Apparently, I have a dark and dirty mind. My first HP fanfic, and this is what I produce. Lord Voldemort has plans for a certain handsome, young Death Eater - and they have nothing to do with curses. Voldemort desires power, mastery, and possession, and that includes Draco Malfoy. Warning: contains (non-consensual) SLASH. Set somewhere near the beginning of Deathly Hallows.
"Draco, come with me," the cold voice hissed, from the head of the table.
The blond youth looked pleadingly at his father, but Lucius Malfoy adverted his eyes from his son. Draco's chair scrapped against the floor as he stood, echoing in the silent room. A dozen pairs of eyes watched him as he followed the billowing black cloak down the dark corridor. Draco glanced over his shoulder. His mother's face was blanched; his aunt Bellatrix wore a smug smile. A few Death Eaters sneered maliciously. He thought he could discern pity in Snape's eyes, before the emotion transformed into the familiar expressionless mask once again.
He wished someone would speak up on his behalf – but he knew no one would.
"Close the door."
With trembling hands, Draco obeyed, shutting out all hope, any chance of salvation. Trapped in a room with the man of his nightmares, from which he was never able to wake.
They stood in a dark, wood-panelled study. It was tastefully, if impersonally, furnished, and the walls were lined with high towering bookshelves filled with dusty volumes and cracked spines. The only light came from a slow burning fire in the fireplace, over which hung a decrepit family portrait. Though the people didn't move, like in wizard portraits, there was something uncanny in their still, unsmiling faces and cruel eyes.
The heavy curtains of the room's sole window had been drawn shut, except for a small crack, revealing a partially obscured blood moon and a thick, ever-present mist that the sun never seemed to be able to shine through. A bad omen. Next would come an earthquake, the destruction of the sun, the stars falling from the sky. The end of everything Draco knew.
The flickering flames cast eerie shadows that seemed to writhe on the walls in agony. The Dark Lord was obscured in shade, his back to Draco.
The boy silently, if hopelessly, prayed he wouldn't turn around.
"Draco, you are the youngest Death Eater to ever enter my service. Did you know that?"
Draco nodded. Then, remembering Voldemort couldn't see him, he whispered, "Yes."
"I prefer my followers to come of age before they join me. When they are finished with Hogwarts. When they are stronger, more experienced. An empire is only as strong as its weakest link. Do you agree?"
"Y-yes, my Lord."
"But you, you were a special case. Come, boy. Come stand before me."
Draco swallowed and walked across the room. His footsteps muted on the frayed carpet, though his feet felt as though they were made of lead. He wondered what new task would be assigned him, what new punishment he would endure because of his father's incompetency, and his own failure to kill Professor Dumbledore.
He stood where Voldemort had indicated, facing his master. In the dim light, his white skin seem even whiter, his red eyes ever redder, his snake-like features even more grotesque – demonic. Draco inadvertently averted his eyes. He couldn't do it, couldn't look at that face. Couldn't look at the hunger that was in the depths of those slitted eyes,
"Give me your arm."
One of the pale, spidery hands rolled up Draco's sleeve, exposing the Dark Mark branded there. His mark. The long, thin fingers traced its outline as Voldemort spoke, "Though there is no Imperius Curse upon you, you do not follow me willingly, do you Draco?"
Draco's heart seemed to leap into his throat and beat there painfully, choking any reply.
But the Dark Lord did not require one. "You have been driven to service not by your ambition or loyalty, or even your father's idiocy and inadequacy, but by your fear. My other followers joined me because they desired power, protection, ideology, blood. Their reverence, their need, their fear keeps them loyal. Fear is a very powerful motivator. And you," the fingers left Draco's arm and grabbed the boy's chin, forcing him to look into Voldemort's face. The blood red eyes peered into the wide grey ones. Draco shivered, "wear it so well."
Voldemort stepped forward, and Draco reflexively took a step back, trying to keep space between them. Voldemort smiled wickedly, as though this confirmed his point. "It is not the repulsive, snivelling cowardice of Wormtail, or the feverish awe of your aunt Bellatrix," Voldemort continued. "No, it is the fresh fear of innocence and youth. Instinctual, unlearned. Unprotected. Vulnerable." Voldemort advanced, backing Draco into one of the bookshelves. They were only inches apart. Draco could feel the cold breath on his face, hear every hissing intake of air.
