustier than it used to be, and random spiders were nesting there, creating webs of beauty. He smiled softly at them, and in a low voice said, "I will be joining you for now," No answer was given, and with an exhausted moan, Harry let himself fall onto the tiny mattress that had remained there over the course of five years. Within moments he was asleep, the only sound he made was a subconscious whimper every so often, which was never heard over the loud sounds of the TV.

)

When Harry awoke again, the sounds of the TV had quieted, and everything was dark around him. Everything hurt, and he wished that doing magic wouldn't cause him an expulsion from school. He had already been caught twice, and if it were to happen again…he'd never finish his education. Grimacing, he quietly left the comfort of the small cupboard, and trudged up the stairs limping.

His uncle had not offered him a ride to Kings Cross station, and after the nice treatment he had been given, he was not going to ask. His aunt was to uncaring to stick up for her nephew, and Harry knew it was futile to try to go around that.

His trunk was all packed, and for a moment, he considered doing magic to shrink it. He would definitely get caught, how would the Ministry know if he was in the presence of a Muggle? He could hardly move himself, how would he manage to carry a heavy trunk down a flight of stairs without breaking more of his bones?

His relatives would certainly wake up as well, and then his beating would be harsher than ever. It was late, and if he would dare disturb then—oh dear Merlin, would he be in a shit load of trouble. Deciding not to risk it, he gently lifted one side of his trunk, and grunted at the effort. He got his trunk to the staircase, willing it to be lighter so he shouldn't die from the exertion.

When he lifted the trunk to the first step, he almost toppled down the flight of stairs in shock. The trunk was light as a feather, and he hadn't raised his wand once.

Delightedly, he dragged his trunk down the rest of the stairs, no longer afraid that the Dursley's would hear him.

He stepped outside, and into the warm breeze that greeted him. This time, he did raise his wand, and signaled the Knight Bus to come and get him. A second later, the Knight Bus screeched to a halt not two inches from he stood.

Harry reeled back in shock, and tripped over his trunk. He scowled; it was like third year all over again. Stan Shunpike greeted him as if they were best friends, and grabbed onto his trunk, which had gotten heavy again from the strained look that appeared on Stan's face. Nevertheless, the smile never dropped.

Harry asked Stan to bring his trunk up to the next floor, and Stan just nodded, flicking his wand at Harry's trunk, making it feather light.

Once Stan had returned to the first floor, Harry looked around, and was pleased that no one else vacated his space. Harry plopped down on the soft bed that was there, and let out a relieved sigh. With a start, he realized he hadn't told them his destination. "Oi Stan!" he yelled from his bed. Stan's head popped up on top of the staircase, and Harry gave him a sheepish smile. "The Leaky Cauldron, for me, Stan," he told the man. With that, he lied back down, effectively ending the conversation. When he was certain Stan was no longer on the staircase, he forced himself to sit up, gasping at the pain it caused in his ribs. "Episky!" Harry said loudly, pointing at his foot, hoping to fix it as much as possible, so he could walk. He bit down on his bottom lip, when he felt it heal somewhat. He would need Madam Pomfrey as soon as he got to the school that would be embarrassing. At least he had remembered to clear the blood away from his face, that would have been hard to explain. What would he tell the woman? That he was abused at home? Yeah, right. What a laugh.

His ribs were another story, he was terrified to even attempt to heal himself, but the pain was getting to be unbearable, and he would pass out if he didn't at least mend something. He muttered the spell again, and knew immediately it didn't heal right; he was able to move at least. His lip was bleeding slightly from chewing on it so hard, but he didn't bother with that. It would heal in time. He looked at his hands, and remembered the burns. He was surprised he hadn't felt it, was he so used to kitchen injuries? He shrugged his shoulders, and made no attempt to heal them.

He let his head fall back onto the pillow, and fell once more into an exhausted sleep.

)

A strong hand shook him, and with a yelp, he jumped up, expecting his uncle. Instead, Stan Shunpikes face swam into view. "We're at your stop, mate," he said, grinning.

Harry nodded tiredly, and urged himself to a sitting position. His trunk was to his left, and Harry sincerely hoped that feather light charm was still in effect. He was too exhausted to do any more magic that night. All he wanted was a bed, and maybe a warm meal.

"What time 's it?" he slurred, yawning slightly.

