A/N: Okay, so, I got lots more reviews and positive feedback on the first chapter than I was expecting (as in, I was expecting nada). I was completely surprised when I got 6 reviews within just twenty-four hours of posting the first chappie. So, needless to say, I'm very excited about this story and where it is going! I've also decided, since so many people told me to update soon, that I will try to update weekly, thus, I present to you the second chapter.
I was considering doing replies to everyone's reviews individually, but I'm not really sure what I would say besides thank you, and besides, I don't really have the time or patience to reply to everyone. However, if somebody does ask a specific question that I think others might have, I'll answer it in the next chapter. Instead of replying to everybody individually, I'll just give one large thank you to everyone who reviewed to this story and please ask them to continue reading and review again. And if you have a question, comment, or idea you would like to see in the story, please let me know and I will answer it (question) or consider putting it in the story (comment or idea). Thank you!
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Draco wandered amongst the guests at his birthday party, a fake smile plastered on his face. He had spent hours preparing for the party, dressing in his most immaculate clothes, washing his hair until it shone, covering the dark circles under his eyes with magic powder that most witches used for their pimples. In the end, her looked perfect, imposing, and commanding in his black dress robes, his now chin-length, silver hair greased back flawlessly and his white teeth shining from his arrogant, cool smirk.
But Draco was anything but happy as he greeted all the proper guests, lingering just long enough to make small talk, assure that his presence was known, and moving on to the next group. The turnout for his eighteenth birthday party had, of course, been monstrously huge. The entire parlor, over a hundred square feet of marble floors, ceiling, and walls decorated with numerous expensive tapestries, paintings, curtains, a grand piano, multiple dark cherry wood tables, and a giant chandelier, was so crowded with people standing around in groups that, had a person not nearly as graceful or important as Draco found themselves inside, they would have been lost amongst the expensive fabrics of women's dresses and men's robes. And the party was reserved for only Voldemort's highest ranks and their families.
Draco's words left his mouth without thought, his tone and facial expressions changing on queue automatically. Any other day he would be silently mocking all of the money the women spent on their dresses and the great lengths they took to make their hair flawless. Once upon a time he would have rolled his eyes as men boasted their manliness to one another and made crude jokes and innuendos as they eyed the prettier women amongst the guests, ignoring their wives. Had it not been his eighteenth birthday party he would have had to force himself not to glare at women as they gossiped about the less dressed or lower class girls, or he would have to prevent a cringe as girls his age (and some that were younger or much older than his age) flirted shamelessly with him.
But today was his eighteenth, and Draco was much too absorbed in his mind to bother with any of this. Nobody noticed, of course, he had been taught from birth to control his emotions and only show what they wanted to see, but deep down inside, in the depths of his soul that was only explored, but not even fully known, by one other person, Draco Malfoy was really, truly, completely shaking in fear. For tonight, Draco would receive his mark, and within the year he would have to prove to everyone he was valuable enough to be a great Death Eater amongst his father and other high ranking men and women.
Draco spotted his best friend across the crowd of people. Blaise Zabini spoke quietly to some younger girls as they fawned over him. The darker boy was dressed plainly but elegantly in a white, crisp dress suit, standing out amongst his dark, exotic skin. The boy had soft eyes and an even softer voice. Unlike Draco, he easily controlled his temper and was not quick to anger. The two boys had been friends since their childhood, and only Blaise new Draco's innermost feelings and faults. The boy looked up at him, feeling his eyes, and winked softly, excusing himself from the girl's flirting, to their disappointment.
Draco and Blaise were notoriously known for their lack of interest in girls. Many members of the wizarding world wondered if the two boys were not secretly involved in a quiet, romantic relationship, which only fed the flames of lust women had for them. Gossip surrounded the two wherever they went and women made bets over who would get into their beds first, but ever since Lucius's announcement of his engagement (of which Draco had never consented), and the scandal surrounding the Zabini Family, at least some of their school members had stopped their useless pursuits, to the boys' reliefs.
