Disclaimer: Not my toys, not my toybox. Everything belongs to the fab JK.
Notes: DM/GW. Eventually. This is my first attempt at a fanfic even though I do read copious amounts of them in my spare time and do write quite a bit of original stuff on my own. So, if I'm doing anything wrong, please tell me, babe! I'm a massive HP fan, but, in true me-style, I tend to like minor characters a lot more than major ones (though Harry is kick-arse, don't misunderstand me). It's going to be a bit dark, I have to warn you.
misbegotten
a neurotic verse joint
one
the first attack
Draco Malfoy was only half-hearing the chatter around him. Parkinson trying to coo into his ear, Crabbe and Goyle grunting incomprehensibly at each other, Zabini brushing her hopeless hair all into her breakfast. He didn't want to pay attention to them, but even less did he want to pay attention to the numb burning in his arm, the numb burning that Lucius (he could no longer use the word Father) had assured him would only worsen if he ignored it. He had to go that night, there was really no question of it. Lucius would come get him, he couldn't Apparate even though he had already taught himself how.
He picked idly at his toast and tea but ultimately he couldn't eat any of it, not with all that thinking in his head. He felt inestimably old, he knew that someday Zabini and Parkinson and Crabbe and Goyle would be dealing with this, too, but at seventeen he felt too young for it. Certainly, there were mornings when the owl post brought a death notice to an unfortunate student, but those incidents were rare. Everything about the war, to everyone else, didn't exist at Hogwarts. He had a Quidditch practice the next afternoon, which was dishearteningly incongruous with what he had to do before it. He left the table without even commanding Crabbe and Goyle to accompany him, which was a rarity in itself, and he felt their eyes on him as he left the Great Hall. He needed no sycophant ears for this.
Draco thought he knew, finally, how the burning unanswered could drive men mad. He had felt it only for a night and a small portion of day and already his head was spinning with magical pain beyond his ability to describe. He was about to go and be early for Charms but then he thought about his father again and choked. Teasing mudbloods and halfbloods and muggle-lovers was one thing, an enjoyable if not cruel distraction, but this evening he actually had to go and see everything, and he didn't think he would find it funny like he had at the World Cup a few years before. He turned around rigidly, thinking that was best to skip class and go back to his dormitory, even though the review for the Transfiguration first term exam was in two hours and he was already behind in his practice.
Ever since he had been marked three weeks earlier, he had waited for the summons with a mixture of fear and weakness and a sick desire to fall back into his father's favour. He was considering the best way to appear unafraid in front of Voldemort (bow, stand resolute, crawl and kiss the Dark Lord's robes?) when someone came down a half-hidden stairwell and knocked right into him.
"Oh … noooo." It was the Weasley girl, and she had been carrying a rather wide cauldron, the contents of which were now sloshed all over the corridor. "Snape is going to murder me – that was my term project! Why don't you watch where you're…" she trailed off once she realized who had bumped into her. "Go away, Malfoy," she said resignedly.
The tone of her voice made him cringe. It wasn't angry, only accepting, as if she were expecting him to start screaming at her. Which, he realized, he probably would have,any other day. He felt inexplicably angry. Stupid useless girl. "Sod off, Weasley," he said simply, and continued walking down the corridor, glancing over his shoulder long enough to see her looking perplexed as she tried to clean up the spill.
He put her out of his mind and went to the Slytherin dormitory, where he lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling and walls, all decorated in silver and green, and tried not to think about his father or Voldemort or anyone. It didn't work. He rolled over and pushed his head into his monogrammed pillow and wished for oblivion. It didn't come.
***
"Miss Weasley, you're five minutes late."
Ginny shuddered. She hated the sound of Snape's voice. It seemed ironically unfair that the only subject in which she performed beyond average was also the one taught by the cruelest professor. She set her cauldron down on one of the dungeon's desks and tried to smile in the face of her professor's yellow grimace. "I'm sorry. I – I tripped and fell." There was no point in mentioning Malfoy, the slimy bastard was Snape's favourite pupil. "I spilled half of the potion but it should still be good – I mean – what I have left should still be good."
