TW for blood, dead bodies and panic attack-like symptoms.
IWSC Round 3 - School: Mahoutokoro, Year: 1, Theme: Spell Damage, Main Prompt: (emotion) fear, Additional Prompts: (object) torn t-shirt, (spell) Sectumsempra
Word count: 1332
This is your duty.
The hissing voice kept echoing in Draco's head, growing louder and louder each time. Draco clutched his head and leaned against the wall, his trembling limbs barely keeping him standing. He wanted it to stop. He wanted to run away, to never have to listen to this voice again, to never have it torment him.
Alas, every waking moment, it was there. A small voice, sometimes barely audible, talking to him, almost cajoling him to keep doing all those horrible things.
You wouldn't want to disappoint the Dark Lord, now, would you?
Draco quivered again, this time in fear. He knew the Dark Lord's Crucio too well. It was worse than… well, worse than anything. Worse than Bellatrix's Crucio, worse than his father's. It was almost empty, void of all emotion, as though he was nothing but a plaything, a puppet to his master.
Perhaps he was a puppet, Draco thought. He would blindly obey the small voice that kept echoing its sadistic orders, all because he feared retaliation more than he feared what his own self was becoming. No matter how hard he fought, the voice, his voice, would always win.
Suddenly, the voice was gone, and the darkness clouding Draco's consciousness lifted. He was still pressing his forehead against the cream-coloured wall, sweat now rolling down his neck, and his limbs still trembling from the episode. He collapsed on the floor, burying his head in his palms.
It was all because he took the Mark. He did not have these episodes before, but they have become a regular occurrence since then. Blaise didn't have the little voice, but he didn't have the Mark either. But Theo did. And Draco would often see Theo looking more frazzled and on edge, especially before missions. He knew exactly how twisted and dark the Marking Ceremony was, but there must have been something more to the spell that bound him to the Dark Lord as his servant.
It had been torture, the Marking Ceremony. But even afterwards, every time the voice came to haunt him, Draco would feel the same spasms and the same despair as he had back then. The voice was meant to emulate it, meant to pressure him into doing what the Dark Lord has requested of him.
It was no different this time. The Dark Lord had summoned him just a couple hours prior to give him a new assignment. Go to X village, find X house, kill everyone inside. Go, be on your merry way. Make your Master proud.
Draco's body shook. Torture was one thing, but killing was another. He had become numb to torture; he had endured enough to not feel guilt whenever he did it himself. But killing… Killing was different. He could not kill Dumbledore; how could he kill anyone else? How could he march into somebody's home, point his wand at them and end their life without hesitance?
But he feared the consequences more. He could not do it to Dumbledore, but that had been excused. And severely punished. But if he failed again? He didn't know what would happen, but something would happen.
It's either you or that other person, the voice rang in his head. Draco clutched his head again and let out a whimper, the burning sensation on his right forearm intensifying with every second. He tried to resist, to block out the voice, but the more he resisted, the stronger the voice got. Do it. Do it. DO IT!
Draco collapsed on the floor, his consciousness fading to black.
Draco was moving his body, but his mind was not in control. His forearm, though, it was burning. It burned with the same intensity it had when he had first received the Mark.
It vaguely registered that he had apparated away, and found himself in a small town, somewhere in the North of England. He was purposefully walking somewhere, but he did not know where. He watched helplessly as his feet carried him to a small house, unable to stop his steps or his arm when it reached for his wand.
Draco could not do anything but stand by as his body marched in and raised his wand arm. His forearm burned even more.
He was screaming in pain and in despair, but he wasn't screaming, not really. His body wasn't screaming. His body was shooting off spells and watching in glee as all the innocent dwellers of the house bled uncontrollably. Even when his body turned to the children, he could not stop himself. He was desperately trying to close his eyes, but he couldn't. He could only watch.
"Sectumsempra!"
When Draco regained his senses, he was standing in an unfamiliar room. He was clutching his hawthorn wand in one hand, while a torn t-shirt was dangling from the other. The t-shirt was soaked in blood, but it wasn't his own. There were no scratches on his hands, there was no stinging sensation, and his skin was the same eerie white as ever.
T-shirt still in his fist, Draco looked up. He gulped back a yelp as he saw the bodies. There was a man and a woman, presumably a wife and husband, lying in pools of their own blood, their glassy eyes staring at the ceiling, void of all life. But worse even, there were two children, lying similarly still and bloodied on the carpet, in what seemed like the living room of the small condo. Children, not even Hogwarts-age yet.
Draco stared at his hands. They were bloody, much like the t-shirt. The t-shirt… It must have been the father's, Draco realised, as the man's torso was bare, scattered with deep cuts. He realised his hands were shaking.
What happened? His mind was spinning uncontrollably, trying to piece everything together, but he just couldn't. He had no recollection whatsoever. The last memory he had was collapsing on his own bedroom floor before blacking out.
He closed his eyes for a second. Then, his tremors came back, along with his fear. He feared himself.
He had done this. There were only three people in Magical Britain that knew of the Sectumsempra spell. Potter would never use it, not after what happened in sixth year. Severus… He would not use it either. Draco was not sure why, but he knew it had been himself. It was him that killed these people and it was him that tore the t-shirt off the man in a fit of glee. It was all him.
He lowered himself to the ground and pulled his legs close to his chest. What had he become? What had the Mark done to him?
Tears rolled down his cheek as he kept trembling on the bloodied wooden floor, staining the already ruined t-shirt even more. He had been afraid of the Dark Lord before, but now, he had become a monster himself.
Well done, Draco, the voice echoed, startling him. I see you understand now.
Draco was sitting on his bed, musing to himself about his next mission. It was similar to the previous one. Go and kill those Mudbloods, the Dark Lord had instructed.
He glanced at one of his drawers. He had washed the t-shirt and kept it as a relic there, as a sadistic sort of reminder of what he had done. And how he would have to do it again. And again. And again. Every time, he would glance at the drawer, and he would forcefully gulp down the fear that threatened to emerge.
He feared himself, he feared being found out, and he feared the consequences. But above all, he feared the Dark Lord, and he was reminded of this every time he glanced at the drawer. His Mark would then flare up, a warning signal of sorts, that he could not disobey. It was not an option.
And as he turned away from the drawer, the little voice in his head would keep echoing.
This is your duty.