Blaise stopped before Draco, smiling at him. "Enjoying your party, dear friend?" He asked, his head cocked to the side and a knowing, sad gleam in his eyes. Draco merely glared at him as he nodded curtly to a lower Death Eater passing by.
"Ecstatic. I can't wait to feel the burning on my arm of his-" but he was cut off by a sharp glance from his friend. Draco shut his mouth quickly and turned to see his father making his way to him through the crowd. A glance at the clock confirmed that it was time for Draco to receive his party gifts, from his parents, at least, as their was simply not enough time to open all of the gifts piled high on a table in the corner of the room.
The crowd hushed as his father stood before him, smiling proudly at his son, for show more than anything. Draco lifted his head arrogantly and gazed coolly, but respectively, at his father, who lifted a glass in his direction and began his short speech.
"Firstly, my honored guests, I thank you for attending my son and heir's eighteenth birthday. My wife Narcissa," his mother nodded her blonde head silently to the guests, "and I are honored to have such a magnificent son. As you are all well aware, our son will be receiving his Mark tonight as he is welcomed into our Dark Lord's ranks. A round of applause!"
Draco smiled as he was meant to and held his head arrogantly high with feigned pride as the crowd clapped and cheered him on. "Now, we will give our son his gifts before the ceremony. Slaves!" There was a scuffle as some of the slaves came before Draco, bowing at the waists, and holding out his gifts. He took them without a thank you, again for show, and sat in a chair as his father motioned him to, opening the first gift slowly for show. Draco looked amongst the crowd for Blaise, but the boy had slipped silently into the shadows, a feat he accomplished well. The oohs and ahhs from the crowd brought his eyes down to the gift and he smiled a small, genuine smile and thanked his mother politely as he held up his gift: A shining, silky, green cloak. He ran his hands along the cloak and it felt like water as it fell around his legs in a fluid motion, making them vanish before his eyes.
Draco gently placed the invisibility cloak back in its box and moved on, unwrapping his father's gift warily. In his hands he held a foreign broom unlike one he had ever seen. He ran his handle along the dark, polished wood, felt the stiff, yet silky bristles, weighed the broom in his hands, and it seemed no heavier than air. The boy frowned at it and glanced at his father questioningly, who smirked arrogantly as he announced in that conceited drawl of his, "It is the newest, fastest broom on the market, Il Fulmine, The Flash of Lightening. It's foreign made, from Italy, and faster than even The Firebolt. It cost hundreds of Galleons, but let us not boast. What do you think, son?"
Draco nodded at his father and forced a tight smile onto his face. "I am most excited, father. Thank you." However, the blonde boy was torn. He knew his father. He knew that the man would not just buy him a broom for his birthday, no matter if it was the newest model or not. No, his father, notorious for being one of the richest, if not the richest, wizards in England, Voldemort's right hand man, Death Eater leader, would not merely buy him a broom, his father would want a grand show, a performance of the Malfoy Family's power, wealth, and prestige. Draco mentally braced himself for whatever his father had to throw at him, for he was sure it would be dramatic and flamboyant and possibly harmful to many lives.
Draco was not disappointed, though he wished he were. For not a few minutes later, after the crowd had ogled over his parents' expensive gifts, his father made a gesture towards the door. "And now, for our son's final present, and a grand, intriguing, amusing gift if I do say so myself." Draco did not miss his mother's confused glance at his father. So she did not know, though Draco was not surprised. His mother and father did not speak often, if ever. Draco turned his head towards the heavy doors as he heard them open, and along with the rest of the crowd, he stared.
In the doorway stood Ginny Weasley.
Draco recognized her immediately from the red hair that fell around her shoulders in soft curls. However, if it were not for this trademark of the Weasley family, he probably would not have known who she was.
She had changed so much since Hogwarts. She was just as short as he remembered her, if not shorter, and extremely thin, to the point that she appeared breakable. Her hair was dull and limp and Draco knew it would not have looked as clean and shiny and curly if it were not for multiple different magical potions scrubbed into it, for he used the same potions himself this evening. Magical makeup attempted to cover the dark circles under her eyes, and though it probably fooled most everyone in the room, Draco knew the look of such sleepless nights. Her breasts, which he remembered to be full and round at school (not that he had looked at them), had shrunk until they appeared no larger than a young girl's ample chest as she began puberty. Her cheeks were sunken, her hip bones jutted out, and the bones of her arms were clearly visible.