"A little after 3:00 AM," Stan replied cheerfully, apparently not sleeping didn't affect the man. He snorted at the thought, and tugged at his trunk, happy that it had indeed kept the feather light charm.

What seemed like seconds later, he was in the Leaky Cauldron, being served warm french toast, and a nice cup of tea. Harry already had his room key, Tom seemed to know exactly what he needed when he entered, and Harry was very grateful of the older man. He requested that Tom wake him up by 8 am. and the man had readily agreed.

When Harry finally finished eating he trudged up the stairs, his trunk already had been sent up, and opened the door to his room, thankful for the bed he saw awaiting him. Tiredly he settled into the third bed for the night, it was already half four in the morning. Without bothering to remove his shoes, he bonelessly dropped into the small bed, and shut his eyes with a small-relieved sigh. His last thoughts before falling into an exhausted sleep, was that tomorrow he would be back at school, and see his beloved friends once more. Even the idea of seeing his headmaster excited him. The man was truly dear to him, and he always made time for him, giving him sound advice on how to deal with his troubles. Maybe he would talk to the Headmaster about the Dursley's. And with that reassuring thought, Harry slept.

A couple of hundred miles away, an older man with a long white beard, and half moon spectacles sat in his office, reflecting on the arrival of the students in his school. His most awaited, was a certain boy, with dark hair, and glasses, a significant lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead.

He hoped that the Muggles he lived with were able to knock some sense into him, the boy always looked fine when he arrived to the school, and Albus always wondered what exactly it was that they did there. The little communication that he had with the Dursley's, were always guarantees that his golden boy was treated exactly as he had hoped, and that was all they said. Harry never mentioned anything, so perhaps they were telling the truth.

He had to shape Harry to be able to defeat Voldemort. He had gotten too old to do it himself, and with Harry none the wiser, He, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore would take all the glory to himself. If Harry didn't die in the battle, he would most probably kill him, after all, there was no way he would allow a 15 year old boy to take a glory that was ultimately his. Harry was his little obedient soldier, and as long as he remained ignorant of the fact, Albus was safe.

Albus popped a lemon drop in his mouth, and devoured it hungrily. He had two other soldiers that Harry didn't know about, those two soldiers he paid, albeit not that much. They would stay at Harry's side, and give him the advice the Headmaster told them too. And with that, Albus could do no wrong.

He laughed, a sound, that not many heard coming from the Headmaster's mouth, it was a wicked sound, one that would cause many to cease their brows in worry, for the laugh was full of malicious intent.

"This is the year!" Albus Dumbledore said happily, "Voldemort is newly reborn, and Harry will kill him, and I will get my glory that I deserve!" Fawkes crooned softly, though if Dumbledore cared to look, he would have seen a glare in the magical bird's eyes.

Professor McGonagall suddenly entered his office, and Albus immediately halted his mutterings.

"Minerva? How can I help you?" he asked, his twinkle in his blue eyes returning. "Can I offer you a lemon drop?"

Minerva contained her snort quite elegantly, and glared into Albus' twinkling eyes.

"Word has it that Harry Potter left his relatives during the night, without waiting for them to escort him to the train station at the designated time."

At these words, Dumbledore straightened in his chair, his eyes flashing and hardened as what Minerva said began to sink in. If Harry was leaving his Muggle relatives early, without any supervision, especially with Voldemort on the loose, something indeed had occurred, and it had happened directly under his nose.

"Where do you hear of these rumors, Minerva?" he asked, his voice calm, and his eyes clear once more.

"The news came from an Auror that was at the Leaky Cauldron when Harry Potter entered it." Minerva replied with an air of importance.

Albus nodded glumly. So Harry Potter was learning independence, was he? With a grim smile, Albus shook his head. Harry Potter would not be learning independence, no, not this year. This year, Albus would have him wrapped around his finger.

With a nod to Minerva, he thanked her, a smile on his grandfatherly face, and showed her out of his office. Fawkes let out a random sad note of music, but Albus took no heed of the morose tone the Phoenix had taken. He had things that were more important on his mind. Like how to get Harry Potter to fully trust him.

Harry's best friends would have a major part in this, he mused. He still frowned though, Harry learning autonomy at such an early stage spelled trouble. And Albus didn't do trouble. With a wicked grin on his aged face, he took out a spare bit of parchment, and began to hash out a plan for Harry's fifth year. Harry would never know what hit him.