Hello! It's deeh here! Just wanted to post this before the new book comes out. This is a pretty angsty story focused on the very broken, very young canon Draco. I wanted to keep my Draco here as canon as possible since there was a lot of character development in the last book, although for comical release I guess there will be some element of fanon of course (it's DHr of course there will be fanon!) I've been on a writing hiatus for a very long while, thus this story is quite old, but I like it. Oh and beware of a few of the themes, there is self-harm, attempted suicide and things like that. There's also a level of language I want to warn people about. This will be quite a short story as chapter lengths are pretty short compared to what I'm used to, but yeah I'll just shut up now so you can read So er, 'nuff said – enjoy! Hopefully…
He was Saved – Part 1He stood tall before them, his hands shaking with the temptation to cower in fear. Yet with the smallest glimmer of strength he found within himself, he managed remarkably to maintain an upright posture and keep his hands from shaking convulsively. Pursing his lips in a thin hard line, he kept his head bowed, glaring towards the floor so as not to let his eyes betray him. Eventually, his lips began to pain him; they were clamped so tightly against one another for he feared that he would whimper pathetically if they were even the slightest fraction ajar. He would not betray himself.
The looming black-cloaked figure emerged from the shadowed darkness, glorious… evil. The inner-circle dressed clad in Black robes and masks in the dimly lit chamber, dropped to their knees. He did also, and with overwhelming nausea, pulled up his sleeve and exposed his clean, white untainted forearm. Slowly, with painstaking dread, the dark figure approached. Step… by…step. There was a loud echoing around the room as heels clicked against moist, diseased stone. He gulped; his breathing turned to ragged exhales through his nose as perspiration seeped from every one of his pores.
The figure stopped before him. Easing out of the dark waters of the cloak, Lord Voldemort extended his ghostly hands and grabbed Draco's exposed arm. Long pallid fingers grazed him gently, stroking a tender lover's caress, mocking him, taunting sardonically. Draco had feared him to the point of loathing him completely. This loathing seemed to have enhanced his sensitivity to the Dark Lord's touch. The gentle touch was an excruciating flame searing, eating into his flesh. Voldemort's fingers were ten sharpened daggers fulgurating against his skin. He imagined it bleed crimson with a rush of his own blood. He hated it, but most of all, he feared it.
Then, by some unscrupulous audacity, Draco experienced the gratifying thought of killing him, and by doing so, simultaneously saving the world. To hell with the world, thought Draco, I just want to kill him. He recalled speaking of death in the past and previously treated it frivolously failing to consider the implications of ending someone's life. But the Dark Lord – this half-man standing before him, caressing his hand as if to torture him sadistically, - had threatened to exterminate his entire family! He was coerced to kill Dumbledore for shit's sake! Voldemort most likely intended his death already. Albus Dumbledore against a sixteen-year-old brat? To hell with that! And yet even though Draco had held the upper hand… he would not recall that night… he held a life in his hands… a life. He had the power. It was a power coveted obsessively by all Dark Wizards alike, the Power to kill Albus Dumbledore. Wasn't this - what all this was - a bloody power struggle?
…But why that power? Not that sort of power, he couldn't handle it. What would they do to him if he refused it…? He had no choice but to be subjugated to their ultimate control. However, since that fateful night where he and Professor Snape disappeared, a nagging voice had been telling him that he did have a choice. He could refuse this power and suffer the consequences… But, no, Draco wouldn't do that. What if the Dark Lord had won this stupid war? What then? He would surely be killed. His confliction was whether to choose between what was good and what was bad – what was right and what was wrong. He knew the answer, but countless times he could never bring himself to say 'no.' I'm not Potter, Draco thought, resigned. I'm not the Gryffindor Hero. I just want this to vanish. To hell with Potter, the Order, and Potty's quest to find the horcruxes – Who gave a damn! Now all Draco wanted to do was kill Voldemort. He subjected him to this humiliation… was this the epitome of a Death Eater? Is this what he was going to become? This was not the glory he had imagined.
No choice…
This is not my glory!
He wished to plunge the sharp blade of his dagger into the Dark Lord's heart and hoped in doing so, it would rip relentlessly at his last piece of soul. He craved to feel the dark wet trickle of blood trail across his fingers and seep to the stone floor. Every crimson drop would be a drop of his life. The body would collapse and convulse before falling limp in his bloodstained hands and then he would be satisfied. But never would he do such a thing, for at the same time, he would climb to heaven and journey through hell to please his new master. Draco loathed… this. Entrapment – It was his succeeding paradoxical emotions and desires. Abhorring his master and yet he would be willing to commit wholly to him, accepting everything silently without objection.