"Fear is perhaps attached to love. We fear to lose what we love. I know nothing of either. I have conquered death; I am immortal. Albus Dumbledore is dead. What is there for me to fear? I have mastered everything I have encountered. And you – reluctant, fearful, repulsed – you who despise me, I will master you too."
Voldemort caressed Draco's face fondly, as an artist appraises his own masterpiece, or a collector his prized possession. Having been a handsome young man himself, Tom Riddle Junior could recognize the Narcissian beauty in Draco. Beauty made more alluring by his pure blood, his fear, his youth. Beauty unsullied. There for him to manipulate and mar as pleased him.
He needed no Imperius, Cruciastus, or Killing Curses to bend Malfoy to his will. He had reached a new level of power and intimidation. It was the Dark Lord himself Draco feared – his sadism and twisted smile, his hatred and destruction of all things good, his powers of manipulation, his unquenchable yearning for mastery and proofs of his power. If he controlled fear, he could control the universe. The puppet master of the wizarding world.
"I own you," Voldemort reminded the trembling Draco, nodding towards the exposed mark on Draco's arm. "You belong to me."
Another one of Riddle's trophies.
Voldemort's hand moved from Draco's face to his throat. He dug his fingers into the soft flesh, the jugular vein pulsing steadily under his grip. He pushed Draco up against the bookshelf, and pressed his mouth to the boy's.
Even a Dementor's Kiss could not have been so horrible. Voldemort was colder than death, his thin lips dry and penetrating. He tasted like blood, wine, and decay. He seemed to suck the life from Draco, all joy and sense of self. The forked tongue of the snake forced open his lips and prodded inside his mouth, dripping a poison that would kill Draco's soul slowly, for years to come. An unhealing wound, that not even love could ever fully heal.
His first kiss would always be this one with He Who Must Not Be Named.
The Dark Lord's touch seared as his free hand travelled down Draco's chest and explored inside his shirt. Draco cried softly against the mouth forced against his, protesting this liberty. Voldemort released him from his kiss, to examine the boy's abdomen. "What made these scars?" he demanded, running his fingers over the bright pink lines contrasted against the pale flesh.
"P-Potter," Draco whimpered. The Dark Lord's face was blurred by the tears in his eyes, which were leaking out and trailing down his cheeks. "He c-cursed me. They d-didn't heal f-fully." Sectumsempra, Harry had yelled, and then he had experienced more pain than he had ever known, invisible swords slashing and slicing, soaked in his own blood on the toilet floor. Snape's counter spell had healed the deep wounds, and though dittany had been applied, the gashes still left their mark.
"Well now, we can't have that." Voldemort withdrew his wand from his robes.
"Please."
"Quiet. I don't want to hear any of that." Voldemort clamped his hand over Draco's mouth, muffling the screams that erupted as he dragged his wand over Draco's flesh, cutting it open. Flourish after flourish. Scorching pain, warm blood, opening up the old scars and creating new ones, rehealing the skin after he had finished each line, so they became pink once more.
When he had finished, Voldemort stepped back and inspected his creation. Several of the single lined scars had been transformed into jagged, light pink V's, accompanied by a larger laceration which resembled a snake. "Now," the Dark Lord smiled, "it is not Potter but I who have branded you."
Draco slumped down onto the floor, and yanked down his shirt. He did not want to see the damage that had been done to his body. Voldemort towered over him, with an expression of mixed pleasure and boredom.
Someone knocked on the door.
"What is it?" he asked, indifferently.
"We have news of Gregorovitch, my Lord."
"Very well. I am coming now." He glanced down at the curled, sobbing figure at his feet. "I have further use for you, Draco. You will not forget." The Dark Lord turned on his heel and strode from the room.
Draco buried his face in his arms, shielding himself from the unblinking eyes of the people in the portrait. He didn't want the muggles to look upon his shame.