Disclaimer: Harry Potter's world as well as the characters within are a beautiful masterpiece and I am very thankful that J.K. Rowling has shown it to us. Yet, it unfortunately does not belong to me. I am merely a fan in dire need of an outlet.
A/N: It's been a long while since I've updated anything and I sincerely apologize for that. If any of you are readers of The Life of Remus Lupin, know that I am going to try my best to post more regularly for that from now on and the same goes for The Mistakes He Made. While I may end up having another draught between chapters rest assured that I will never abandon a story. Finally, just so you know, this will be a Dramione fanfic. You have been warned.
Chapter One: Father's Punishment
A pale glow, the thin light of each pinprick of a star upon the obsidian-coloured sky, threaded together, as though veins connecting them. This pulse of galactic life illuminated four figures, mere silhouettes to be otherwise swallowed within the folds of night's shadowy veil but for when they would wade through these shallow pools of reflected light on the ground.
These outlines of beings moved briskly along a clear, straight path, bordered by a vast collection of greenery and leading from an imposing manor, cold despite all its grace. The occasional peacock would meander into their trail yet would quickly remove themselves after a brilliant bolt sent from one of the travelers would strike them.
Focusing on these travelers from a closer vantage point reveals one in the lead with another a half step behind. The latter's lagging seems to have nothing to do with physical capabilities but rather out of respect for the former whom carries with them an air which demands recognition of a higher status. The remaining two shadows walk side by side and while they too give the pretense of an elite social circle, their trek away from the stone house behind them was made with some obvious trepidation.
Another peacock wandered across the path. The woman in lead of the group flicked her wand, sending out a flurry of sparks which stained the retinas and shocked the albino bird into a run with an indignant shriek of anguish. This outburst caused a faint smile to caress the woman's lips.
She was a sharp featured woman, her aristocracy woven into every part of her from the serene way her limbs bended with each step to how her dark eyes tilted about, eager to pass judgement. Her black hair was an insurmountable mass of curls knotted down her back and hanging over her hooded eyelids. Her skin was ghostly white and of a seemingly papery texture, stretched over the knuckles and veins of her hand, a parting gift from Azkaban. Moving up this hand to the thin fingers and long, elegant black nails, where enclosed in this lazy grasp rests the wand which had scathed the few unlucky peacocks to happen in her way.
Hovering at her lace-donned shoulder, a face of the same mold gazed at her in admiration. The man shared her coal-like eyes and dark locks, though his hair was quite a bit tamer. His features were hollowed within his drawn face. Much like his companion, he seemed to have once been very handsome before Azkaban. "Quickly, Bella," The man murmured to the woman. "He mustn't be kept waiting."
The woman identified as Bella turned her head. "Come along, Cissy," she called and the troop moved on.
The staggering two made no attempt to quicken their pace despite the encouragement from Bella. The two laggers were around the same height with matching pale blonde hair. The one on the left side was a woman whom had plenty of potential for beauty had her nose not been turned up in a permanent shape of disgust. She kept one firm hand on the boy beside her's shoulder as they walked.
For the final member of the group was still a boy, though nearly a man. His hair was fair and tangled with his long eyelashes. His body was lanky but lacking of the awkwardness of boyhood. He held his head high, unaware of where they were going though he assumed that the woman next to him, his mother, did. And while many would take him for one, he was no fool and was not ignorant to the tension in the air which suggested that the reason they were being summoned was not to be pleasant.
His mother was studying him carefully, eyes searching meticulously for some emotion to be displayed that she could focus on, no doubt to put aside her own anxiety. He wondered what she thought she would find. Fear? That would be the most common response to meeting the Dark Lord, though the Malfoys were not a family of cowards but rather of pride. Then perhaps shame? No matter what she was looking for, he was determined not to let her find it. He kept his face and even his body impassive, instead looking at the scenery he had gazed upon thousands of times before in the past sixteen years of his life.
This time though was different. He had rarely ever seen the manor's front lawn in the context of night and while a combination of the stars with the full moon provided for light nearly as good as the sun, the tinting was off. It wasn't flooded so much as cast on the Earth's face, getting caught on everything from the grooves in his Aunt Bellatrix's wand to the feathers in the white peacock wings. It trickled through the gaps in the hedges, filtered down between leafy branches, and glinted off the top of the high, slick gate.
As they passed through said gate, Bellatrix stopped and turned to face the group. She surveyed the two Malfoys with pitying eyes, unlike her usually cold exterior. She held out her elbow for Side-Along Apparation. "Grab hold, Cissy," she said. "Rodolphus will take the boy."
Cissy shied from her sister. "Please, Bella," she plead. "Tell him it isn't our fault. Lucius is serving his punishment and we are apart from his failures."
"Grab hold, Narcissa," Bellatrix said, with more venom in her tone. "We are only servants to carry out the Dark Lord's bidding. And, even so, it is not your place to question him."
Narcissa closed her eyes and began reaching for Bellatrix's arm, then stopped. She threw her arms about her son's frame, holding him close. "You are not your father, Draco," she whispered into his ear. "Whatever the Dark Lord says to you or does to you, it was meant for your father to bear." With a pointed look from Bellatrix, Narcissa reluctantly grasped her sister's forearm and they Disapparated with a crack.
