AN: Sorry this took so long in coming. I started work on a major fantasy
novel and have been engrossed in that for the past few months. Reviews are
welcome. Thank you.
Part Three
"Congratulations, Draco. You've now completed your schooling and are ready to face the outside world." Lucius hands his son a glass of drink, which Draco is slow to accept.
"I think you'll find that I've been facing the outside world since I was twelve, Father," Draco retorts, and turns away.
He cannot bear this champagne reception. Tonight means nothing. He has finished Hogwarts, with excellent passes on all his chosen NEWTs and is about to take his place as son of the family, with perhaps taking a place in the Ministry. But of course he has other things to do. He was initiated into the Death Eater ranks at Christmas time, his eighteenth birthday taking place in early December. Since then Draco has provided his expertise at both wandless and stealth magic, swiftly mounting his way through the ranks. He has both killed and tortured for the Side of Dark.
Draco scans the room, taking in all those that stand there. For the most part, the usual crowd. His father, Snape, Avery, Lestrange, MacNair, Crabbe, both father and son, as with Goyle, and surprisingly the elder Parkinson. Draco snubbed that family two months before, and nearly lost his inheritance, not that he could care. Draco had been betrothed to Pansy since fourth year. Almost at the last minute he had refused to marry her. His eyes lay elsewhere.
He sips his champagne, reveling in the awkward atmosphere, the charged tension. He knows he will kill tonight. His body is running with adrenaline, he wishes this damned party would be over and Voldemort would arrive so they can hunt. It is getting more dangerous now. Since the death of several Hogwart's muggle borns, the Ministry and Dumbledore's side have been getting more wise, and better at ferreting out information. So they must be careful when stepping out the Manor tonight.
He feels MacNair's presence before the man speaks to him. He gets closer than Draco would normally allow, but Draco has long since gotten used to MacNair's methods. He doesn't even flinch anymore. "Hello, MacNair," he says softly.
"Draco, I must also congratulate you on your results from that infernal shitehole. It's the only polite thing to do, so I'm told."
Draco snorts. "Politeness has never been your foremost quality. Tell me why it has suddenly become so important to you."
MacNair has been drinking, and it shows slightly in the tinge of his breath and the spark in his eyes. Still he radiates power and ruthlessness. Draco smiles slightly at his mentor. MacNair has taught him everything MacNair knows.
It never used to be like this. But Draco has come of age and he is no longer afraid of this man. He knows his proficiency in dark magic has overcome even that of his father, let alone MacNair. He cannot intimidate Draco any longer.
Draco turns around and faces MacNair head on. "If you have something to say, I believe you should say it."
The older man draws himself up and faces the blonde eye to eye. "Do you remember, when you were fourteen, and you had displeased me, on a fine summer evening...?"
Draco's pulse begins to race. He plays for time. "There were most likely many such occasions where that description would fit. Pray, be more accurate, MacNair."
"I see you've inherited your Father's smart lip, boy. It doesn't care a bit if you've suddenly left school and come of age. To me you will always be the boy I broke and moulded in the way I wanted."
Draco's eyes flash. "You'd better be careful. I might have a smart lip, as you so skillfully put it, but I have reason to be. One smart word from you and I could kill you where you stand."
"But you won't. I know you. You're forgetting I know everything there is to know about you. I made you the way you are. When you first came to me you were a weak little child who's only ambition was to be Daddy's lap dog. Due to my tutelage you might have a hope one day of being a proper man. The night I am speaking of was the night where you had yet again failed the task I set you. I made you mine that night. You belonged to me and you still belong to me, Malfoy. And I think it's time to remind you of that. Tonight you will submit to me."
"Oh, you think so?" Draco says slowly, trying to keep the shakiness out of his voice. He does indeed remember that night. He'll always remember it. But why MacNair was asking for trouble now was beyond him. Teach him a lesson? Not now. Not anymore. It was time to see MacNair on his knees, begging for mercy. Time to see MacNair's blood on the stone.
"Draco," a voice drips. Automatically he turns and falls to one knee. The customary hand is run through his hair, and down to his face. Draco is the new favourite, and everyone knows it.
The hand guides him upward and as he looks into the thing's eyes a gesture is made to the fireplace. One by one they floo to Draco's choice of hunting ground, masking their wands and their magical signatures. Draco cannot help grinning as they make the journey. This is an honour few have realised. The Dark Lord is pleased with his efforts. There is not much further to rise. And tonight he has his Wand.
The Deerlix wand gifted to him two years before is Draco's only addiction. Still every time he lifts it, uses it, that amazing feel of power runs through him, making him of the Dark. It isn't long before Draco succumbs to it, killing quickly, savouring the sensations. Voldemort looks on, proud and content. Lucius looks resigned, but not Severus. He's been standing there looking on for far too long, and tonight is the night where everything will change. But before he can make his move MacNair interrupts.
"Malfoy!" he snarls, standing in position.
Draco, under the influence of the Wand, turns and grins widely, before moving to the dueling position. Spells fly and emotions rise. No-one makes any move to come between them. No-one dares risk Draco's wrath. No-one.
