Because the first time around, I spent a long time afterwards discussing the glorious angst of Draco Malfoy with various friends, and it just grabbed me. I mean...the angst! It was a tangible force! And Tom Felton did it so very well. They do say that the villains are more interesting and fun to write/play than the heroes, and whoever 'they' are, they are so right. I mean, this was great. It all came in one steady stream of consciousness while listening to two of the songs off the movie's soundtrack by Nicholas Hooper - Harry & Hermione and Malfoy's Mission. Those two tracks on repeat are the soundtrack for this dark little oneshot.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
It wasn't going to be easy. But his father had always told him that nothing worthwhile was ever easy, or ever came without being worked for in some way. His blood status came easily, he supposed, but that was different. As was his family's fortune, though his father did work for that, so perhaps that was closer to what he had meant.
But Lucius Malfoy was currently locked in Azkaban prison, far away from the queries and fears of his only son.
He, Draco, was the man of the house now. He thought about that as Blaise and Pansy chattered away in front of him. They could tell he didn't want to be disturbed. His mother had no one but him to support her. That night when his father had been taken from the Department of Mysteries, she had sent him an owl straight away. He had been in shock for several hours afterwards.
They had fallen from grace quite spectacularly. Now that his father was a known associate of the Dark Lord, a Death Eater, no one wanted to be seen with the Malfoys. And the Dark Lord was displeased with his family as well. Lucius had failed him, and now, as punishment, he had thrust this task upon his son.
Oh, Aunt Bella had been positively brimming with excitement, flitting around the mansion – his home was no longer safe – like a banshee, and shrieking just as much. She liked to hurt things, he had discovered in the time they had spent together. And so did he. Or at least, he tried to, and he acted the part. He had to. If he could not uphold his family's reputation in the normal wizarding world, the least he could do was carry it well among the Dark Lord's followers.
His home was no longer his, oh no. The Dark Lord knew what pride his parents placed in their immaculate household and their privacy, and out of malice and spite had lazily allowed his followers to swarm all over it like insects. It was disgusting. He had no privacy. He disliked the company of others as a general rule, and though he tolerated his dormmates at Hogwarts, he had always looked forward to his holidays and the time he could spend alone in his room, or about the house, or wandering the grounds in solitary contemplation. It suited him.
His mother had been the polar opposite of his aunt over the summer, fretting and worrying constantly. As embarrassing as she could be, he knew she tried not to humiliate him in front of the Dark Lord or his Death Eaters, though she did resort to stroking his hair and treating him to the full effect of her fear when they were alone together. And he could not bring himself to order her to desist; no matter the cost should they be seen. It meant far too much to her, to be able to fuss over him like that. She was scared, and missing his father. He had to be strong. For both of them.
He missed his father too.
For all that they were, by appearances at least, one of the haughtiest pure-blood families in the wizarding world; they were incredibly tight-knit, the three of them. They had their routine, and it was comfortable, and he didn't want to let them down. He was the only heir to their name, the only Malfoy child. It was his responsibility to see that his family's name and pride wasn't dragged through the mud.
It burned that he was failing publically. The Dark Lord had ordered him to read the article aloud in front of everyone, smirking lazily all the while as he flushed and fisted his hands in the flimsy paper the Prophet was printed on. FALLEN FROM GRACE, the headline had read, over a photograph of him and his mother, MALFOY'S WIFE AND SON LEAVE THE TRIAL. It was agonising, having to read his father's humiliation out loud for the crowd of Death Eaters to laugh and sneer and crow at. And the Dark Lord had enjoyed it. It was his punishment.
He knew he could never pull the Malfoy name back up to its old prestige in the public eye – he was too young to strengthen the connections his father had forged, too inexperienced to forge new ones. It galled to admit to his own failures, but admit them he had to. Admit and accept them. He couldn't set himself unattainable goals. He was smarter than that. So he persuaded his mother to turn away from the outside and focus on forging connections among the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord's other followers. God knew they needed them.
Aunt Bella had been far more helpful than he believed even she realised, though perhaps that was not true – she had a hideously sharp mind that was unfortunately broken into many fragments. Rather like a smashed window, or a broken mirror. Beautiful, mesmerising even, but ultimately fractured and liable to cut anyone who got too close. He saw glimpses of the woman she had once been occasionally, before Azkaban and years in the service of the Dark Lord had destroyed her, but those glimpses were few and far between, only seen at all because of the hours they had spent in each other's company.
Bellatrix was fascinated with him – perhaps it was because she had no children of her own, and she had always been close to her sister, perhaps simply because he was young and secretly afraid, and she enjoyed toying with him. Either way, as soon as the Dark Lord had made his plans known for his future at Hogwarts, Aunt Bella had devoted a significant amount of her time to teaching him the Dark Arts.