"I see." Snape tapped his long fingers on his desk. "Yet I appreciate punctuality. Five points from Gryffindor for wasting my time. Bring it up so I can look at it," he ordered, indicating the cauldron.
Ginny lifted it. It was bad enough being in his class, but every student had to come meet him one-on-one regarding their term projects. It was an appointment feared by every Hogwarts student. She set the heavy cauldron on his desk and watched breathlessly as he peered at the silvery liquid. She had worked so hard on it, done so much research, and any other teacher would have been proud, but Snape was an entirely different matter. When he said nothing after a minute, she could stand it no longer. "It's a basic healing potion," she explained, "but it works much faster than an ordinary one. All I did was brew it with hummingbird nectar as an additional ingredient and then cast a speeding charm on it. When you drink it, wounds disappear almost instantaneously. Its practical applications would be – er – not forcing mildly injured people into an infirmary stay."
"I see."
She really wished he would stop saying that. Remembering the photograph in her pocket, she fished it out and showed it to Snape. "It's Ron," she said nervously. "He got hit by a Bludger in the shoulder on Monday's practice, so I tested it on him." Both of them watched the picture as Ron, who was smiling uncertainly at the camera, pulled his robes aside, to reveal a massive, yellowish bruise, and then drank the potion. The bruise shrank and vanished in less than a second. "See – normally he'd have had to go to Pomfrey for at least an hour. But it only takes care of outside cuts and bruises, not things like broken bones and internal bleeding, but I'm working on—"
Snape held up a hand. "Enough, Miss Weasley," he said warningly.
"Sorry," she mumbled.
"Though it is simple," he said slowly, "it's also quite useful, and certainly a preferable change from the overwhelming amount of love potions that my sixth years have chosen to experiment with." His lip curled at this. "Perhaps it is not an ambitious potion, but, then again, most experimentation begins generally, not specifically. You have brewed it well and I am certain Madam Pomfrey will appreciate your research. Ten points to Gryffindor for an excellent term project."
Ginny gaped. A reaction like this from Snape was like getting the absolute highest praise from any other teacher. "Th—thank you, sir!" she exclaimed, forgetting herself slightly. "Thank you very much." She started to pick up her cauldron and leave, feeling very relieved and imagining what Ron would say when she told him.
"One more thing, Miss Weasley."
She bit her lip and waited for the reprimand. Stupid to think he'd just give you points and let you go on your merry way. She put the cauldron back down and stuck her hands into her pockets.
"I am presently working on my own research commissioned by the Ministry of Magic," Snape said levelly. "It is a large task and contains information that currently remains classified. Headmaster Dumbledore is allowing me take on two students of my choice as assistants, and no one in Slytherin has your – proficiency for healing potions." It appeared as if all of this had been very difficult to say, as Snape's face was looking fairly dangerous.
She was floored. "You want me – to assist?"
"Yes," Snape said. "You would, of course, be exempt from the second term project in Potions, as the research would count towards that. It would likely also raise your overall grade in Potions, and, judging by the mediocrity of your other grades, I should think that pursuing potion-making would be a prudent decision for you." He was sneering a bit.
Ginny wondered briefly at how he managed to make everything an insult. But he was right, she should accept, she really wasn't great at anything else, and even with Snape she enjoyed Potions, enjoyed the odd beauty of creating draughts and elixirs, enjoyed the careful, methodical precision it required that seemed to elude so many of her classmates. Working with Snape might not be fun, but if she did it and did a good job of it, maybe she could go to university for Potions, and then get a decent job like Percy and Bill and Charlie. She loved her mum but there was no way she'd ever be just another housewitch, and here was an opportunity staring her straight in the face. "All right," she answered, trying to sound as gracious and grateful as possible. "I'll do it."
Snape nodded curtly. "Meet me here at six o'clock next Monday." He snarled a bit. "And be on time. This will get you anything you like from the library," he added, scratching out a note to Madam Pince that would allow her to access the Restricted Section. He rubbed his arm idly after writing. Ginny raised her eyebrows – she had heard the rumours like everyone else – but she left without saying another word.
