Dark Empire
Disclaimer: All belongs to Rowling. Nothing belongs to me. Except my collection of pennies.
Rating: R, perhaps even NC-17 later on.
Summary: This is an Alternate Universe ficcie. Just pretend that you are in the late 1930's to the 1940's, and that the Nazi's were instead rampaging wizards.
"blah"- talking
*blah *- thought
Also for all you lovelies that reviewed. Chocolate chip cookies and milk. And some spoilers:
Main future pairings include: Lucius/Hermione, Lucius/Severus, Draco/Harry (but first a little Draco/Sirius), Remus/Sirius, Ron/Hermione
All the others are a secret. And much more naughty. Warning: future incest, statutory rape, and torture
WARNING: While there will be a comfortable quantity of heterosexual relationships in this story, there will also be a comfy level of homosexual ones too. Because that's just how life is, baby.
Take a PlaneThe latest raid on the railways had been a success. Sirius grinned as he walked to transit station; his hands tucked into his brown trench coat pockets. It had only taken a few dozen pounds of explosive and two weeks planning time, but it would take the Empire months to repair the damage. The Resistance had detonated the ammunition cars. There was no way to describe the devastation. Twisted car skeletons littered the railway, and the road itself was bent beyond repair. Smoke was still rising from the site, some five miles away from where Sirius now walked. Police cars screamed by, and excited voices talked of the Ministry's downfall. A few more attacks like that, and the Resistance could cripple the Empire war machine in Norway.
Several uniformed men in black ran briskly by, all holding guns and belts with loaded grenades. To them, Sirius was just a scraggly, underfed factory worker, dressing clothes too large for his slender body. To unimportant to stop and investigate. No, Sirius grinned to himself, this had been a good raid, and no one would have any idea how it was carried out, or who exactly had done it.
"HALT!!" A shrill voice screamed behind him. He walked on, figuring that no one would feel the need to stop a lowly grunt such as himself.
"HALT! OR I WILL SHOOT!!" At this Sirius paused and turned to look over his shoulder. Behind him, a weedy officer flanked by three others ran to catch up with him.
* Shit. What's going on? * Sirius swore again under his breath and turned fully to look at the men. They were SS, dressed in Ministry uniforms with tight black boots and wide black fatigues. * Better act dumb. * He concluded before smiling at the men.
"Hail Voldemort." He greeted them cheerfully.
"This area is out of bounds for civilians!" the officer snapped. He was of thin continence, with a rat face and sandy hair. He was an ugly bugger. But he was not, unfortunately, out of shape. After an invigorating run to catch Sirius, the young man barely registered any signs of exertion.
"What are you doing here and where are your papers?!"
Sirius swore to himself again. He fumbled in his pockets before pulling out a creased and worn paper with his fake name and stamps. The officer snatched it from him, sneered and crumpled it up.
"You have passed the expiration date." He stated simply.
"What do you mean I've passed the expiration date?! That's not until a few months from now!" Sirius growled, trying hard to keep his tone neutral. It wouldn't do to anger these men; the odds against him were too many. If all else failed and he changed into his dog form, the men would have a massive province-wide search ordered for him in minutes.
"It seems to me," the rat-faced officer licked his lips, motioning to the men behind him, "That your expiration date has passed. You must be punished."
Sirius felt his insides freeze. He had heard stories of men like this. Killers who stopped someone on the street simply to blow their brains across the pavement. For the sheer enjoyment of delivering the condolence message to the family and watching them weep. The bastards wouldn't get away with it this time.
"If you will check sir," he replied calmly, not betraying his fear, "You will see that you have misread. My papers do not expire until May."
A sickening smile spread across the man's face.
"We of the Schutzstaffel do not make mistakes. For your cheek there will be extra pain."
And suddenly there were hands gripping his arms and his legs, pushing him into an alleyway. They pulled at his clothes, ripping the trench coat off and a pair of hands worked on his belt. Sirius began to yell but the younger man pulled a bully club off his belt and hammered it onto his skull, jarring him enough to silence him. Boots with steel toes pounded his sides, and he was momentarily happy that they hadn't shot him. Large red spots invaded his sight and he choked on blood rushing up his throat. He could feel his body changing, his hands turning into claws, and his dark shaggy mane spreading down his back.