You've imprisoned me you vile bastard. I'll get you back for it… It was the last thought in his mind before he released himself of all emotion, cornering his thoughts and feelings behind a reinforced cement wall, privy to the prying bastard's mind. Aunt Bellatrix was very useful in teaching him occlumency. He leashed his fear with all his mental strength and transformed it into ready acceptance. Lord Voldemort lifted his hand with a preternatural feline grace and hovered it above Draco's forearm and whispered his destiny through dry, grotesque lips.
The real pain, the literal searing, burning and fulguration. His arm was tainted, stained forever. Killed. Diseased by this horrid brand. He had been imprisoned, incarcerated with the only escape as death. For a fleeting moment, Draco's focus broke and he stared directly into the Dark Lord's eyes. Two blood red rubies staring at him, scintillating malevolently. They were the last things he witnessed, before he could no longer withstand it.
You bastard son of a whoring bitch …His last shred of defiance, before submitting himself completely. Draco collapsed unconscious. There would be longer be liberation, in its stead, the despairing dull ache of sin that would never be redeemed.
-----
The congregation whispered low murmurs underneath the soft candlelight in the basement kitchen of number 12 Grimmauld Place, London. A deadly seriousness permeated the air, weighing it with its intensity. Only one voice spoke, through the whisper of the night – even the portrait of Sirius' mother had been temporarily shut up. The one voice, Bill Weasley was making his report as his flamboyant wife Fleur clung closely to him, even she uttered no sound.
"The whispers are rippling." Said Bill, his voice deep and laced with a steadfast resolution. "They are planning and his followers are rising in number. A number of us have been scrutinizing his movements." Bill nodded to a few members of the Order, such as Kingsley Shacklebolt the Auror and Lupin, as his report drew to a conclusion. "… And also." He added in finality. "Harry, Ron and Hermione have alas found the sixth Horcrux." He finished. Gasps filled the room in unison mingled with some sighs of relief.
All but one reacted. "…When are they destroying it…?" Asked Mrs Weasley, her voice hollow and apprehensive.
" As we speak." Replied Bill. Mrs. Weasley jumped up to standing position with such a startling force, that it toppled the chair over behind her.
"We shouldn't be sitting here! They could be in danger!" She cried immediately leaping to hysterics. "This is the last external horcrux, You-Know-Who would do anything to protect it! He'll kill them!"
"Mother -" Started Bill, but was disrupted.
"He's desperate I tell you – Arthur! -" She turned to her husband for support, " – Tell him!"
"Molly…" He whispered tiredly, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. "Do you lack that much faith in Harry, Ron and Hermione?" His voice was faint. Mrs. Weasley escalated from her already angry shade of red, to a shade of puce as she did her best to quell her anger and frustration. She was a remarkable and uncanny representation of Uncle Vernon, as strange as it appeared.
"I've already lost one son! I will not lose another!" She looked at all of them, searching each one of their faces for a voice of reason; the faces remained blank. Her eyes settled and pleaded with every one of them. She finally rounded to her eldest son and looked him straight in the eye. "Bill, Ron is your brother." Her argument bordered a plea.
"Mother as you said so yourself. You-know-Who's desperate, which is the real danger here. He needs numbers more so than he needs souls." Said Bill calmly and evenly as if to placate her with his own example of imperturbable serenity. It seemed just enough to keep her mouth closed. "Both sides are gaining strength, he's getting desperate and if he's going to initiate the Final Battle that will end this war than I think its safe to venture the guess that it will be very soon."
"But -"
"Molly…" said Lupin serenely. "I have it on good accord, from Fenrir Greyback and all the other vicious, subliminal creatures in his league, that He-who-must-not-be-named is preoccupied tonight."
"With what?" asked Fred and George in unison, all sense of humour and frivolity characteristic to them had momentarily vanished. (And alas Mrs. Weasley had permitted them to attend the Order meetings).
"A Death Eater initiation."
"Who would special enough to merit such an initiation at the given time, weeks away from the Battle that would end it all?" Asked Tonks, screwing with her nose confusedly. Lupin paused for a moment, a soft remorseful sadness glazing his eyes. He sighed heavily as the room waited in a choking silence for the answer.
