A/N: Well, my dears, welcome to the first of a thus-far three-part series detailing the misadventures of our ferrety, young friend. I wrote this story between the release of books 4 and 5 (goodness me!) ten years ago (GoF was first published in 2000 and it is now 2010), so, I fear, it must be dubbed an A.U., though I hesitate to use the term as, personally, I find it a turnoff. I mean only that some of my original ideas about how Jo's plot line might have gone must remain present here for this fanfic to exist at all, though admittedly, I did leave some things alone just because I preferred them (Malfoy Manor is not in Wiltshire, for instance, but on the coast of Northumberland). Just keep in mind that it does begin the September of the fifth year and that anything following that June before is, for our purposes, unknown. This is version 2.0, newly renovated to include the new tidbits from Ms. Rowling and also to tidy the plot (unlike Jo, I did not begin this with any idea of where it would head). Now, brave readers, read on!

Yours forever, Tsona

Assent- and you are sane-

Demur- you're straightaway dangerous-

and handled with a Chain

-from "Much Madness is divinest Sense" by Emily Dickinson

Draco Malfoy huddled on the bottom step, resting heavily on the solid, stone balustrade behind him, curled in the deep shade where the walls were too high, the passage too narrow so that it gave the illusion of a chasm, a pit with only a small stripe of dawn-grey sky visible above his head. His audible sigh left a cloud of mist that hung obstinately in the cold September morning air, the cold that sank deep into British blood and bone marrow, slowed the passage of time, even for Draco, who was used to Christmases on the Northumberland coast. His arms fastened tight about his body, clinging, shivering despite his long, woolen traveling cloak, the hood thrown over his feathery, blonde hair. Ice-grey eyes raked the frostbitten grounds, the dew made hard diamonds in the cold. His gaze lingered as it came to rest on the dark, dense pine forest scaling the steep mountain slopes that marked the bounds of the Dark Lord's conquered kingdom. He'd often studied that borderline, counted out the paces to its edge, scrutinized the terrain he'd have to travel, but he did not dare venture beyond this final step, arrested as if by a penitentiary wall. Even while he kept vigil here, the fang-like spires of Durmstrang Institute leered at him, bent, watching, waiting for his first faux pas when they would stretch wide their mouths and let loose their monster to consume him.

Not that the Dark Lord was often there. Though, since he had disposed of Igor Karkaroff, he had proclaimed himself head of the Institute, the Dark Lord had found better ways to kill his time than in mentoring adolescents. Durmstrang had been left in the hands of his least important and less capable Death Eaters. Useless as they might be in this time of stealth warfare, they nevertheless reveled in pain and punishment and were more than able to subdue a rabble of teenagers and children.

At least in most cases. While terror and the threat of fewer opportunities placated most, Draco had been too often discovered meandering deserted, drafty corridors in the nighttime hours or stewing, as he was now, on the castle steps; the usual punishments had no effect on him and Durmstrang's new staff was running low on ideas, he could sense it. He was a special case. Special, first off, because he was Lucius Malfoy's son, and his father outranked and terrified them. Also, Draco had overheard them mutter, they thought him a head case, too moony, too solitary to be normal. Every so often, Draco had to agree.

Like now. Always, he'd professed a deep hatred, a hatred violent enough to be acted upon for that champion of Muggles and Mudbloods, Albus Dumbledore; Harry Potter, the Dark Lord's conqueror; that flea-bitten Weasley clan; that puffed-up, know-it-all Granger. Why then, why were these the very people he found his mind turning to most often, with a greater and greater frequency? Why was it always with such favor?

Wonder what they're doing now... those idiots, at home in their spacious, comfortable castle... allowed to wander where and when they choose... not watched like some sort of violent criminals... or mentally unstable loons... like us... Not ruled with torture... by punishment... with the threat of that dreadful- he couldn't even quite get himself to think the Dark Lord's name- Lord dangling over their heads like some bloody Sword of Damocles...

The sun peeked up over the crest of the jagged-toothed mountains, peeped through the castle's turrets to strike the pines with its shaft, painting them a sudden, blinding green, transmuting the slow-rising, silver mists to gold. A frown pressed down on Draco's lips. Soon, the Death Eaters would be waking up, would go through the castle unlocking dormitory doors, pulling lethargic, bone-chilled students from their beds. He ought to return inside before he was caught sneaking out again, crept from his bed and along the hidden hallways known only to the house-elves and himself.

He pushed himself slowly onto feet numb with the cold, still shivering, drawing the folds of black-dyed vicuna wool around him, and began the slow, funereal march up the steps, through the passage of eternal night into an even darker shade, a not merely physical darkness that he feared with each passing day seeped deeper into his core, left its mark, tainted his blood as a potent poison always will, with tiny traces more than capable to overwhelm and consume like acid over time. The mere thought of it all made him hesitate on the landing, look back over his shoulder. But what was there to hope for? What help could be expected from a world that was wholly blind to his suffering? How could he escape to a world he couldn't even see? The swaying pines were on the Dark Lord's side, not his.

