Disclaimers, warnings, rating: See previous.
Author's notes: Thanks so much to all the people who reviewed favourably! Hope this chapter meets yr standards as well. If things are wonky, well…let's just say that my understanding of the male psyche is limited to that of Filipino males. Nineteen years of being with them and they still baffle me to this day.
To my thesis mates, Carlo and Alysees, who will probably never read this but deserve a mention because I should be fixing the page numbers on our thesis instead. And to Kacy once again. I will give you yr Harry/Draco smut. I promise.
WildfireFriendship: Of course. I refuse to have my Draco any other way. ~_^
Part II: Axe-woundWhat went wrong?
I feel nothing.
What part of that can't you do?
There is nothing in me to control.
Draco kicked his door open in frustration. That certainly couldn't have gone any worse. It would have been better if his father had yelled, blustered, done anything instead of looking at him silently as if he had been born hideously deformed. This was the only thing he ever really wanted—winning at Quidditch, getting good grades, he knew none of these would compare to the pride his father would feel once he took his place by his father's side as a Death Eater. The one thing he wanted to give to his father, and he could not give it back.
What is to become of you?
I don't know.
What about those schoolmates of yours that you claim to hate so much?
I don't hate them enough.
He lay down on his bed, absent-mindedly twirling his wand with his fingers. It was true, too—Weasley, Granger, and Potter annoyed the hell out of him, and it was always entertaining to see them put down, but Draco didn't hate them. They were like scabs—unsightly, hurt like bloody hell, yet so much fun to peel off and flick away. Weasley, especially. Potter and Granger were easy scabs; one good jab with your nail and they were gone. But Weasley clung, stuck, stung, bled, left those awful bits of skin around the edges that were almost as fun to remove as the scab itself.
But no one in their right minds actually hated scabs enough to make them want to kill anything.
Well, there had to be something he felt strongly about. And he had better figure it out soon, for he had less than forty-eight hours before his meeting with the Dark Lord.
There. Fear. Normally, Draco would never admit to being afraid, but it was the only thing he had to hold on to right now.
He let his imagination run wild. He thought of all the horrible things Voldemort could do to him if he didn't pass muster as a Death Eater. That Asian curse he heard his father speak so much of—Death of a Thousand Cuts, or something. The perversions Voldemort could force on him under Imperius. Hours, perhaps even days of Cruciatus. And maybe, even the source of all this trouble, the Killing Curse itself.
Surely that would inspire enough terror for him to cast Avada Kedavra?
Only one way to find out.
"Avada Kedavra!" he said, pointing his wand upwards.
A lizard that formerly inhabited his ceiling plopped down on his bed, missing a large chunk of its tail but looking none the worse for wear.
"Dammit."
The lizard leapt at Draco's face, licked his nose, and leapt away again.
"Eurgh. Dammit."
He wiped the small trail of slime off his face. What else could Voldemort possibly do to him? Make him really, truly afraid? His father never really said much about—
His father. Having a failed Death Eater for a son would surely have repercussions for Lucius, maybe Narcissa as well. And, little as he knew about the whole business, Draco knew that Voldemort did not take failure lightly. How would the Dark Lord reward a servant who could not raise another one fit to be in his service? In the end, it might not be Draco who would bear the brunt of failing.
He would not fail.
"Avada Kedavra," he said, his voice shaking slightly.
A spider fell down, and lay absolutely still on the ground.
More author's notes: Know it's awfully short. This is what I get for writing when my conscience screams at me to study for my finals.