"A young boy…" he finally stated. Time came to a pregnant pause as the room waited, half-knowing just what name he was going to speak, but the idea was too abominable to be believed. "… Draco Malfoy."
"Merlin, Bless his soul." Breathed Arthur, although he despised the Malfoys with a burning passion, he could not help but pity him. He was just a boy after all, and a naive one at that. "Evil boy, although, I hope he knows what he's getting into because in the end, he's still a -"
"A child." Mrs Weasley finished softly, suddenly thankful, that even though her boys and Ginny were in danger, they weren't coerced to submit to that sordid mortal peril.
The sudden deafening crash of the umbrella stand, three heavy thumps and an ear splitting screech -
Everyone rounded to Tonks - who despite having an infamous reputation with clumsiness - incredulously shrugged. Then as instantaneous realisation dawned on all of them, they scrambled out of their chairs, disrupting the deadened intensity. "Harry, Ron, Hermione!"
Everyone dashed like lighting bolts ascending the stairs.
All three of the reckless teenagers lay sprawled haphazardly on the floor bruised battered and bleeding but wearing the weariest of triumphant smiles – well Ron had already passed out, but still he did wear a sort of wonky smirk. Hermione's hair was dishevelled, her muggle jeans torn in at least twelve different places and her lips puffy and bruising. She strained to keep her eyes open as she slid through the threshold looking as though she had deliberately ran into the Forbidden Forest claiming all centaurs were half-bred, subhuman idiots. Her appearance resembled that of Umbridge as she was retrieved from the forest, subsequent to being carried off by herd of them after she referred to them as 'half-breeds with near-human intelligence.' But Harry, looked just as he always did – yet as equally injured, perhaps even more, as the other two – his jet-black hair stood at the back and his green eyes blazed happily behind cracked glasses and drooped eyelids as he curved his lips into a knowing smile. "W-We did it!" Exclaimed an exhausted Harry, relieved as his eyes finally drifted shut.
---
He gazed carefully at the bleak point of blank darkness in front of him and gulped. The screaming, a screaming. Ever since he received the mark, a screaming filled the caverns of his mind. It did not sound female, it did not sound male. However he knew it was pained and anguished, a morbid desperate song. He was supposed to receive the mark last summer upon receiving the task, yet for some unimaginable reason, the Dark Lord simply chose to grab a knife laced with his blood and scar Draco deeply on his left forearm. "This is will remind you of the glory you shall receive, shall you succeed." Yeah, thought Draco sourly, What a bloody good reminder that was. His eyes trailed upwards to where his hands would be hovering, simply inches above his head, ready to plunge his dagger deep into his stomach. His breathing was quick and irregular. It was almost a pant as sweat droplets seeped in their torrents from his head, causing his platinum locks to plaster to his skin. His hands shook violently over the dagger as he tried to restrain them, vowing to do this. The screaming would not cease; its excruciating song grew to a crescendo.
I am going to do this, after this I will be free. I can do this! I can do this!
He had been sitting on his knees like this for at least half an hour, his heart thumping wildly like an enraged lion ramming itself against his ribcage, he could feel it ramming in his ears. I'm ready, he thought, determined, I will end this once and for all… But all he could do was hold the dagger fearfully above his head as he ordered himself to stab it into his stomach, his muscles failing to comply. He wanted the yelling to stop, the song of his own conscience begging him like a mother crying for her dying child. For fuck's sake just do this Draco! JUST DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!!
"Aaarrggghhh!" He roared in frustration waving his arms around like a madman. "Bloody hell!" He yelled loudly, his voice bouncing across the walls. There were no lights, so his vision was completely obscured - and yet, he felt safe hiding behind that cowardly fact. But he literally could not see a thing, not a bloody thing and he wasn't going to trust his coordination if he couldn't even see where he was going stab the bloody dagger - he didn't trust coordination with something as important as his life. The room was pitch black, not even a dying candle to send him a hint. His frustration escalated as he realised the ridiculousness of it all. "I can't even bloody kill myself properly." He hissed angrily. This was absolutely absurd! Only yesterday had that ugly, maiming thing beenbranded into his arm and now, as he tried to do probably the only noble, dignified and minutely righteous (although cowardly) act – he couldn't do it because they were no bloody lights in the bloody room!