"You need reminding, boy," MacNair calls. "You've gotten ahead of yourself. It's all rushed to your head. You need a lesson, and I was always so good at giving you lessons," MacNair smiles, a horrible smile, but Draco isn't chilled. Due to the Wand he is exhilarated, ready to face whatever life throws at him. And MacNair would realise this, if he was half as clever as he claims himself to be.
Severus watches, apparently detached, but extremely alert. MacNair may have given him the chance he so desperately needs. His eyes find Parkinson, and the man for a second returns his gaze, confirming that they are thinking upon the same lines. Then they return to the duel.
Draco lands MacNair with Cruciatus and Voldemort turns away bored. Draco and MacNair care not that they have lost their audience. It has gone far beyond pettiness. Draco will never forget the three long summers he spent with him, the pain he went through, the delight that MacNair showed when he cried. Maybe Draco did learn something from him after all. But his learning has gone further than even MacNair knows.
Draco comes forward, and watches MacNair writhing on the ground, twitching in agony. He kicks him. Hard. He removes the Cruciatus and watches MacNair struggle to recover, then dodges the next two curses sent his way. "I'll get you, Malfoy," MacNair calls. He returns from the Cruciatus quickly – clearly he has had a lot of practice. The older man lunges towards Draco, eyes manic with greed and the desire to kill, an expression mirrored in Draco. If only Draco could be objective about the situation. In his hatred, he has become his mentor.
Draco focuses on MacNair, and sends a curse that takes out MacNair's legs from under him, and he falls, his head making a sickening thud on the floor. Blood flows across the white stone. It causes Draco's mind to reel and he turns away sickened, remembering when that had happened to him, and the pretty picture his blood had made. He looks one last time. And raises his wand for the killing curse.
In that moment, he is focused, so focused on the scene before him. The wand makes him reckless, heady, willing to do anything to get rid of the man who beat him, locked him away and took away his clothes. He steps forward, MacNair not moving, apparently unconscious, his blood forming an ever growing pool. But something stays Draco's hand. Something draws him to the man on the floor, and he drops his wand.
Everyone is watching.
The wand lies untouched, for no-one would dare to take something marked as Draco's. A muffled whisper breaks the pure silence, but it is quickly covered up by a cough, and due to the masks covering their faces it is not known who it was. But that is not what everyone is focused on.
Draco falls to his knees, and pulls off MacNair's mask. He runs his hand through the older man's hair, and tears begin to fall, and Draco bends down to kiss the man who he hates the most, and revels in the agony that he feels. No reason runs through Draco's head, no explanation for what has suddenly come over him, but he feels compassion, and regret, and a deep love for MacNair.
Then all goes black and he knows no more.
Part Three
"Congratulations, Draco. You've now completed your schooling and are ready to face the outside world." Lucius hands his son a glass of drink, which Draco is slow to accept.
"I think you'll find that I've been facing the outside world since I was twelve, Father," Draco retorts, and turns away.
He cannot bear this champagne reception. Tonight means nothing. He has finished Hogwarts, with excellent passes on all his chosen NEWTs and is about to take his place as son of the family, with perhaps taking a place in the Ministry. But of course he has other things to do. He was initiated into the Death Eater ranks at Christmas time, his eighteenth birthday taking place in early December. Since then Draco has provided his expertise at both wandless and stealth magic, swiftly mounting his way through the ranks. He has both killed and tortured for the Side of Dark.
Draco scans the room, taking in all those that stand there. For the most part, the usual crowd. His father, Snape, Avery, Lestrange, MacNair, Crabbe, both father and son, as with Goyle, and surprisingly the elder Parkinson. Draco snubbed that family two months before, and nearly lost his inheritance, not that he could care. Draco had been betrothed to Pansy since fourth year. Almost at the last minute he had refused to marry her. His eyes lay elsewhere.
He sips his champagne, reveling in the awkward atmosphere, the charged tension. He knows he will kill tonight. His body is running with adrenaline, he wishes this damned party would be over and Voldemort would arrive so they can hunt. It is getting more dangerous now. Since the death of several Hogwart's muggle borns, the Ministry and Dumbledore's side have been getting more wise, and better at ferreting out information. So they must be careful when stepping out the Manor tonight.
He feels MacNair's presence before the man speaks to him. He gets closer than Draco would normally allow, but Draco has long since gotten used to MacNair's methods. He doesn't even flinch anymore. "Hello, MacNair," he says softly.
"Draco, I must also congratulate you on your results from that infernal shitehole. It's the only polite thing to do, so I'm told."
Draco snorts. "Politeness has never been your foremost quality. Tell me why it has suddenly become so important to you."
MacNair has been drinking, and it shows slightly in the tinge of his breath and the spark in his eyes. Still he radiates power and ruthlessness. Draco smiles slightly at his mentor. MacNair has taught him everything MacNair knows.
It never used to be like this. But Draco has come of age and he is no longer afraid of this man. He knows his proficiency in dark magic has overcome even that of his father, let alone MacNair. He cannot intimidate Draco any longer.
Draco turns around and faces MacNair head on. "If you have something to say, I believe you should say it."
