A/N - this is not pretty. Dark, angsty, mentions of violence (domestic and otherwise), non-con/dub-con, abortion, self-harm, and suicide attempt. You've been warned.
You redeemed yourself.
At least that's what your father says. You believe that you just made a reasonable suggestion, which led to a successful plan. Any of the Dark Lord's faithful could have done the same if they would lay off the firewhiskey and backstabbing for five minutes.
But it was you, and the Dark Lord was pleased, and praised you at dinner, which was almost more frightening than being in his disfavour.
Frightening because now all the jealous Death Eaters would be aiming for you. You are now the next obstacle between whomever is on the outs today and the Dark Lord.
You were invited to drink with the Dark Lord and his inner circle after dinner for the first time. You also realized for the first time there was something extra in the firewhiskey and brandy, something that makes you feel as if you could take on the world unarmed.
The Dark Lord tells you that your reward is waiting upstairs, and he and Father follow you to your room. You open the door and there she is, your blood stained angel, whose eyes widen in fright when she sees who is behind you.
You think it's a good thing your back is to the Dark Lord when you realize what they intend for you to do. The Dark Lord and Father are talking, something about her being blood traitor, but you can't hear half of it over the blood pounding in your ears.
Father laughs and asks if you're just going to stare at her all night, and you realize they don't intend to leave. You apologize with your eyes as your arm reaches out and backhands her across the face, the Malfoy signet ring splitting her lip. She raises a hand to her mouth and looks at you in fear. You land a couple other blows that look harder than they really are before physically throwing her on the bed.
She lands in a sprawl, arms and legs instinctively thrown wide to break her fall, shirt falling open and skirt hiked up which makes her look vulnerable and provocative all at once. You dive on top of her, your angel, to hide her from the other men's stares, covering her, kissing her roughly, for once glad of the fact that being this close to her makes you hard.
You yank her skirt up and her knickers to the side, blocking as much as you can from their view, as if they don't know exactly what's going on, as if they weren't the engineers of the whole situation.
You hope they don't realize this is not uncharted territory, that you've been here before.
She cries out and you whisper "Yes." and hope she understands.
You pound yourself into her, at the same moment hating and rejoicing that you're with her and your bodies are joined and you are forcing your darkness onto her.
You finish and collapse on top of her, still hiding her from their sight. The Dark Lord walks up beside you and tells you that you may keep her in your room tonight.
When the door closes behind them, you wipe the blood from her chin and kiss the tears from her cheeks. You heal her split lip and give her pain potion and a bath, dressing her in your shirt and giving her clothes to an elf to clean, knowing that you're only magnifying the raging case of Stockholm Syndrome she already has concerning you.
But she is your little bloodstained angel and you can't stand to see her any more broken.
You bring her back to your bed, tuck her in and crawl in beside her. You hold her close, trying to absorb some of her light without her taking on any more darkness, because she is your angel, and you are a demon beyond redemption but that doesn't stop you from wishing.
"It's okay, Draco." she whispers. "I know you didn't want to hurt me. I love you."
You know in that moment you are nearly as much of a monster as the Dark Lord.
You make a house elf take her back to the cellar in the morning, because you know that if you were walking through the house with her, you would be tempted to head for the wrong door and that would get you both killed.
You make a point to go ward the cellar not an hour later, because once the other Death Eaters know you've had her, they will want her too.
You won't let that happen because she is your angel, your bloodstained angel, yours alone.
You stay away for two days, and then, because you had another idea the Dark Lord liked and you're full of yourself from the approval and the spiked liquor, you have the house elf bring her to your room again.
This time she comes to you like a woman in love and you bask in it, you let her love flow over you because she's the only one who has ever made you feel this way and you don't know what you're going to do when it ends.
The next day the wards alert you that someone tried to enter the cellar, and within minutes, you find Dolohov with a big green X on his forehead. He knows who cursed the door before you even speak, and leers at you.
"What's good for one should be good for all, hum, little Draco?"
"Stay the fuck away from her." You growl, but he is too drunk or maybe too stupid to catch on to the seriousness of your warning.
"Or what?" he smirks. Your wand is pointed and the Engorgio is uttered before he can blink. Dolohov's face reflects first shock and then pain as his groin swells painfully.
"She's mine!" You shout in his face. "And I don't share my ... toys."
