In individuals, insanity is rare; but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule.
Friedrich Nietzsche
"So is the rumor true?"
Draco stops halfway down the steps and looks over his shoulder.
Her years in Azkaban have not been kind to Bellatrix. Granted, Draco has no point of comparison – he was still an infant when she was arrested – but given the state the prison had left her in, there was really nothing she could have been but better.
In the days since the jailbreak, she has regained most of her faculties, in the sense that she no longer screams at things that aren't there and can hold a conversation that makes some measure of sense, but she still has a haunted look to her eyes and a strange, frenetic twitch that never seems to go away.
"Good to see you, too, Aunt Bella," he answers neutrally.
"Word is that you're the Dark Lord's new favorite," she continues as though she hadn't heard him.
"The Dark Lord doesn't have favorites," Draco returns, continuing down the rest of the steps when she catches up to him. "That would imply that he actually likes anyone. You're deluding yourself if you think he's actually capable of seeing us as anything but means to his end."
They reach the bottom landing. Bellatrix's face is somewhere between surprised and furious, all of it tempered by her usual amount of strange mania. "How dare you speak ill of His Lordship—!" she begins, but Draco cuts her off.
"I'm not speaking ill of him, I'm making an observation. He's obviously a sociopath. The only reason he trusts me is because I'm under his Imperius curse. He doesn't like me, I'm useful to him."
Of course, there's the strange and uncomfortable attraction – or whatever it is – he seems to harbor for Draco. Draco has been thinking about it a lot lately, ever since the Dark Lord ripped through all of Draco's memories of Harry with what Draco could only describe as jealous abandon, and wonders how or whether it would escalate.
Draco knows that anyone under the Imperius curse is legally incapable of giving consent. He also knows that despite the fact that he's an intellectual and emotional match for any adult, he is still underage.
He further knows that none of that would stop the most powerful Dark Wizard in the world from taking what he wants, should he want it enough and have occasion to take it.
Draco is not as upset as he should be. He can't be as upset as he should be, not with the curse. As with everything else, he thinks about the Dark Lord escalating, about what is by any reasonable measure being raped, and he feels absolutely nothing.
All he can do is continue on.
"Answer me!"
Draco's eyes refocus. They have stopped outside the door of the drawing room, and Bellatrix is glaring at him.
"Sorry," Draco says, "did you ask me a question?"
Her lips pull back from her teeth in a strangely animalistic snarl, but the look is cut short when a voice breaks through the silence—
"Little bird, there you are. You weren't in the laboratory."
They both turn. The Dark Lord is striding towards them, all long limbs and billowing robes. Beside him, Draco hears Bellatrix take in a sharp breath – it is the first time she has seen him since leaving Azkaban.
"My Lord," she breathes.
"Apologies," Draco says. "I was doing a round of check-ups on your followers still in recovery."
"How very assiduous of you." His eyes move from Draco and land on Bella, who is wearing an expression that Draco can only accurately describe as worshipful. It's somewhere between amusing, worrying, and embarrassing to see. "Bella."
"My Lord," she says again. "I knew you would return."
"I have always valued your zealotry," he responds dismissively. "Come. There's much to discuss."
Draco pushes open the sitting room door, and the Death Eaters – newly reunited, freshly assembled – fall quiet as they enter. The Dark Lord sits first, and Draco takes his usual spot just to his right, across from Professor Snape.
He smirks at Professor Snape, as always, and Professor Snape does not react, as always. They have not spoken once since Draco was forced to torture him, and Draco wonders why.
"Our new target is the Ministry of Magic," he says, sitting back in his chair and drumming his too-long fingers on the wood of the table. "A lofty goal, but the most critical. It's a plan that will require extreme coordination and careful planning. Draco."
Draco raises an eyebrow. "My Lord."
He turns and focuses on Draco. "Before the year is out, I need to be the de facto ruler of the greater wizarding government. Think you can handle that?"
Draco pauses, then sits back in his chair.
"Turn the Ministry into a puppet regime and lay the framework for a shadow government that extends throughout the entire system within four months?" Draco purses his lips and turns a few ideas over in his head. "Sure," he decides. "Should be a fun project."
The Dark Lord smirks viciously. "Then I will leave that in your provably capable hands. It's far too complex a job, of course, for you to think of returning to Hogwarts."
Draco opens his mouth, shuts it, then tries again: "Well, I don't imagine I'll lose all that much."
"You're far too valuable to be wasted so far away. Lucius?"
Further down the table, his father shifts in his seat. "My Lord?"
"I trust you can withdraw him formally from the roster?"
"I…" He pauses, cringes. "Yes, My Lord. Of course."
"Splendid." The Dark Lord leans forward. There's a new purpose in his eyes. "And while you're at it – you still sit on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, do you not?"
He tenses even further. At once, Draco sees where this conversation is going. "Yes, My Lord."
"Valuable as Severus is as our eyes and ears at Hogwarts, he has long been outnumbered. He needs another one of us among him, especially now that my reach will be expanding. Avery."
A startled sound. "My Lord?" Avery returns.
"You are, among other things, an accomplished duelist and good friend of Lucius. It would be perfectly reasonable for you to be appointed to the role of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, wouldn't you think?"
"That…"
Avery looks sideways at Draco's father, who is sitting rigid in his seat. Ever since his wife's death, everyone has been giving him a very wide berth, as if expecting, at any moment, for him to suddenly turn coat. Honestly, Draco had spent the last several weeks expecting the same; every day he woke up finding his father still present at meals was a surprise.
"... I suppose that would be logical."
"What do you say to that, Lucius?" the Dark Lord says. His voice is almost crooning, darkly saccharine, and he bends forward across the table to get a better look at him. His father's countenance is frightfully, dreadfully controlled. "Are you still with us? With our cause?"
He turns his eyes to the Dark Lord and meets his gaze unwaveringly. "Of course, My Lord," he says.
"Splendid. Then I expect you to appoint him and make sure he is approved. And once you've arranged it, you'll work with Draco and begin work on the Ministry."
Lord Voldemort looks at Draco again, then lifts a hand to crook a finger, the universal come here gesture. Draco bends forward toward him.
"Go with him," he says lowly, "and make sure he doesn't forget his place."
"Of course, My Lord," Draco returns, equally softly.
Red eyes glint. Long fingers trace the lines of Draco's wrist. "Wherever would I be without you, little bird?"
A question worth considering, Draco is sure.