Draco's stiff fingers fastened around the heavy, wrought-iron handle and tugged one of the double, front doors open a mere crack perhaps, but wide enough for him to sidle through. The torches in their newly affixed brackets guttered in the draft. His eyes flew around the lofty entrance hall, spun upward to take in the four storeys of the castle, the unadorned stone of the walls, the many points at which the corridors opened in faintly pointed arches onto the entrance hall. All were dark and silent, and he let himself breathe a sigh before setting off across the flagstones, all too aware of the slap of his fur-lined boots.

As his feet hit the first of the stone steps, he was again assailed by the whirl of memories, the rising up of images of the castle corridors he was wont to traverse in days now lost to him. The hard stone of Durmstrang pressed against his feet; he missed the soft, almost velveteen suppleness of the marble that led to Hogwarts' upper storeys. At that other castle, as he climbed the steps, he might pass suits of armor, which might squeak as they turned to watch him pass. The portraits, absent here, might go about their daily business- drinking, feasting, or maybe even copying some long-forgotten manuscript, the secrets of which only that painting knew and could relate- or hail him as he passed. They would flit from frame to frame, chatting amiably to their neighbors, sharing the gossip with the rest of the school. The Durmstrang halls seemed particularly dead without the soft susurration of their voices; here only the icy draft whistling around a corner, the nearly inaudible hiss of the torch-flames, and the occasional, echoing stamp of a foot gave any clue that time had not ceased passing, leaving everything in a perpetual moment.

Currently, his own footfalls covered all other sounds. He might have been the lone survivor of some epic disaster. But he had only one more flight of steps to climb before he reached the safety of his dormitory; there was that to be said of having a mere four floors. Then, Goyle's grunting snores and Crabbe's incoherent mumbling would take over, would leave him with wide eyes staring through the fading dimness, awaiting the creaking opening of the door to announce the beginning of the day, the wheezy shout of Amycus Carrow to awaken them from their beds.

Draco kept his eyes fastened on the floor, watching the stones racing away beneath his feet, as he rounded the corner with some haste, for the light through the too high windows was already beginning to dissipate his veiling shadows, and ran headlong into something quite solid. He ricocheted backward and landed on the freezing flagstones with a muffled thud that nonetheless echoed around the corridor. From this degrading position, he peered upward through a few, stray wisps of his blonde bangs. The hairs on the back of his neck, on his arms stood on end as an icy thrill went shivering down his spine. The Dark Lord himself was towering above Draco, his scarlet eyes bright in the dim light, glowing, piercing through the boy at his feet.

"S-s-sir!" Draco sputtered, his voice all but robbed in his astonishment and dread. It was fear too that drove him to clamber with all speed and no grace to his feet; on the ground he was a sitting target. Already he could feel a sword point resting against his throat, waiting.

"That's 'Master' to you, boy," the Dark Lord snarled. He lowered his wand and, with it, the shield he had thrown up to avoid the bodily collision. The glare of those cruel eyes made Draco shrink back, he was so unaccustomed to heat such as it radiated; it could not have more pronounced him vile, as a slug on one's sole. "Now," his high voice was as a poison dripped down Draco's throat, a few lethal drops of Veritaserum, "where were you? I was told those dorms were locked tight. How did you escape?"

That poison was ensnaring his heart, squeezing it tight, making it race, widening his eyes. "Wh-who-?"

"That's no concern of yours. Answer me!"

Draco was suddenly struck by a pain that threatened to buckle his knees. It felt as though a fist had just been rammed through his forehead and had snatched at a ribbon of thought, was unwinding it to read the memories imprinted there. The corridor, the Dark Lord suddenly dissolved, melted away to be replaced by another image. He was creeping from bed, lacing up his boots, donning his cloak. He was crossing the dark room by the moonlight. He was on his knees, pushing on the great stone in the wall, which swung inward to create a gaping hole through which he was able to slide.

Then, as suddenly as the torture had begun, the pain was lifted, leaving Draco gasping, staring at the hem of a black robe, nails digging into his thighs in an attempt to remain upright. The draft bit deep into him as it struck the beads of sweat that had begun to pearl along his hairline. His head spun; he felt faint.

"So..." The voice above him was high, harrowing like tiny, November raindrops against his skin. He looked up again through his hair, met the gleaming eyes in the skull-like face. "So, you discovered a secret passageway. Who showed you this?" the Dark Lord demanded. "Or," he added, sounding half-impressed by the conjecture, "did you find it on your own?"

Draco didn't want to answer, knew what a truthful answer would lead to, but the Dark Lord's poisonous voice, the effects of the Legilmency were still upon him and he felt the words being dragged up his throat, parting his lips. "The elves. The elves showed me."