You catch yourself just in time, because you almost said angel, and that would not have done.
You feared Voldemort's reaction, but he was something akin to amused. He said you were turning out to be a top shelf Death Eater after all.
That night she told you that she knew what you had done. That you had protected her from the Death Eaters who would hurt her.
You tuned out the little voice that said you were a Death Eater too and had hurt her too much already.
You started having the elves bring her to your room two or three times a week. You wish you could move her to your room permanently but someone would probably say something about that.
A week later, Dolohov gets his revenge. You went on a raid, and while your attention was distracted by the muggles you were supposed to be attacking, he petrified you. You lay on the ground unable to move while he dragged his foot through dog shit and then kicked you in the face. Yaxley and Avery came over and got their kicks in too, leaving you helpless for Auntie Bella to find and drag you home, whining about what an embarassment you were.
Your father gave you a glass of his spiked brandy before your mother set your broken nose and ribs and another to knock out the taste of the Skele-Grow.
Rowle laughed at you as you walked down the hall, shouting "Not so tough now, are you?"
By now the spiked alcohol is kicking in, and you're angry. You are a Malfoy. You are meant to be in control, but your life is so far out of your control that you can't even put your frustration into words.
There is one person in this house you can control. You stomp down to the cellar, and grab her by one arm, flinging her against the wall. You're on her before she can slump away, your hand closing around her throat.
"I could kill you if I wanted to." you hiss, squeezing her throat just enough to make your point.
But you don't want to kill her, and you find yourself yanking up her uniform skirt that she still wears because no one has given her anything to replace it. It's worn and frayed around the edges but you shut off that train of thought before you can make it into some kind of metaphor of your soul.
You shove her legs apart, rip off her knickers, and drive yourself home. You wonder when you started to feel that she was home and not Malfoy Manor, but you do.
Your bloodstained angel. You wonder how much longer she can be associated with a demon before the snowy white wings only you can see, only in your mind, turn dark around the edges.
You finish, your head dropping to her shoulder, as you realize her arms are around your neck.
"Someone was watching, weren't they?" she whispers. "You had to be rough with me. It's okay. I don't want you to get in trouble."
You adjust your clothes and hers, then sink to the floor, gathering her into your lap, and bury your face in her hair.
You think to yourself, just for a moment, about the possibility of getting both of you out of here before they kill her. But then they would kill both of you. If it wasn't for the fact they would torture her in front of you, it would be worth it, because you really wonder if you could live without her.
You curse yourself and wonder if the Hell people speak of could really be worse than the reality you live in now.
You know that's where you belong, in Hell with the other demons, not in the prettylovelyfluffy clouds with your angel. When she reaches the afterlife, someone will wash away the bloodstains you've left on her, and she will forget all about you.
It would be best for her, but you're selfish enough to hold on to whatever you can have, for however long you can have it.
You go back upstairs without another word.
Two days later your frustration level is off the chart. The other Death Eaters heard what happened on the raid. They're all going to try to best you now. You can barely walk across a room without having to dodge curses.
You have her brought to your room, and she smiles at you.
But you don't want her to smile, you want her to understand, you want her to be hurt and broken just like you are broken but you don't want to break your little bloodstained angel but you want to hurt someone and she's the only one around.
So you slap her across the mouth and grab her by the hair and sling her onto the bed. You fall on top of her and she's looking at you uncertainly and you hiss "Fight me!"
She makes a half hearted effort, but you easily overpower her and hold her down while you have rough sex with her. Then you heal the bruise on her face and she kisses you softly and smooths your hair and pets you and you let her, because no one else has ever offered you loving gentle touches unless they wanted something in return.
When you send her back to the cellar, you ask one of the house elves to find her some clean clothes. The next time you see her, she's wearing a clean Slytherin school uniform. You tell the elf to find something else, because she is too sweet, too pure in heart, to be a Slytherin.
The elf finds her one of your mother's castoff dresses. It's ivory silk and makes her look even more like an angel. You don't know whether to laugh or cry, but you know she is an angel and you are damned.
The other Death Eaters settle down, moving on to other targets, and life falls into a routine. She comes to your room when you ask for her, and sometimes it's sweet and loving and sometimes it's rough and violent.
But always afterwards, she touches you lovingly and whispers honeyed words and you let yourself believe that it's the real Luna saying those words, not the bloodstained angel whose mind has been broken by Stockholm Syndrome.