The girl's brown eyes were large compared to her thin face, and they gazed around the room with a look of fright and trepidation of the people around her, who stared at her and muttered and gossiped. Draco could see the panic easily on her face as she cast her gaze to the floor, as if the cold marble somehow blocked out the bright lights of the large, diamond chandelier and the harsh words of the crowd. On her arm, guiding her towards him, was one of the younger slaves, a girl a few years younger than Draco himself, and she appeared to be protecting the red-head as she brought her further into the crowd.
Draco could understand why. He wasn't sure if the Weasley would bolt like a frightened faun or merely curl into a ball and begin rocking back and forth. It was obvious that she was terrified of the Death Eater's staring at her, and her attire did nothing to help. The red-head was scantily clad in a black bra and underwear of some silky material. Hanging from a metal chain at her hips was a knee-length black, see-through skirt, the slits cut up to where the material met her underwear. Simple black heels were overlooked by the huge, metal shackles on her ankles that were linked together by a thick chain. The same shackles and chains adorned her wrists and neck, obviously weighing her thin body down as her shoulders were hunched and her head hung low. Scars marred her skin, easily visible due to her revealing clothing, or lack there of. They appeared to be given by multiple different torture devices, whips, chains, blunt weapons, sharp weapons, amongst others.
Draco watched with controlled anger as Death Eater men whistled and cheered at her, excited by her scantily clad body. Not a few reached out to grab her hair, her breasts, her ass, or pull her in for an unwanted kiss, but they were stopped by the other slave girl who towered above her protectively and pushed her forward, brushing off their hands and invitations and glares with a simple "Sorry boys, Master's orders", "I'm afraid not, this is a party", and "Excuse me, but I have a gift to deliver some time today".
The women were twice as bad. If their husband or boyfriend made a move for the girl they would glare venom at her red hair. Many of them called out insults at her small breasts, whipped back, and unfed body. More daring women attempted to strike the girl with ringed fingers, but the other slave took the brunt of it and kept moving, as if unaffected.
Draco observed all of this with a tight jaw and cool eyes. The only sign of his anger, noticed by his close friend Blaise, was his hands clenched so tight to the arms of his chair that his nails dug into the wood and left crescent moon-shaped impressions. It took Ginny all of three minutes to cross the threshold, pushed and rushed by her protector and deliverer, but to Draco he felt as if he watched the girl's stumbling footsteps for at least an hour. He noticed her flinch with each step, as if it pained her to take, and he caught how her arms wrapped protectively around her body as if to hide it from the prying eyes that slowly undressed her.
He had to admit he felt sorry for her. Draco had never been friends with the girl at Hogwarts. He hadn't spoken to her unless to insult her and he wouldn't have remembered her name if he didn't hear the crowd whispering it. But nonetheless, he felt bad for her circumstances. Well, okay, if he was honest with himself that was an understatement. He was furious, pissed off, irate at his father for putting the girl through this. He was certain his perverted father had made her wear such a ridiculous, degrading outfit. The boy felt his blood boil as he stared at the cuts on her body and he knew his father and other Death Eater's were responsible. The tremble of her body and the cruel, harsh words of the crowd made him want to scream and begin throwing hexes at all of those fake, disgusting, horrible people, but he held his tongue and kept his face impassive as she stood at his feet and bowed.
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Lights, sounds, colors, textures, they all blended together. She heard the vivid, rich materials of the women's dresses. She saw their cruel words spill from their mouths. She felt the bright colors of the paintings and clothing and makeup. All of it overwhelmed Ginny until she trembled in fear and leaned against the warm, unnamed figure that held her up. Once upon a time she would have thought of the female that supported her and cleaned her and fed her with a name, but now all she knew was the smell of cinnamon, the feel of soft, warm skin, gentle hands and caring eyes, and she dubbed it 'the presence'. That was how she recognized her savior and protector and shield amongst these loud, screaming, cruel creatures.