"Indeed." A faint, vile amusement curled the tips of the his lipless mouth. "Well, they're easily taken care of. But first..." The Dark Lord's long fingers curled around Draco's wrist, viselike so that he could not twist free. Draco felt his skin cringe back from the contact as the Dark Lord wrenched him nearer, so that Draco could see himself reflected in the catlike pupils of the scarlet eyes. "To deal with you."

Draco was tugged again and found his feet scurrying in the Dark Lord's wake, back along the corridor, down the flights of steps. He did not dare ask where he was being taken as he stumbled along, his ankles licked by the airy material of the billowing robe. The Dark Lord dragged him all the way back down to the ground level and along the entrance hall to a door Draco had noticed before, but had found locked. It opened at the Dark Lord's touch and Draco was steered down a flight of stone steps, their surface slippery with a thick coat of dust that nearly silenced the slap of his boots. Once, he had to throw a hand out to catch at the stone of the wall to keep himself from tumbling, but withdrew his clutching fingers quickly; the stone burned like ice at this subterranean level.

Four levels down, the stairs ended in a passageway, dark as night. It was only when Draco, shivering, his wrist throbbing, his fingers numb in the Dark Lord's throttle, heard the click of a lock that he perceived that they stood beside a door and only by the squeal of the unused hinges that he knew that door had been opened.

The Dark Lord entered first, moving now at a slower pace. He hesitated, it seemed, then conjured such a bright light that Draco thought for a moment he would be blinded. Holding the ball of dancing, blue flames in his hand, the Dark Lord inspected the room, and Draco imitated him.

It made the rest of Durmstrang look like a Southern seaside spa. It was small, no larger than his mother's closet. The nearest thing to a window was a small, square hole in the inches thick wood of the door, spanned by iron bars. The only piece of furniture was a single bed, made of stone, set along the far wall; there was not even a bedside stand to rest a candle on. His breath rose as a dense fog in the light of the Dark Lord's flame. The air was heavy, stagnant, difficult to breathe. A rusted, iron peg stuck out of the wall and there was a long, copper line of rust trailing from it that looked to Draco suspiciously as if it had been left by a chain that had since been removed. Worse still was the a dark purple stain on the stone floor nearby; Draco did not like to think about what had probably caused it.

From above him, he heard the Dark Lord declare with a sanguine hiss, "It'll do."

"Do?" Draco was embarrassed to find his voice had climbed several octaves, shivered in the arctic air. "Do for what?"

The Dark Lord looked down upon him with a humorless leer. "Why, your new dorm."

"New dorm?" Draco repeated, all the breath seeming to have left him, frozen in his lungs. "It's a prison!"

"Ah, now I see why Snape assured me you were intelligent."

"I can't live here! I'll freeze!"

"You'll live," the Dark Lord said slowly, "wherever I tell you to. This afternoon, when you have finished with classes, you will return here. Tonight, I will come to lock you in. I will take no more chances with you, Draco, no..." He lifted a bony finger and traced it along Draco's cheek, like a glowing brand in its iciness, sending another shiver down his spine. "Lord Voldemort keeps his own..."

Draco became aware that the Dark Lord had released him, but rather than wanting to run, to ascend back up through the Stygian darkness to lighter planes, he merely wrapped himself in his arms, meek, hid himself in the folds of his cloak, and turned his gaze hellward.

"This is for your own benefit, you know that. Were I to allow you to do as you wish, to return into that Muggle-loving fool's power- yes, Draco," he added, for Draco had looked up, wide-eyed at the recognition; he had assumed that the Dark Lord had not so deeply penetrated his mind and had considered that the only reason he had not been killed outright, "don't think me ignorant- he would surely destroy you."

"But," Draco's eyes flew from one gleaming eye to the other, searching for an answer, "he didn't kill me before now. I lived in that castle for four years before-"

"There are things at work now that you do not understand, nor can you know yet. In time, I believe you will be ready, but now... I will see you tonight."

The Dark Lord turned to go, the small pool of shimmering, blue light haloing him.

Draco, alarmed, cried out, "May I have a light?"

The Dark Lord turned and the flickering fire illuminated the twisted grin on his lipless mouth. "Already you begin to view me more benevolently. Hold out your hand."

Draco hesitated, but at the Dark Lord's second, cooed urging, did as he was bidden. The Dark Lord lowered his own hand until it was a mere few inches above his own, then tipped it. The flames toppled out and Draco, by instinct, gasped and made to pull away. The Dark Lord, though, restrained him, grabbing his hand, viselike so that his most desperate efforts to escape proved fruitless, and holding it steady in his. The flames broke over his palm, roiled, and righted themselves. They continued to gleam with the same intensity, but did not burn, were not even warm. Rather their flickering tongues tickled his skin as Draco stared, amazed, into their depths.

"Remain with me," the Dark Lord crooned, "and I will teach you how to conjure these flames yourself."

He left, then, leaving the door wide behind him, expecting Draco to follow.

A/N: So... that took some turns I wasn't expecting... This new Dark Lord is certainly interesting, isn't he? Please review!

Yours forever, Tsona