Draco clung to his mother's parting words as he grabbed Rodolphus Lestrange's proffered elbow. He now knew from his mother's frantic appeals that they were being brought before the Dark Lord due to his father's errors in the Ministry during the spring. Draco was no fool. He knew what penalties awaited those who angered the Dark Lord. As Draco felt the jarring effects of Apparation take hold, he finally came to terms with the knawing fear in the back of his mind that had originally suggested the all too likely reason for him to be summoned. Draco was prepared to die.
The walls were donned with peeling and discoloured paper. The floors were made of scuffed and uneven planks with a threadbare carpet laying in the middle. A lumpy chair of an indistinguishable shade had been shoved haphazardly in the corners. An unlit fireplace with chipped and broken rocks and a dust-coated mantle was beside a grey door with no handle. Black curtains concealed all but the splintering wood frame of a window. Draco took in the room with a passing glance for his attention instantly focused on the form standing between the hearth and the handless door.
The face was reptilian with slit red eyes and a grey, veiny complexion. His bony, skeletal form was draped in a simple black robe and his thin fingers held a wand.
"My Lord," Bellatrix said, her fierce admiration evident in her voice. "Lucius Malfoy's wife and son, as requested."
The Dark Lord's gaze studied Narcissa and then Draco. "Leave us," he commanded. With a dip of her head and a brush of her left forearm, as though to assure herself that the mark was still there, she eased the door open with her wand and glided out with her husband shuffling behind.
Narcissa inched closer to Draco, the cuff of her robe grazing his wrist. He was far too old to have his arms clasped about his mother's waist, but her mere presence at his side was a world of comfort. The Dark Lord drew nearer.
"Narcissa Malfoy," he frowned, his face twisting cruelly. "Your husband has disappointed me. Twice he has failed me. My first thought went to disposing him. Yet, he has managed to temporarily evade me in Azkaban." Two scraggly fingers ran through Narcissa's blonde hair. "I believe he will soon... regret his capture."
"Don't touch her!" Draco snapped but then promptly clamped his lips together when the red eyes met his.
"Aaahh," he said. "Young Draco. Relax, my boy. Your mother will not be harmed tonight." He pressed the tip of his wand into Draco's chin, raising his head as though he were a specimen of some rare beast to study. "What potential," he marveled. "Such a waste."
"No," Narcissa whispered in horror. Then her voice grew louder and louder in a devastating crescendo. "No, no, no! Not Draco, not Draco, no, no, no, no! Please, please, please not Draco! Please!" A Death Eater entered and grabbed Narcissa's wrists, pushing her out of the room. "No! Nooo! Draco! DRACO!" She cried, but was swiftly whisked away, leaving Draco alone with him.
He faced him calmly, hoping no emotion could be read in his eyes. He would meet death plainly, he told himself firmly. No screams. No groveling at his killer's feet. He would shoulder the punishment meant for his father and he would do it without further tainting the Malfoy name.
Surprisingly, the Dark Lord did not draw his wand on him but instead began rolling up the sleeve of Draco's robe, past the left forearm. A strange realization dawned on him and his tongue formed the words before he could sensor himself. "The Mark?" He asked skeptically.
"When you were born," the Dark Lord began. "Lucius told me that he would have failed as a father if you would not grow to bear the same mark as him. The Dark Mark. My Mark. And now, sixteen years later, I can say, he has failed." He released Draco's arm harshly and turned to the door.
"I don't understand..." Draco muttered. Then, raising his voice, he asked, "That's it then? I can't hold the Dark Mark?"
"There's a bit more to it than that," the Dark Lord sneered. He opened the door and left the room. No sooner had he gone than another figure entered the space, swinging the door shut behind him.
The face was marred with angry red scars, the long grey hair was matted with grime, the mouth was twisted into an animalistic grin with pointed, yellow teeth. His robes were ragged and torn, the front splattered with blood. His eyes were a bright blue, shining with madness.
"Lucius's boy!" He exclaimed. "Never thought I'd see the day that a pure blood would be brought to me soo...willingly."
"Greyback..." Draco spoke the name numbly, not yet understanding.
Greyback sauntered off to the window where he threw the curtains open. Light spilled onto the floor, dripping through the cracks and laying upon Draco's feet. Suddenly, he realized what was about to happen here. Eyes jumping anxiously to the window, the moon was already climbing the sky in confirmation.
"No," he whispered.
"Yes," Greyback grinned. His breathing had started to hitch as his bones began to shift, yet still he attempted speech. "There is a chance that you may die. I confess that would be a shame. You look like a strong one though-" he cut himself off with a shout.
Draco took the moment of relief to lunge at the door. His fingers gripped the hole where the handle was meant to be. He yanked at it with all his strength but it would not move. It must have been reinforced with magic. A low growl behind him caused him to turn. Earlier promises to meet death in silence were forgotten when faced with the towering beast. He screamed as tears formed in his eyes. The wolf pounced on him, teeth clamping on his bare forearm. Blood ran down his palm, pooling on the floor. Claws tore at his chest, shredding his robes.
He could hear someone waiting on the other side of the door, their feet scuffing the ground. He tried to call out to them, but his voice was too hoarse. His body was weak, too much blood drenching his skin and not enough flowing to his heart. The world grew faded and fuzzy. The pain was ebbing as the chill of the room pulsed to a strange heat.
Draco had prepared himself to die. He had tried to arm himself against fear. Yet, as the werewolf continued its gruesome attack, he found that he could no longer ignore his terror. It should be known that he was not afraid to die. In fact, he was afraid that he wouldn't.