*I can't die now, not without telling Remus … * Sirius wheezed to himself, crumpling onto the cold concrete ground as the soldiers circled around him like sharks, drunken with their own rapacity.
"WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!?!" A furious voice roared from the entrance of the alleyway, and Sirius heard the foot-soldiers scrambling away from his prone form and towards the voice.
"S-sir!" the rat faced solider stuttered, "W-we just found this citizen crumpled here. It must have those Resistance g-goons again, sir!"
"Must have been…" Came the deathly quiet reply, both sarcastic and filled with silent promises of impending reprimands. "It must be horrible to be caught with your hand in the cookie jar, eh, Hendricks?"
The soldiers swallowed audibly, and Sirius could make out the rat-faced one trying to feign innocence. The rest simply steeled themselves for the approaching storm of moral reaming. As he began to regain more of his previously lost conciseness, Sirius's head began to throb, and he could only make out bits and pieces of the all-out verbal assault that was commencing.
"IT'S BECAUSE OF YOU INCOMPETENT MORONS THAT THE RESISTANCE IS SO WELL SUPPORTED IN THIS CITY, DO YOU REALIZE THAT?!?!……" the voice faded out, ".. …………..WE'VE JUST BEEN RAIDED AND THE ONLY THING YOU CAN THINK OF DOING IS BEATING UP SOME PIECE-OF-GARBAGE CITIZEN?!?! THE LEAST YOU COULD DO IS GO PUMMEL A MUD-BLOOD, OR EVEN BETTER, AN ACTUAL RESISTANCE MEMBER!!!………" again the rush of blood to his head drowned out the words, "………………… AT THIS POINT YOU ARE CLOSER TO BERLIN THAT YOU ARE TO A PROMOTION, HENDRICKS, GOT THAT?!?!……………….. IN FACT, YOU ARE DEMOTED!!! …………………….ALL OF YOU PRIVATES ARE TO REPORT TO THE EMBASSY!!! NOW!!"
Damn. Sirius groaned, could the guy yell any louder? Remus was probably overhearing the entire incursion behind his desk in the Resistance Headquarters. Speaking of Remus, he was still trying to remember if that hot steamy night where the werewolf had worn a red leather corset was a dream or an actual memory. Must have been a dream, Remus had already admitted to Sirius that leather made him break out in hives. That had been a tragedy. But if that was a dream, then what about that night with the chocolate? And WHY am I thinking about that when I've still got a Schutzstaffel unit standing over me?
"Sirius?" a sharp voice questioned. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Sirius' head snapped upward and met two fathomless black eyes.
"Snape." He replied, "I have no fucking clue."
* * * * * *
Draco Malfoy did not like planes. They were giant, obese, metal insects that relied solely on the power of physics to stay in the air. That, and annoying propellers that sounded like the re-enactments of the famous Wizards' Battle of Grindlewald's Defeat. And that certain battle had included 500 varying species of dragons that all seemed to have a particularly bad (and loud) case of gas. Planes were also easy to shoot down. Especially when they insisted on taking a route close to the ground and over well know Resistance territory. Yes, he much preferred having two feet solidly on the ground.
But for some reason, his father had demanded that he fly to Paris immediately after his graduation. Most likely his summoning concerned Voldemort, himself, and his father's new position as head of the occupied territories. He had been expecting this. It was assumed that Draco Salazar Malfoy would be plucked from Hausser and enlisted by Voldemort himself- underage or not.
He had always been a successful child. He was baptized in unicorn's blood on the day he was born, and his godfather, the man to baptize him, had been Grindlewald himself. He had begun his official training as a member of the "Dark League" at the age of three, when he first learned to channel the pure-blooded energy that was a right to all the chosen through his palms.
'You must be strong for the family, Draco.' His father had said, 'You must be the strongest and the brightest, because you are the last and the only Malfoy heir.' Draco wanted nothing more than to make his father happy. So he trained harder, everyday, until his tiny limbs were sweaty and he couldn't walk anymore.