The older man draws himself up and faces the blonde eye to eye. "Do you remember, when you were fourteen, and you had displeased me, on a fine summer evening...?"
Draco's pulse begins to race. He plays for time. "There were most likely many such occasions where that description would fit. Pray, be more accurate, MacNair."
"I see you've inherited your Father's smart lip, boy. It doesn't care a bit if you've suddenly left school and come of age. To me you will always be the boy I broke and moulded in the way I wanted."
Draco's eyes flash. "You'd better be careful. I might have a smart lip, as you so skillfully put it, but I have reason to be. One smart word from you and I could kill you where you stand."
"But you won't. I know you. You're forgetting I know everything there is to know about you. I made you the way you are. When you first came to me you were a weak little child who's only ambition was to be Daddy's lap dog. Due to my tutelage you might have a hope one day of being a proper man. The night I am speaking of was the night where you had yet again failed the task I set you. I made you mine that night. You belonged to me and you still belong to me, Malfoy. And I think it's time to remind you of that. Tonight you will submit to me."
"Oh, you think so?" Draco says slowly, trying to keep the shakiness out of his voice. He does indeed remember that night. He'll always remember it. But why MacNair was asking for trouble now was beyond him. Teach him a lesson? Not now. Not anymore. It was time to see MacNair on his knees, begging for mercy. Time to see MacNair's blood on the stone.
"Draco," a voice drips. Automatically he turns and falls to one knee. The customary hand is run through his hair, and down to his face. Draco is the new favourite, and everyone knows it.
The hand guides him upward and as he looks into the thing's eyes a gesture is made to the fireplace. One by one they floo to Draco's choice of hunting ground, masking their wands and their magical signatures. Draco cannot help grinning as they make the journey. This is an honour few have realised. The Dark Lord is pleased with his efforts. There is not much further to rise. And tonight he has his Wand.
The Deerlix wand gifted to him two years before is Draco's only addiction. Still every time he lifts it, uses it, that amazing feel of power runs through him, making him of the Dark. It isn't long before Draco succumbs to it, killing quickly, savouring the sensations. Voldemort looks on, proud and content. Lucius looks resigned, but not Severus. He's been standing there looking on for far too long, and tonight is the night where everything will change. But before he can make his move MacNair interrupts.
"Malfoy!" he snarls, standing in position.
Draco, under the influence of the Wand, turns and grins widely, before moving to the dueling position. Spells fly and emotions rise. No-one makes any move to come between them. No-one dares risk Draco's wrath. No-one.
"You need reminding, boy," MacNair calls. "You've gotten ahead of yourself. It's all rushed to your head. You need a lesson, and I was always so good at giving you lessons," MacNair smiles, a horrible smile, but Draco isn't chilled. Due to the Wand he is exhilarated, ready to face whatever life throws at him. And MacNair would realise this, if he was half as clever as he claims himself to be.
Severus watches, apparently detached, but extremely alert. MacNair may have given him the chance he so desperately needs. His eyes find Parkinson, and the man for a second returns his gaze, confirming that they are thinking upon the same lines. Then they return to the duel.
Draco lands MacNair with Cruciatus and Voldemort turns away bored. Draco and MacNair care not that they have lost their audience. It has gone far beyond pettiness. Draco will never forget the three long summers he spent with him, the pain he went through, the delight that MacNair showed when he cried. Maybe Draco did learn something from him after all. But his learning has gone further than even MacNair knows.
Draco comes forward, and watches MacNair writhing on the ground, twitching in agony. He kicks him. Hard. He removes the Cruciatus and watches MacNair struggle to recover, then dodges the next two curses sent his way. "I'll get you, Malfoy," MacNair calls. He returns from the Cruciatus quickly – clearly he has had a lot of practice. The older man lunges towards Draco, eyes manic with greed and the desire to kill, an expression mirrored in Draco. If only Draco could be objective about the situation. In his hatred, he has become his mentor.
Draco focuses on MacNair, and sends a curse that takes out MacNair's legs from under him, and he falls, his head making a sickening thud on the floor. Blood flows across the white stone. It causes Draco's mind to reel and he turns away sickened, remembering when that had happened to him, and the pretty picture his blood had made. He looks one last time. And raises his wand for the killing curse.
In that moment, he is focused, so focused on the scene before him. The wand makes him reckless, heady, willing to do anything to get rid of the man who beat him, locked him away and took away his clothes. He steps forward, MacNair not moving, apparently unconscious, his blood forming an ever growing pool. But something stays Draco's hand. Something draws him to the man on the floor, and he drops his wand.
Everyone is watching.
The wand lies untouched, for no-one would dare to take something marked as Draco's. A muffled whisper breaks the pure silence, but it is quickly covered up by a cough, and due to the masks covering their faces it is not known who it was. But that is not what everyone is focused on.
Draco falls to his knees, and pulls off MacNair's mask. He runs his hand through the older man's hair, and tears begin to fall, and Draco bends down to kiss the man who he hates the most, and revels in the agony that he feels. No reason runs through Draco's head, no explanation for what has suddenly come over him, but he feels compassion, and regret, and a deep love for MacNair.
Then all goes black and he knows no more.