But all too soon her motherly figure was pushing her to move and she felt one foot step in front of the other without her consent. The lift of each foot took so much energy she felt exhausted after walking a few meters. The drawing of each shaky breath stung her lungs with perfume. She had thought the candle-light in the dark room was bright, but here the world seemed to shine with a blinding white light that hurt her eyes. And she felt cold, so cold. Cool air hit her exposed skin and made her hair stand on end and her body shiver. It seemed to seep into her bones and chill her body so that her limbs felt frozen and like stone. The soft brush of material against her scars made them ache even more than the water that they had bathed her in. She suddenly felt as if she would retch up all of the broth that they had forced down her throat, but thankfully she did not.
Eventually, to her relief, they stopped walking. She squinted her eyes open and tried to make out the details of where she was, of who was around her, but the presence beside her placed a hand on her shoulder and that warm, familiar voice that soothed her mind whispered tightly for her to bow and pushed her down. Ginny would have screamed out in pain had she a voice, for this sudden movement opened up some of the newer scars on her body and made her stiff joints and muscles move much too quickly.
"You can leave now," said a cold voice that Ginny recognized. She cringed and reached out in fright as the presence left her side, leaving her alone and surrounded by the cruel people. "Ahh, a Weasley, enslaved to a Malfoy. Just as it should be." A cold voice chuckled maliciously at her. "Imperio!"
An odd feeling overcame her as her muscles held herself up against her will. Her mind thankfully went blank, and she watched her surroundings with a sort of detached, fuzzy feeling. The words spoken around her were hazy and she had to work to make them out, but she needn't have tried, for soon she was doing as she was told, and she found herself kneeling on the cold floor, her knees stinging from their sudden impact with the marble stone. She felt her head lift and her eyes stare into the icy ones of Lucius Malfoy as he smirked coldly at her.
"Perfect…think? A Weasley bowing…Malfoy! Absolutely…ironic. Say something…slave!... Master!" She felt her lips move against her will, though no sound came out, she knew they formed the foreign word 'master'. She heard the voice say something else, though she missed it against the laughter, and the girl found her lips pressed against a black, leather shoe.
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Draco watched in veiled disgust as the girl was forced to kiss his shoes. His father and the other Death Eater's seemed to find this hilariously funny and they cheered her on to do more, inappropriate acts for the birthday boy.
His father grinned viciously, maniacally, at Ginny. "A Weasley kissing the shoes of a Malfoy, as she was intended to do. The perfect gift Draco, your mortal enemy enslaved to you. She's mute, unproblematic, broken. Effortless to manipulate, to control. Do you find her the perfect gift, son?" He could hear the mocking tone in his father's voice. Draco nodded mutely, staring at the top of the girl's head. "Bitch! Look at your master!"
Her head snapped up without a struggle and Draco found himself absorbed in those black-brown depths. They shone with fear, sadness, pain, loss, death. He saw every emotion he had ever felt, save anger, in those eyes. They looked too broken to feel rage, as if it were an emotion left only for those strong enough to fight, and he knew her beyond fighting. Those large, sunken eyes begged him for understanding, for pity, for death, and he wished he could give it to her, how he wished he could kill them both right there and they could die in each other's arms, in each other's remorse and sorrow. Those broken eyes reached the depths of his soul and he suddenly felt naked, exposed, open before them, as if she could see deep into his mind, see the anger and hatred he had for these people, for this place, for this life.
He silently pleaded with her, frantic for her to understand why he lived this life. He was desperate for her to know that he was forced to live like this, to feign his pride and happiness, to worship a murderer and fight alongside him. He wanted her forgiveness for this horrible life he lived, owning humans as property, torturing and killing muggles, advancing the power of the Dark Lord. He begged her to please, please understand that this was not what he wanted, that if he could escape he would, but that he was stuck, and would be, forevermore.