She was vaguely disappointed. He had not told her what his research entailed; of course, it was easy to infer that it was in healing, but that was not enough to satisfy her curiosity. She found herself anxious to learn more, then grinned in spite of herself. Bet this is the first time anyone's ever looked forward to seeing that slimy git.
***
"Draco! Draco, open up!"
It was that bloody Pansy Parkinson again, simpering at the door. He had taken her to every ball he had been to at Hogwarts, mostly because his family would find her suitable even with her squished-up face, and even kissed her a few times out of obligation. This, apparently, seemed to merit her always trying to get near him and clinging to him. He thought of her arms snaked around him like malevolent octopus tentacles. He wasn't going to answer.
"Draco, your father's in the Great Hall – he's waiting for you!"
Draco sat bolt upright. It couldn't be night already – could it? He pushed his curtains aside, and, sure enough, there were stars glittering over the late November snow. Bloody hell. He gritted his teeth to keep his face impassive and pulled his long dark green cloak (the most expensive one Gladrags offered) over his shoulders. His father didn't like to be kept waiting, especially by the son he seemed to constantly criticize.
Lucius Malfoy had his back turned when Draco entered the Great Hall, which had already been cleared of supper. Draco's stomach rumbled insistently at the thought of food, but Draco ignored it, belatedly realizing that he had eaten nothing except a few bits of toast and egg at breakfast. Instead, he focused on his father, looking at the long stream of silvery-blond hair he had once so desperately wanted to emulate on his own head. "Hello, Dad," he said softly.
"Son." Lucius tipped his head. "You're late."
"Father." Draco returned his father's ice-cold tone. "I was preparing." It was a lie, but it seemed to work, for Lucius started towards the door without any further criticism. Draco shook his head and followed, trying to calm the hammering in his heart. Hell, he was going to see people die tonight, he had a right to let his heart go. He jogged a bit to keep up with Lucius' long stride.
"You're looking forward to this, I trust?" Lucius asked softly, just so the two of them could hear.
"Yes. Yes, of course I am."
"Don't disappoint me."
"I won't." Draco stuck his hands into his robes, so Lucius wouldn't see them shaking. They said nothing else the rest of way, just allowed the thick and uncomfortable silence to hang neatly between them as they left the Hogwarts grounds, as Draco held Lucius' hand briefly to Apparate (Draco had instinctively not told his father he knew how), as they flickered into existence before a stately castle Draco had never seen before. When he had taken the Mark, it had been in a dark and quiet forest a hundred times scarier than the Forbidden Forest, only for its silence. "Is this … the house of Lord Voldemort?" Draco let the question escape his lips before he remembered to avoid Lucius.
"What else would it be?" Lucius said in a bored drawl. "Come on, we won't be late."
Even Draco was taken aback by the majesty of the castle; the tapestries and statues and paintings made the ones in Malfoy Manor look like cheap imitations, and the ones in Hogwarts like absolute junk. Normally, he would have berated himself for having such uncharitable thoughts about the possessions of his family but on this day it didn't matter. "I thought he wouldn't live – like this." I thought he'd be in hiding. But that was stupid, he was powerful, and he didn't need to stay low.
Lucius gave an odd grin. "The castle belonged to a rich wizard, before the last war. Good taste. It's too unfortunate he was a muggle-born. Made his fortune in stocks, I'm afraid. Awful way to get money." He chuckled. "Do not worry, though, there are enchantments around it. Only those who are welcome are able to enter."
Draco found this decidedly not comforting, but he said nothing. Lucius swept into a grand ballroom decorated in lush red and burgundy, and it was here where the Death Eaters were gathered. All were dressed in black robes, but none wore masks yet. Draco recognized most of them – there was Crabbe's father – and Goyle's – the dimwitted expressions were dead giveaways – there was Nott, who always came to his family's parties – there was Avery, the Ministry executioner who had been set to kill Hagrid's bloody Buckbeak four years earlier.
