Title: Serve Until Death
Author: PerplexingParadox
Word Count: 1,028
Summary: Servants of the Dark Lord must remain as such until death. In fact, that isn't saying much, for the Dark Mark tends to bring death along.
Warnings: Possible trigger (idk). I don't think that there's any language, but there could be. Some violence, and possibly even some character death (I really hate it when people say that in the beginning, because then you're just like, 'wow, I wonder what happens!'). Sad themes and broken hearts. Possibly some pre-slash, if you squint hard enough (or just see what you want to see).
(A/N): Sad story. Not the one-shot that I've told a coupld of you that I'm working on. That one is turning out longer than I thought (not that it's that long; I just tend to write short stories), so I might upload that in two parts. Have not yet struck inspiration for my portrait story, so sorry about that! Anyway, very sad, don't read if you don't like it! Uhmm... Read on! Read, review, ENJOY! =D
Draco sat in his little London flat, staring blankly at the newspaper in his hand. The paper began shaking as the hand holding it trembled. A harsh, broken gasp filled the air, and the paper fell from the blond's grip. Draco's head hit the back of his couch, and he curled into himself, tremors ripping through him violently.
A single word was coming from the lack mouth – the one that was usually twisted into a cold sneer. The word repeated itself, over and over again, never ceasing.
"No."
The stream of sound became faster and louder, increasing exponentially with every breath. Finally, Draco was screaming his pained and pitiful mantra for the world to hear. It couldn't happen. It just couldn't. The world was over, and the darkness would never end.
A million thoughts whipped through Draco's mind.
I've changed.
True statement.
I've worked so hard to be good.
He'd worked for two years, not doing one vile deed.
I'm innocent.
That, apparently, was up to debate.
They can't do this.
But the most unfortunate thing was that they could and they would.
Draco stood suddenly, his eyes searching frantically around his grubby living room. A glimmer of light caught his eye, and he sucked in a small breath. He tripped his way over to the bureau, swiping the mess of papers from the top.
When all of the documents had landed on the floor, and the top of the furniture was clear, Draco looked apprehensively at the small blade that lay on top, tears still streaming from his haunted eyes. He reached out tentatively, pinching the flat side of the blade between his forefinger and thumb.
He lifted the small strip of metal, holding it before his eyes in inspection. He nodded brokenly, shuffling back over to the couch. He collapsed onto the plush seating, his head sideways on the armrest. He brought the blade up to his left arm, tracing it lightly over the skull imprinted into the skin there.
This blade had been reserved for mainly his sixth year, when he would spend nights outlining the Dark Mark with his own blood. He would emphasize the brand, originally proud of it, then later to remind himself of the mistake it was. He had given up on the morbid habit long ago, when he had decided to move on with his life.
But they had decided for him that there was no moving on.
He suddenly dug the metal into the mark, as though trying to cut it off. Crimson ran over the brand, but the design remained unimpaired. He swiped the blade again, harder and slower. Still, the scar-like mark remained distinctly unharmed – though covered in deep red. Draco let out a frustrated hiss, gliding the blade vertically now, hoping to cause damage. Any damage at all.
It remained the same. Something inside Draco snapped.
"Get off!" Draco sobbed, tearing into his flesh with the blade. He hacked for hours, yet the mark remained etched into his scarlet-drenched skin.
Even when the cold had overcome his senses, and the life had departed from his body, the mark remained, sunken into the pale flesh.
Because the servants of Lord Voldemort are under his will until death. And, even now, the poor boy could never rest in peace.
When the hard knock on the door to the small flat infiltrated the air the next morning, there was no response from within. After a few more tries, the door was blasted open with a flash of light. In stepped an assembled team of Aurors, all with wands raised and eyes darting about suspiciously.
The newest recruit, with a faded scar on his forehead, and circular glasses covering his jade eyes, let out a pained gasp. The team spun, all pointing their wands at the space where Harry Potter stood with tears cascading silently down his face.
Harry kneeled next to a pale shape, hand reached out, shaking, towards the figure on the ground. When his hands met the ice-cold flesh, and pulled away, covered in blood, there was a collective gasp from the group. The only one who hadn't gasped was the raven-haired new recruit, who was sobbing, deep in his chest.
The wizard closest to him – one with fiery red hair and a large amount of freckles - put a comforting hand on his shoulder for a few moments, then pulled him to his feet.
"You shouldn't stay and see this," The man whispered gruffly. Harry nodded.
Sending one last look at the lifeless corpse of the man he'd known for many years, Harry turned and fled swiftly from the room.
There was a general stiffness in the air as the men worked slowly and carefully. They snapped magical photographs, collected any signs of evidence (a small, bloody blade, all of the papers scattered around on the floor, etc.), and finally covered the body with a white sheet.
"It's really a shame," Said the wizard who'd helped Harry to his feet.
"Nah," huffed another man, shrugging. "This was probably better than what he was in for."
"I suppose," The first wizard stopped, looking down at the white cloth that was slowly being stained with the blood of the victim. "But it was a shame that Harry had to see him that way. He wanted to come personally, so that he could finally tell him…"
The entire room made small noises, ranging from disapproval to sympathy.
"No use crying over spilt milk," one Auror said with apathy. "We need to move on to the next ones."
They all nodded. Each grabbed some of the evidence, and the redhead grabbed the corpse. With a twist and a cracking noise, the team vanished, leaving an empty room behind.
The open window sent a breeze through the room, ruffling the one piece of overlooked evidence. It was the previous night's edition of The Evening Prophet. On the front cover was a large picture of the three Malfoys, with a big, bolded title beneath it.
'Last of Deatheaters found GUILTY. Subjected to Dementors' Kiss at Earliest Possible Date.'
(A/N): Hehe, yeah. If you wanna see more of my stuff (but, after this, why would you?), then click that awesome little 'Follow Author' button! And if you liked it, or even if you didn't, that epic little 'Review' button makes my day, too! Constructive criticism is welcome, but all flames will be used to roast marshmellows! =D
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