By the age of six he had mastered the Unforgivable Curses, even though they were seen as inefficient (for a bullet could kill faster and was far cheaper) and unsophisticated. Nothing had made him happier than seeing his father brag about his success. After learning the basics in magic, his father taught him to fence, to channel the energy from within him into the blade, and he excelled. He excelled at everything he did. It was sort of dull, being the Hausser golden boy, but when one had such an impressive lineage it was to be expected. Lucius Malfoy paved a very hard road to follow. Draco doubted, even with all his talents that he would be able to surpass his father's achievements. Not that he really wanted to. Draco, though he would never admit it to anyone, was not fond of blood, not like his father was, anyway. It was sticky and it reeked and it reminded Draco of his mother's corpse.
The petite boy jumped to his fee instinctively at the sudden feel of a giant hand on his shoulder.
"Draco, you ready?" the dull and deep voice of Vincent Crabbe, the human refrigerator, slurred. The older boy took a seat next to Draco, his pudding-bowl haircut flopping in front of his dark, thick face.
"For what, Crabbe" Draco curled his legs underneath him, "The highly probable chance that as soon as I step off the plane, I'll be whisked away to Wolf's Lair and become boy-meat for Lord Voldemort? Or the possibility that we might be staying overnight in Paris?"
His conversational counterpart shrugged.
"In that case, hell no, I'm not ready. There are too many cabarets in Paris. And as for Voldemort," Draco spat, "I'd rather clean the bedpans in St. Mungo's Hospital for the Insane. And you know what they eat there."
He huffed and blew his sugary-silk bangs from his face. He made a mental note to cut his hair when he landed. It had grown in layers, fickle hair that it was, and the longest strands touched the priest-like collar of his cloak. It was a "fuck-me-please" hairdo. Not a good thing to have when one is rooming with a homicidal, manic, psychotic, pedophile.
Vincent flipped his hair again, then grunted in agreement and settled down for a nap. Snoring after only a few moments, Crabbe grumbled something and his hand caressed Draco's thigh. Ignoring the sleep-induced groping, he stared out the window and wondered when his fellow Hausser delinquents would stop hanging around the free bar.
He had gotten used to Crabbe's late –night and sometimes midday affections. Hausser was an all boys' school that expected nothing but the strictest of discipline and absolute perfection. With those expectations came stress, and teenage boys got their stress off by fooling around. With girls from the neighboring Ladies School and with each other. No one in Hausser was more sought after than Draco Malfoy, because he was pretty and looked just like a girl, and because of the way he glanced out of the corner of his eyes, lashes tilted just so. Crabbe had always wanted him. At the beginning of school, Crabbe had followed him around all day, into classes that weren't even his. Eventually, they had come to an agreement. Draco needed muscle and Crabbe was strong. Crabbe would follow him and protect him, and in return, Draco would let Crabbe slide in-between the covers of his bed and run his hands over his soft body. So it became habit. Crabbe was Draco's literal slave by day, and by night Draco was an erotic, live picture that the boy could masturbate to, rubbing his cock red and raw. But there was to be no sex. Never sex. Crabbe was basically straight and mildly ashamed of his obsession, and Draco was saving himself for…something. Draco did not masturbate. He had killed, he had lied, he had covered his hands in the blood of innocents, but he had never done anything sexual, and the mere thought scared him. For what if he did not excel at such an essential part of life? And how could he excel, without being instructed before hand?
Still three hours from Paris, Draco started to nod-off. Still half-conscious, he began to dream of blood and snow and a pale, sculpted body with a serpent's head.
Fin
Authors Notes: Har har har, mateys. Tis' been a while since I last updated. But I've been working on my original stuff that's supposed to get me accepted to college (since I illustrate it and I'm planning to major in animation) and also all of my damn AP summer reading assignments. Why the hell would anyone want to read Anatomy and Physiology of Plant Life in their spare time?! Hmmm. Not much here, unfortunately- I'd call this a .5 chapter, since Harry is setting out on his journey as well. Can you guess who Draco's "teacher" will be? Depends on how squick you are. I am personally very squick (i.e. Draco/ Crabbe is pretty damn squick, although my friend Rachel has earned the Squick Queen award five times in a row) and therefore, so are my stories. Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed. I fluff you all, and I'm sorry that I'm so durn lazy.
Ja!
LMC