Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise.
Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition
Holyhead Harpies, Beater 1
Main Prompt - Pawn 1: Write about a character being manipulated, Pawn.
Optional Prompts - Desire, Checkmate.
Beta'd by Amber and Sam
Just A Pawn
Pawn.
The word echoed in his mind, deafening him in the silence of his dorm room. Potter had spat the word at him earlier, their row escalating even faster than usual as the Mudblood pulled the scarfaced boy away by his robe. Draco had sneered at their retreating figures, his mask ever in place despite the inner turmoil that had plagued him.
Pawn.
Potter, with all his usual arrogance and ignorance had hit the Bludger with the bat using that particular term. Draco was almost certain that Potter didn't have a clue what Draco had been tasked with, and yet, that single word, along with the peculiar look in the green eyes, were haunting Draco for much longer than was acceptable.
It almost looked liked Potter understood.
But that was impossible.
How could the Gryffindor Golden Boy, The Chosen One, possibly understand the pressure Draco was currently under?
A seemingly impossible task, weighted down with Draco's parents' lives should he fail.
Draco had been so proud, so happy, when his father called him to the study over the summer, with the news that he was to be marked. He'd long awaited the opportunity, his need to make his father proud pushing him to fulfil anything that could bring him into the sights of the Dark Lord.
Now Draco wondered at the boy he'd been, so blinded by his need for approval that he didn't see the terror in his father's eyes at the prospect of his only son being tainted by the ugly skull tattoo that marred his own skin. He wondered at the naivety he'd shown, time and time again when he bragged about joining his father at the Dark Lord's side.
He wondered how he could have possibly been so utterly stupid.
One meeting, and he'd realised his mistake. Just one meeting, and he'd wanted to run to the Muggle loving fool of a Headmaster and beg for protection from the monster he was knelt before.
For that was what he was. Not a god to bow and scrape before, offering up life and limb; the Dark Lord was a monster, built from darkness and held together with evil.
And Draco was utterly terrified.
A week before his return to school, Draco had been called to his first private meeting. He knelt, keeping his head down and his mind closed.
The few people present, notably Draco's family, were emitting various levels of fear, or, in the sole case of his Aunt Bellatrix, barely suppressed excitement. The tension was so thick Draco feared he would choke on it.
Of all the tension, however, it was the Dark Lord himself that made Draco sick with anxiety, shaken to the very core when he was told to step back, away from the Dark Lord's robe hem.
As the details of his task were revealed, Draco had to clench his fists to stop his hands from shaking. He was sure he'd paled even further than his usual hue, but he managed to keep his face straight as he listened carefully to the impossible task being set forth.
How was Draco, a student, a nobody in the grand scheme of things no matter that he hated to admit to such a thing, supposed to overcome the greatest light wizard in decades? How was he supposed to best Albus Dumbledore when the Dark Lord himself, could not?
Of course, he wasn't stupid enough to ask such questions; that would only lead to an even more premature death than his failure would.
As Draco promised his compliance, he was rewarded with a smirk from the Dark Lord.
"Draco, dear, dear, Draco. Know that failure is not an option. Know that failure will result in not only your death, but the death of your dear parents."
His life had fallen apart with those words.
The knowledge that he needed to succeed, that he would forever need to succeed in anything he was tasked with or risk the death of his father— or worse yet, his beautiful mother who loved him unconditionally— had left Draco with nothing but the deepest desire to see Potter succeed at his own destiny instead.
Beyond killing the Headmaster, should the impossible become reality and Draco complete such a task, what else would he be required to do to keep the Dark Lord's wand away from his parents? Would he be forced to torture? Rape? Murder?
Would he be forced to fight for a cause he was steadily losing faith in, for the rest of his parent's lives, manipulated by the simplest of threats?
Sitting in his empty dorm room, Draco allowed a single tear to fall.
If this was his destiny, did he really want it?
"Crucio!"
"Sectumsempra!"
Time seemed to slow down as Draco fell to the dirty bathroom floor. Oddly, there was little pain, even as he felt his skin splitting open, his blood pouring, crimson staining the floor around him, paling in the water it ran into.
He was numb to everything, it seemed, even the fast approaching death that his injuries were beckoning.
Who knew Potter would even know such a destructive spell? Draco certainly wouldn't have guessed it, though he felt, idly, that he probably deserved it. He'd admittedly lost his mind, attempting to curse the irritant with an unforgivable, but the pressure had been building for months.
Fitting he thought, that it should be Potter who'd brought an end to it —an end to him.
Softly sung words interrupted his ruminating, and he blinked, angry to find his Head of House leaning over him with a wand, healing the cuts that ran the length of his chest.
Why was he healing Draco? Why wouldn't he let him go?
Potter, unlikely hero that he was, had been showing mercy when he sent that spell at Draco, promising to end the torment that Draco lived with, the fear that was his constant companion.
As the last stretch of skin knitted back together, Draco fell into the welcome blackness of unconscious. A welcome reprieve when the hope of never ending oblivion had been so cruelly snatched away.
"Expelliarmus!"
A simple spell, and yet, the wand flew through the air towards him, and the Headmaster lay prone on the floor of the Astronomy Tower, completely at the mercy of Draco's need to save his parents.
He didn't want to do this. He hadn't wanted to mend the Vanishing Cabinet, hadn't wanted to allow the Death Eaters entrance into the school where his year mates and the children he'd grown up with lay sleeping in their beds, unaware of what was going above them.
He certainly hadn't wanted to leave them to the mercy of Fenrir Greyback, the mangy beast of a werewolf that preyed on the weak and the vulnerable.
He didn't want to do any of this, and yet the threat held the wand above his head, ready to strike at the first moment of failure.
He faltered as Dumbledore promised him safety. He didn't believe the words spewing from the old man's lips, but for a moment, a brief moment, it felt nice to think that there could be an out to the hell he was living. He'd been forced into this role, would continue to be manipulated into further roles he didn't want with the singular but effective threat. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to believe that the threat could be removed.
Then Snape arrived, and Draco's soul, though fractured by terror and pain, remained whole for another day.
Draco watched through wide eyes, his skin still tingling from the hug he'd been the unwilling recipient of only minutes earlier, as Potter circled the Dark Lord. Time and time again, the man, because there was no longer any other way to describe the Chosen One, was knocked down, only to come up again, fighting harder and harder.
He watched them talk, unable to hear the softer spoken words from his place across the hall. He heard the two spells being called.
He watched the lights rushing towards each other.
And moment's before they met, he realised what was about to happen.
The game was finally over, for Potter had just toppled the king.
Checkmate.