And she seemed to understand. At least, she kept her gaze on him, even after the Imperius Curse had been lifted and their fun had. She stared at him as if he could save her from some unknown fate, and he reached down, touching her hair ever so slightly before he could catch himself. He heard the crowd hush but kept his cool, feigning his interest in her for lust. "She is perfect, father. She will do perfectly." He smirked viciously, but his eyes pleaded her to understand it was all just an act.
"Good, son, good. And now, for your Initiation Ceremony. The time has come." He felt his father's strong hand clench his shoulder, not in comfort, but in warning, warning of the consequences of any rash actions. His father needn't have warned him, he knew the Dark Lord's anger and curses could not begin to compare to his father's, and so he nodded and kept his face as blank as stone as he left the girl kneeling on the floor staring at him. Draco glanced around quickly, caught his friend's dark eyes, and tilted his head imperceptibly at Ginny. He did not see his friend's response, but knew the dark boy would sneak her out of the room and to Draco's private quarters and no one would be the wiser. The crowd was too large for the Dark Lord to notice Blaise's absence, and so his friend would not get in any trouble, or so Draco hoped.
Draco kneeled before his master, his eyes trained on the dirt of the graveyard they had teleported to. Why did he always have to pick graveyards or some other dark, dramatic place to hold initiation ceremonies? Blaise's had been…no, don't think about that. Blaise's initiation ceremony was sick, cruel, disgusting. The two boys never spoke about it, though they both had been there to see her die. But that was the past, over a year ago, and today was Draco's ceremony, and it took all his might to not tremble in fear before the hissing snake of a man.
Deep in the recesses of his mind, hidden behind numerous barriers and wards that not even the Dark Lord could break, Draco begged, hoped, and prayed that he would not have to rape some poor, innocent muggle. Anything but that, anyway but that. Kill them, yes, he could do that, torture them, possibly, but rape them? Defile them? Steal their virginity and make them suffer before slaughtering them or worse, leaving them to live with that kind of horror? No, he could not do that, would refuse to, if only he had a choice…
"Draco, finally you join our ranksss," hissed the Dark Lord in his ear. "Are you ready? Are you prepared, foolissssh boy? Or will you messss thisss up asss you did before? Ssspeak!"
Draco cringed as he felt a cold, dead, skeletal hand on his shoulder. He dared not glance up, but kept his eyes trained on a small flowered weed as it died in the twilight. "No, My Lord, I will not disappoint you!" He forced his voice to be strong and commanding and, thankfully, empty.
"Yesss, but that isss what you sssaid before! Before, when I commanded you to kill that fool Dumbledore, and you failed! You will not disappoint me again with your excusssesss!" And with that the blonde boy could feel the sudden power, as if a hand reached into his brain and tried to find just what it was looking for, scattering any unprotected thoughts to the wind. Draco's defenses went up immediately as he hid his deepest, darkest desires, concealed his hate for the Dark Lord and his father and his fate, buried them so deep that he forced himself to believe this was what he wanted, what he longed for, to follow his father's footsteps.
Soon, all too soon, the prying powers of the Dark Lord receded from his mind, but he did not lower his defenses as he kept his eyes trained, trained forever, never looking away, from that dying flower on the ground, now nothing more than a shadow in the dark graveyard. In the last rays of sunset it seemed to glow red, as if with blood, and Draco wondered if soon he would lay bleeding beside that flower, or if he would tower above a dying muggle, eyes pleading him for death, as Ginny's had done not too long ago.
"Your father hasss taught you well boy. I'm ssssurprisssed. Perhapsss you are fit for your initiation. Stand! Stand before your massster and look me in the face!" So Draco stood quickly, not allowing himself to feel the pain of his stiff knees, and he looked into those crimson red eyes, the eyes of the Devil himself, and tried not to hide away in fear. Those red eyes searched his own defiant mercury pools and Draco swallowed hard, his head raised and his jaw tight. "Your tasssk, Draco Malfoy, are you ready for your tasssk?"
Draco bowed at the waist so low his hair fell in his face, shielding his eyes, and answered "Yes, My Lord." The Dark Lord laughed cruelly, the sound like nails on a chalkboard, making the boy cringe.