He enjoyed the lessons, actually. She had jeered and teased him through their first, but after he mastered all the non-verbal jinxes she taught him, she seemed to revise her opinion of him and began to teach him in earnest. After all, he was so eager to learn. To her, he supposed he appeared eager simply to prove himself – a foolhardy sixteen year old, trying to prove his worth to the Death Eaters who taunted and mocked him on the Dark Lord's orders. But though he was indeed desperate to prove himself, it was certainly not to prove his own worth – it was to prove his family's.
After all, mere hours ago the Dark Lord had summoned him to his presence, disposing of all others to speak to him directly and alone. Should he fail in this, he told him, this seemingly impossible task he had been set, not only would his own life be at risk, but the lives of both his parents.
He had thought he would be able to deal with the pressure until then. He knew his punishment if he failed would be terrible – if the Dark Lord did not kill him he would most certainly torture him, perhaps for hours, days, weeks on end. He knew he could. He had seen it happen. Horrors he had not dreamed of, occurring in his own house. His home. How would he be able to step into the dining hall again without seeing Josephine Cooper, a Muggle-born journalist's blood on the table? How would he be able to walk down the main stairs without seeing the shadow of himself watching as the Dark Lord tortured Travers for bringing him false information? Would the screams ever fade from his memories? Would the jeers of the watching Death Eaters?
He had believed that he could live with that if he failed. He would survive the torture, perhaps not unscarred, but what did that matter? But when the Dark Lord had put his parents' lives on the line…
He could not fail. It wasn't just pride now, or his family's name. It was life or death. He had to kill Dumbledore, no matter what. It would be alright, he tried to alleviate his doubts, it would work out fine – he had a plan. As long as he could fix the Vanishing Cabinet at Hogwarts, everything would be fine.
And his father and mother wouldn't have to die.
He had done such terrible things under his aunt's tutelage. It was one thing Imperiusing small animals and torturing insects, quite another to do that to a human. But the Dark Lord had insisted he experience the exquisite joy of torturing others, and how could he refuse? He could not, not without lowering the reputation of his family lower than it already was. It was his duty to raise their name in the Dark Lord's eyes. Only then would their lives be easier. Not easy, never easy, but easier was a good deal from where he and his mother were standing.
So he had tortured an unnamed Muggle someone had dragged back to the house for the Dark Lord's entertainment. The man had writhed and screamed on the floor, begging to die, begging to be let go. But he had merely raised his wand higher, as Aunt Bella had taught him, and continued to torture the Muggle until he was nothing more than an empty, gibbering shell of a human, driven mad by the agony. Only then had the Dark Lord disposed of him with a flick of his wand and a green flash of light.
Afterwards, as a reward for obeying so well, Aunt Bella had taught him Occlumency, and that had distracted him enough not to dwell on it for the moment, but he had mixed his own sleeping draughts in the nights that followed so as not to humiliate himself with nightmares. Were he to wake, screaming, the Dark Lord's scorn might damage his efforts permanently. As long as he could kill Dumbledore, all would be well.
It had been such a relief to get back on the Hogwarts express, such a balm to slip easily back into his old role. How he both pitied and envied his classmates now. How could Pansy understand him now? Now that he had killed and tortured and performed numerous other evil deeds? She would never understand, and neither would Blaise, however much he smirked and postured. He wouldn't last long under the Cruciatus Curse.
As something moved in the luggage rack above his head, he wondered darkly how long Potter would last. Who else had an Invisibility Cloak, and the audacity to sneak into their cabin? Fury made his blood boil and he curled his toes in his shoes. Potter had never gone through what he had during the summer. Oh no, Potter was well-protected, always favoured, always loved, wherever he went. People thought Potter had a hard time? That Potter had a rough deal? He'd like to see whoever said that go through his summer and say the same afterwards.
Potter had it easy – his path was clear and paved with solid bloody gold. Draco's own was far thornier and twisted with complications. Oh, people always said the heroes had the tough deal, but they couldn't be more wrong. All Potter had to do was stick to his perfect, goody-too-shoes life and Dumbledore would make sure everything fell into place around him. Draco had to carve out his own way, and keep his family safe. He missed his father. And it was all Potter's fault that he was being punished like this, and that his mother was always miserable, and that his father was in Azkaban. Everything came back to Potter in the end. It always did. The Chosen One. The Golden Boy. Oh, the heroes had it so simple. They couldn't understand that sometimes evil had to be done for the bigger picture to survive. He had to kill Dumbledore to keep his parents safe, but he knew they would never understand anything like that.