It was a lame excuse and he hid behind it.
He sighed and set the dagger down before him. I don't want to be a part of this… He lifted his sleeve and lightly placed two fingers across the mark, feeling the searing burn of his skin as its once pristine pale, almost white flesh was raped into this blackness by that revolting mark of evil and despair… His mind reached a philosophical standstill.
But what was righteousness and dignity…? He asked himself. He didn't want to be responsible for the Death Eaters. He wanted a way out… was this being noble, and righteous? In choosing not be a murderer by murdering himself, was that right? Or was this extreme cowardice?
What were these things they fought for? It was just a stupid little power struggle. Why not fight for things you want? Why did Potty, Weasel and the Mudblood fight for… whatever the hell they were fighting for? Love, or something. It isn't that great, thought Draco blandly, then again… neither is this power. He tasted the power and enjoyed it immensely for a short while, but when he faced the man he was about to kill and looked him dead in the eye… Draco swore vehemently and shut his eyes, evading the memory. It wasn't worth having to suffer this incredulity.
He had experienced some kind of love, not a lot, but brief moments of its fragility. His family operated differently. There would be no public displays of affection, or corny lines plagiarised from a book or song, there would be no pet names or terms of endearment - Just curt nods - a yes sir, or a no sir, either that or a yes mother, or a no mother. But he knew something existed, something that bound them together. It was why his mother had implored Snape to protect him last year against the wishes of the Dark Lord. It was why every time he querulously complained about school, his father would do something about it, and he could rely on his father to act upon it. But… more importantly it was the reason why he worked more than his ass off the entirety of last year to please the Dark Lord, because he was going to kill his family.
Draco didn't know if that was love or any absurd happy-go-lucky emotion relating to love, but he knew something universal and privy continued to exist. Perhaps not always evident but existing in its subtlety, and Draco had to admit that most of the time, there were frequent moments when there was absolutely no love at all. This love he knew was harsh and brutal but kind, blessings in disguise. Perhaps what he thought of, as this unifying power wasn't love at all. Well of course it wasn't Potter's kind of love, where you turn stupid and soppy all over a woman - that was simply disgusting. And the Weasel Clan's love? Oh no. He abhorred those redheads with their smiles and hugs and selflessness. What in hell was that? Why would you go around doing things for people and expect nothing in return? They called it kindness and benevolence, well, Draco called it injustice.
Finally… the mudblood. Granger. She was a thing of her own. An image of her thick brown curls and glittering brown eyes ablaze with fury appeared inside his mind. He coughed, looking repulsed as he actually admitted absent-mindedly that the image contained some appeal to him. That was just inappropriate.
On the other hand was power. And lots of it. He experienced what this power was to be and it was not his glory. "You're not a killer Draco…" the defeated old voice pleaded softly. "You're not a killer." Draco looked away, almost tearing at the memory and grabbed the dagger roughly, holding the point to his stomach. Squeezing his eyes shut, he raised the blade, ready to bring it down with enough willpower and tenacity…
He stopped and dropped the dagger. I can't do it… Draco stood and strode quickly out of the room, spitting in disgust as he left. He would never step foot in that chamber ever again. "Effing coward."
The song still remained.
And then, through the quiet click of the door, he realized the screaming voice was his own. Looking back towards the darkness. He screwed his eyes shut, ready to lament, scream and rage at this plaguing entrapment. But as much as he closed his eyes, compromising tears pooled in the gaps, leaking down his face. Now he only wished for someone to confide in, a friend, anyone – even that idiotic ghost of a girl back in the boy's bathroom, anyone. Leaning against the wall, he calmed his breathing and walled the tears away, wishing anybody would hear him… It daunted him as he soon realized that nobody would. There was no one for him, no one he could run or turn to, he was playing with the big boys now… and he was abandoned.
If only someone… His eyes tearing once more, he scratched and tore viciously at his blackened skin where the onerous mark had been imprinted. His mind, yelling and screaming, had lost all rational thought. "Go away! Go Away!" He whispered angrily at the Dark Mark, digging his finger nails ferociously. "Go away." He pleaded, breaking down into a wreck of tears, fury and anguish, sinking pathetically to the floor. Downwards, he fell, a plummeting forsaken drop as his trickling arm bled. And yet… there was beautiful pain. In the stillness of silence, where only his own ragged breaths could be heard, he leveled to the heavenly state of numbness.