"Good, good! We have found where a few remaining Order memberssss are in hiding. We will sssurprisse attack them and sssslaughter them. Boysss, you have free range to do asss you wish with the ladiesss, but keep anyone alive that hasss valuable information! Now, let usss feassst upon the blood of our dying enemiesss!" A cheer resounded throughout the graveyard and Draco sighed in relief.
Kill some Order members. He could do this. He was trained to fight them, to kill them. They were so noble, always attempting to protect each other as they fought. It made them weak and easier to kill. With the Death Eaters, it was every man for himself. If you died, you died; nobody mourned your loss unless you were of value to the Dark Lord. It made fighting much easier when one didn't have to watch his back as well as his comrades'. It also made it a lot more chaotic. And the more chaotic the fight, the less anyone would notice Draco's presence or his lack of enthusiasm in killing.
Draco put on his mask and hood and drew his wand, apparating with the other Death Eaters. They landed outside of a small niche of tents, quiet in the dark of night. The cracks of their apparations were loud, and soon Order members were running out of their tents, wands at the ready. Draco counted them; there were no more than twenty or so, an easy and quick kill for the seventy plus Death Eaters. He joined them in the kill, not bothering to duel but instead casting the Killing Curse easily and efficiently at his half-dressed enemies. He felt disgust with himself at how easily the Curse came; he no longer had to flinch as he muttered the words nor did he feel remorse. He no longer had to feel anything. His mind was thankfully blank as he moved among the mayhem, ignoring the cries of pain and screams for help, blocking out the images of female Order members being raped, disregarding the blood and gore and bodies strewn around him.
And then he saw a flash of red. Not red like the crimson of the battlefield around him, nor red like Voldemort's eyes, or the red of the angry hatred that burned in his heart under the frozen layers, no, the red he saw was more of an orange, the color of the rising sun, of a phoenix's feathers, of a Gryffindor's bravery. His eyes scanned for it again and he quickly found that the red was the color of hair, long, thick, messy hair tied back in a ponytail as the body attached dueled with a faceless Death Eater. That color, that red, it was so familiar, yet, as he moved gracefully towards it, dancing between duels, he could not put his finger on it.
Not until he saw the face anyways. The face was of a young man in his late twenties or so, tall, with long red hair, muggle clothing, and trademark Weasly characteristics. His thoughts immediately jumped to Ginny Weasley. He knew this must be one of her brothers, one of the older ones that graduated before Draco went to school, and he felt a sharp pang of something in his chest. Regret? Remorse? He wasn't sure. But he knew that this man, Ginny's brother, would die here tonight, that was the inescapable truth. There was nothing he could do for the man without risking his own life.
But in another universe, in another life, he saw a different path. If the man lived, Draco could tell him about his sister. He would round up the last remaining Order members and they would storm Voldemort's lair. Draco might even help them. They would rescue Ginny and she would be safe in her brother's embrace, probably the last remaining family member of hers, and she would meet a nice man who would take care of her and heal her and marry her. She would escape from this country, from the falling Wizarding World and live out her life with her brother and her unnamed husband and lots of little children running around and she would be happy.
But he knew that was just a dream. In the real world, Draco stopped moving towards the man and instead stood and watched as a shot of green light killed the fire in his eyes and any hope Draco had for saving his charge, a girl he knew nothing about and had nothing in common with except the pain in her eyes. He wondered if the man, as he fell to the ground lifelessly, knew, in his last seconds of life, that his little sister was alive, though barely, and in Draco's care. He wondered if the man knew Draco's feelings, knew his loyalties did not lie with Voldemort. Did he see Draco running towards him? Did he see him as an enemy, as another nameless Death Eater, or did he see in Draco's eyes, despite their distance and the chaos around them, that they had something in common?
Draco stared at the fallen body, at the once lifeless man who probably had a wife and family and home, mere seconds passing from when he first saw that flash of fiery red to when he stood staring at the lifeless corpse, and Draco wondered how he could ever look in Ginny Weasley's eyes again, knowing that he did nothing to prevent her brother's death.