"Here," said Lucius, and Draco turned to see him holding up a set of robes for Draco to step into. Draco kept his face stony and dropped his cloak onto the floor (where it was whisked away by a house-elf), then placed his arms into the sleeves. Lucius then handed him a mask. "No need to put in on yet," Lucius advised. "Though I know you must be anxious."
"Yes," Draco managed. He clutched the mask tightly. He was by far the youngest among them; everyone else had served in the last war. He glanced around the room, scanning the faces. His arm was still burning, even though he had arrived, and abruptly he wanted it to stop.
Then, in a flash of light and smoke, Voldemort appeared at the head of the room. Draco looked at him, really looked at him for the first time. The night he'd gotten the Dark Mark had been clumsy and mysterious, as he'd spent most of it squinting to see in the darkness, but now he could look at his master's face in clear light. Voldemort was like a cruel pastiche of a man, a parody constructed of limbs and eyes and too-shiny skin.
At the Dark Lord's feet, just like he had been at Draco's marking, was Peter Pettigrew. Pettigrew wore a mask but Draco could tell it was him by the silver hand poking out of his robes. One by one, the Death Eaters shuffled forward like obedient dogs, each mumbling and kissing the hem of Voldemort's robes. Draco did the same when it came to be his turn, and, when he was bent low, the Dark Lord's not-really-human face smirked at him. "Young Malfoy."
Draco didn't like that knowing smirk, but he tipped his head and closed his eyes.
After every man and woman had stepped forward, Voldemort drew himself up to his full height. "Put on your masks," he commanded. Draco watched as every Death Eater placed the traditional mask over their faces, and, before he forgot himself, he did the same.
"Tonight you shall get you want," Voldemort intoned. "There are a pair of muggles in Leeds with a mudblood son at Hogwarts, and we have to show the boy that filth like him will not be tolerated." Lazily, he drew his wand out. "I want the muggles killed." He said this as if he were ordering tea at a restaurant. Then, he flicked his wand, and Draco was no longer in the elegant ballroom, but in a kitchen. In an ordinary Muggle kitchen with all its strange electric gadgets, surrounded by a dozen or so Death Eaters.
It was quiet. It was possible the muggles in question weren't home. Draco didn't know what to wish for. He didn't like muggles, that was really no secret, but he had no desire to see them killed. He felt himself being dragged along by his father and the others, up a flight of stairs, over ordinary carpet and past ordinary decorations, into a bedroom.
The muggles were there, both asleep, both unaware. One of the Death Eaters – Draco couldn't tell which one, not with the masks on – stepped forward with his or her wand out and pointed towards the woman. Draco tried to squeeze his eyes shut, but they seemed to remain open of their own volition. He could not look away.
"Imperio!" shouted the Death Eater, and suddenly the woman's eyes flew open, wide and unblinking. Her husband sprang awake as soon as the spell was cast, but even before he could scream another Death Eater stepped forward and placed a Body-Bind curse on him.
Draco watched, horrified, as they forced the woman under Imperius to pick up her pillow and then suffocate her bound husband with it. The man couldn't move with the curse, but Draco could hear his breathing, heard when it stopped. The woman's eyes were huge and horrified – she knew what was happening, what she was doing, but she was powerless to stop herself. And the Death Eaters were laughing, cackling, even. He shut his eyes behind his mask when his father, who had been standing beside him, stepped forward with his wand aimed at the woman again.
"Avada Kedavra."
Unmistakably Lucius' voice.
***
Draco came back to Hogwarts late into the evening, much later than curfew, but he couldn't bring himself to care about teachers with points and detentions to give. Lucius had left him at the gates, and, as far as he knew, his father knew nothing was wrong with him. He didn't know how his son's stomach was turning with fear and disgust.
He couldn't go back to the Slytherin dormitory, not now. Someone might be awake and he couldn't deal with anyone, couldn't look anyone in the eye. He was repulsed to discover that he felt like crying. There was a boys' washroom to his left, and, without really thinking about it, he walked inside stiffly, put his head to the toilet, and retched. He would have vomited, had he eaten anything that day. Then he sat back, not bothering to get up off the floor, closed his eyes, and did not sleep for the entire night.