So when the train finally stopped, he stayed in his seat, nodding to Pansy when she looked at him in askance. "You two go on. I want to check something." When they had gone, he got up and slipped his case off the rack so as not to seem suspicious, walking slowly to the end of the carriage to buy time. When the last of the students got off, he closed the door and pulled down the blinds, trying to control his anger.
Now. Now, or never. "Didn't Mummy ever tell you it was rude to eavesdrop, Potter?" He sneered, drawing his wand. "Petrificus Totalus!" As he had predicted, a body fell from the luggage rack with a heavy bump, destroying a table on the way down. He was satisfied now, the pleasure tinting his fury and tempering it slightly. He could not torture Potter, however tempting. The Brat Who Lied would only take the story to Dumbledore, and the Unforgivable Curses were enough to land you in Azkaban, and all his efforts would be ruined.
"Oh yeah," he smirked down at his immobile enemy, relishing his discomfort and helplessness. Perhaps this was what Aunt Bella felt every time? If so, he could understand why she so loved to torture people. "She was dead before you could wipe the drool off your chin." His anger rose, and he stamped hard on Potter's face, fire blazing in his eyes at the snap of the nose breaking. "That's for my father," he told Potter as he picked up his Invisibility Cloak again. "Enjoy your ride back to London." Making sure that Potter could not be seen, he closed the door of the carriage and walked away.
Oh, but of course, life would never allow itself to fall easily into place for him. Oh no. Of course, Filch had to stop him at the gates and rummage through his stuff. And he knew why, of course – word that Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater wasn't exactly yesterday's news. And then it all got worse because up turned Potter with one of his freaky little friends. The whole situation merely supported his argument – heroes always got it easy. The universe would never allow Potter to suffer for long.
"Whassis cane 'ere then?" Filch growled, holding up his father's cane.
He paled. That was the only thing of his father's he had managed to keep unspoiled by the invasion on his home. It was all he had left of him till the Dark Lord saw fit to release him from Azkaban. He masked his feelings with his old fallback – anger. "It's not a cane, you cretin! It's a walking stick!"
"'An what exactly would you need wiv a walkin' stick?" Filch ran his filthy hand up the wood. "It could be construed as an offensive weapon."
He opened his mouth to retort angrily, but a familiar oily voice butted in. "It's alright, Mr Filch – I can vouch for Mr Malfoy."
Bastard. Snape had all but pulled the metaphorical carpet out from beneath his father's feet. Draco was furious with his old Potions teacher, the fury maturing over the long, painful summer into a deep, simmering hatred and resentment. Snape had been nothing, nothing in the Dark Lord's eyes until recently! And who had paid the price for his sudden rise through the ranks? None other than the man whose walking stick he was now vouching for. Lucius Malfoy was rotting in Azkaban, and Snape had as good as put him there.
He snatched his father's walking stick from Filch and laid his hand gently on the silver snake's head for a moment. His father had never been without his stick for a minute; it was as common a feature in Draco's memories as its owner. It had been nearly impossible to get it off the Aurors – he had had to use up his father's last connections to get it. But it was worth it. It reminded him what he was fighting for. Who he was fighting for. And when he succeeded, his father would be so proud of him. It was what gave him comfort. Having his father's stick and wand was like having a part of him nearby, and it lessened the ache of his absence.
He felt eyes on him and looked up to see Potter and his freak friend staring at him. "Nice face, Potter," he sneered before walking off. Snape followed, as he knew he would.
"Draco," he whispered, "listen to me. I know the task you have been set by the Dark Lord, and –"
"Oh yeah?" Draco wheeled on him, wielding the stick like his father. The resemblance was uncanny in that moment, swift and fleeting before vanishing almost completely. "And you thought you wanted a slice of the glory, did you? Well you can give that up right now. This is my task – mine alone. He chose me for this, not you, and this is my chance to prove that he chose right."
"Draco," Snape's expression did not change, though he lowered his voice. "I swore to your mother that I would help you and protect you in any way I can. Trust me, Draco, and –"
"My father trusted you." Draco said coldly. "And look what happened to him." His hand gripped the polished wood till his knuckles were white. "I don't want your help, and I don't want your protection. I have a plan of my own, and it doesn't include you." He turned away and left his old favourite teacher alone, putting as much distance between them as possible.
All in all, he thought as he made his way to the last carriage, it was probably a good thing that he enjoyed his own company. With Snape no longer a trustworthy ally, and no one at Hogwarts who would either understand or even be allowed to know, he was going to be all alone this year.
Well, he reconsidered, holding his father's stick up to the weak light of the lantern with a very small, secret smile and running his fingers over the smooth silver of the snake's head (he had loved playing with it when he was a child, and his father would indulge him, making the snake strike and pretend to sink its fangs into his young son's neck), more familiar than the backs of his hands. Not completely alone.
Reviews are love, people, come on. Let's hear it for the tortured bad guys!