She tells you she doesn't understand this game, why you want to be cruel to her sometimes but she doesn't mind because it makes you happy.
You don't tell her that it doesn't make you happy, that nothing makes you happy any more.
The closest you ever come is when you watch her sleep.
Abusing her makes you feel in control, and you want that power. You crave it like a drug, almost as much as you crave her touch.
Then comes the night when she comes to your room with sparkling eyes, with an excitement you can't fathom.
She whispers "Not rough tonight." and you oblige her, even though you hadn't intended to be rough tonight anyway.
Afterwards, she takes your hand, and kisses each of your fingertips. "We can't play rough for a while." she whispers, then places a kiss on your palm and puts your hand on her stomach. "We have to be careful not to hurt the baby."
Your blood runs cold and you can barely choke out "Are you sure?"
She nods happily and all you can think is that you can't bring a baby into this house and you don't realize you've spoken aloud until she answers you.
"I know you'll take care of us, Draco."
She is your little bloodstained angel and you have stolen her innocence and created something living inside her. You don't know if it's even more innocent than her, an untarnished little angel, or another demon straight from hell like its father.
You rather imagine it's a demon.
Even if it is an angel, the moment this world touches it, it will be destroyed because of who and what its father is.
She falls asleep with a smile on her face, and you realize you are the Dark Lord, and she is your Bellatrix, the poor mad girl who thinks herself in love with you no matter how much you hurt her.
The thought of your pure little angel turning into anything resembling Auntie Bella makes you retch, and you barely make it to the toilet in time.
You make the potion yourself, because you don't trust her life to anyone else.
And because you created the situation, so it's your responsibility to fix it.
It takes three days to make, three days that she hums to herself and smiles and asks you what you think of the name Lysander.
You mix four carefully measured drops into her tea, and take her tray down to her.
Later that night, when the pains and the bleeding start, she's already in your room. She knows what is happening, that she is losing her baby, but not that you did it, that you killed her baby. She begs you to stop it, but you tell her you can't, it just wasn't meant to be.
She cries and tells you that she's sorry, as if she was the one who had done all the horrible things, who broke her and made her love a demon, a monster.
Your mother comes in, having heard the prisoner was sick, taking in the situation, and her eyes fall on you.
She knows. She knows what you have done to this girl, and she knows what you have done to fix it. There is condemnation in her eyes.
She has been disappointed in you before, but never like this.
She knows that she has raised a monster. She doesn't say anything as she leaves the room.
Your little bloodstained angel holds your hand as she cries herself to sleep. You kiss her forehead and promise her everything will be better tomorrow.
You walk slowly to the cupboard and find the dagger Auntie Bella gave you for your birthday. You take it into the bathroom and lock the door. You roll up your sleeve on your right arm, the one that is still unblemished.
It's hard to write with your left hand, but you don't want this word to be pretty anyway. You carve the word "Monster" into your arm, so that now both of your arms show what you are.
You keep wiping away the blood to look at the word, but every few seconds, the letters are obscured again.
You take one last walk to the bedside, to see your bloodstained angel sleeping. She is so peaceful, with her lips slightly parted and the pure white wings that only you can see.
You kiss her cheek for the last time, and then bury the knife blade deep into the flesh of your left wrist. The blood spurts and burbles in time with the beat of your heart. If there was still anything human in you, you would probably be fascinated.
You realize that you didn't tell her goodbye, didn't write her a note, never told her that you loved her. You dip your fingers into the blood pooling on the floor, and write "I'm sorry."
You're starting to become dizzy and lightheaded, so you sit down, with your back against the wall, laying your left hand which is still spraying blood but not as much as it was, across your lap, and reaching up to touch her cheek with your other hand, watching the blood drip onto her hair, tinging the ends like the first night she was here.
"I love you." you whisper, even though you know she doesn't hear you.
Your eyes start to drift shut, and you're just barely aware of the door opening and your mother's scream.
You hope it's too late.
A/N Again - This is the result of a "Kill them all and let God sort it out" kinda weekend coupled with reading a good angsty fanfic, if i were to tell the truth by Last Girl Standing. So it ended up as my entry to the "Fanfic a Fanfic" Challenge on the HPFFC forum.
Okay, dark and angsty mood over, experimental second person narrative completed, now back to my regular writing. :)