A/N: This plot bunny didn't just attack--it was a bloody massacre. I don't know how fast I'll update or even really where this is going; I've got a novel to write, dammit, but I jammed out five pages in a little more than hour, so this one's not taking no for an answer. We shall see. As an aside, I very, very rarely title my stories until four or five chapters in, so this title may change if I find something more apt. For purposes of clarity, I don't see myself working on any of my other stories, so if you see an update by me, chances are it's this story. Enjoy, and REVIEW! If you want to see more of this story, let me know. Without encouragement, I'm more apt to let it drop.
The Dark Lord was not one to forget. Ever.
Merlin, he was tired.
His feet felt absurdly heavy as he stumbled forward, the back of his neck fairly itching as his nerves screamed a warning. He'd thought, once, that he'd get used to it; that eventually he'd be used to the omnipresent feeling that someone watched him, that unfriendly eyes peered from the underbrush, the alleys, the streets of London, the halls of the houses he broke into to catch one miserable night of sleep. If he was going to adjust, it hadn't happened yet.
He thought he knew why.
The Dark Mark. It was always starkly black, the serpent crawling over the skin of his forearm, hissing and yawning as if to show its fangs. That was why he always felt…watched. It wasn't impossible that the Dark Lord was watching, with whatever sense, power, or knowledge the Dark Mark gave him. But either it amused him to watch Draco run, or he couldn't see enough to send his Death Eaters after the errant son of one of his staunchest supporters.
Draco didn't know what to do.
Time enough had passed; he'd lost the initial numbness and subsequent leaden weight of his mother's death, and now it seemed it had happened to someone else, so long ago was it. A shudder writhed over his shoulders as he remembered it, his headlong and senseless flight home after the confrontation with Dumbledore at Hogwarts, Snape shouting something that made no sense, instructions that he ignored, terrified by his failure, dreading the Dark Lord's vengeance. And vengeance had been swift, it had been foolish of him to go home, however much he wanted—needed—his mother to smile and forgive him, to stroke his hair as she had when he was a child and tell him that she loved him.
The Dark Lord had waited. The Dark Lord was patient enough for that, that Draco would see the full magnitude of his failure. The lesson would be wasted otherwise.
Only twice before had Draco seen the Dark Lord in the flesh, and he knew, when he stopped, panting, at the manor gates, that he was too late. The house was dark; no lights burned a welcome for him. Icy with dread, he went, gripping his wand in a shaking outsized hand, but he'd been a gangly, gawky teenager then, and he tripped over his own feet on the way through the forecourt.
Never in his life had he feared anything so much as going to the front door and opening it. And he was a coward. He knew that about himself. He'd learned how to Apparate, even if he hadn't passed the test yet; he could go, leave. His mother would die either way, wouldn't she? Why should Draco present himself to the Dark Lord he'd disappointed, to be die with her, likely after a screaming eternity of torture?
He hesitated, his hand on the heavy iron latch. And hated himself for it.
The enormous wooden door swung open with a creak, and he stepped inside, forcing himself to stand up straight, to not cringe and hunch his shoulders like some broken house-elf. He was a Malfoy.
"Mother?" He called softly, his voice echoing in the empty foyer. The echo was the only answer he got.
It was unnaturally cold. Outside, the air was muggy with summer heat and humidity, but now he shivered even as clammy perspiration broke on his forehead. The Dark Mark writhed in his flesh and he clapped a hand over it, hesitating another moment before he went forward, trying to guess which room the Dark Lord might be in. What room would best suit this task? Lucius' office, Narcissa's own bedroom, the ballroom?
Never had Draco realized so clearly that he knew nothing, understood nothing. The methods of the Dark Lord were beyond his ability to imagine, beyond his grasp, and always would be.
"Mother?" He called again, more loudly, and his voice skipped an octave. Guided by an unseen hand, he chose the steps, gripping the railing tightly with each step up the gracefully curving staircase. When he was four, he'd loved to slide down the railing, cushioned at the bottom by old Miggs the house-elf's last-second magic. Until his father caught him and thrashed Miggs, and that had been the end of that.
The corridor at the top of the steps was, if possible, even colder, and he clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. But he thought there was a dim greenish light, barely discernable, in the north wing, a vague glow that curled around the corner where the hall turned abruptly east.
He would remember that slow walk forever in his nightmares. And as in nightmares, he could not turn back, no matter how badly he wanted to. His legs felt oddly jointless and he tripped again when he reached the corner, his breath rasping in his ears. His heart was pounding fit to leap out of his mouth, and he brushed his sweat-drenched hair out of his eyes, feeling the odd stiffness in his face, as if the muscles that made it mobile had frozen.
The green light came from beneath a door. The Malfoy Library; he had not thought Voldemort would go there, and his mind reeled as he tried to think what the Dark Lord could possibly find in the place, how he would use the things in that room to hurt Draco or Narcissa…what symbol in there was meant to be part of this lesson? The Dark Lord did nothing without at least a dozen different reasons.
The hallway had seemed endless when he turned the corner, but distance was deceptive. He stood before the handsome walnut door and stared at the green light on his feet, his hand trembling centimeters from the knob. The brass had gone foggy with the cold, and hurt his hand when he finally forced himself to touch it. Turn it, such an easy thing to do, and his whole body was shaking and he couldn't seem to draw a decent breath…
The door swung open on its own, and he stood bathed in that green light, blinking to adjust after the absolute blackness of the hall.
A fire in the hearth, emerald flames dancing, a more sickly color than flames doused with Floo powder. And there, at the wide floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the room, stood Lord Voldemort and Narcissa Malfoy.
Or, to be more accurate, the Dark Lord stood. Narcissa drifted in place, her face waxen and emotionless, her eyes empty. Maybe it was the Imperius Curse; maybe not. Whatever, she stood under Voldemort's power, not her own.
"Young Malfoy," the Dark Lord said, lifting his head, the slits of his nostrils flaring as he inhaled. "Shut the door."
His hand shaking, Draco obeyed.
"Come here."
"What have you done to my mother?" He asked, and if his voice came out more softly than he meant it to, at least it didn't crack or waver.
"She is at peace. For the moment." Voldemort's face was a study of icy calm, the red lights of his eyes flickering like banked coals.
Alberic, it was cold. His teeth ached from clenching his jaw, and he couldn't help shivering, his breath curling in white plumes as he approached, step by torturous step. Dread was a solid mass in his belly, hopelessness hanging like a millstone around his neck.
"You failed me. As your father did."
"I g-got t-the Death Eaters int-to Hogwarts," he stammered, unable to keep his teeth from chattering any longer.
"Your task was to kill Albus Dumbledore. Yes, that task was accomplished, but not by you." Voldemort hissed the last sentence. "Like father, like son. I have no use for those that fail me. And you—a talentless arrogant peacock that has failed at everything he has ever done…"
The words hammered him. It was true.
"But worst of all," the Dark Lord said calmly, "you are disloyal."
Draco's eyes snapped open at this charge, and against his will he took a step back, fighting to keep the shield before his thoughts as Aunt Bellatrix had taught him.
Voldemort laughed, high and cruel and humorless.
"Do you think such a weak wizard as yourself can keep me out?" He said, pointing with an unnaturally long finger. "I know your heart, you cowardly creature. You are not loyal to anyone but yourself…and perhaps, a little, to your mother. She will rest more easily knowing that her spawn is capable of a modicum of familial feeling, will she not?"
He looked at Narcissa, whose long hair had fallen to hide her face when her head drooped. The red light of Voldemort's regard swept over her pale body.
"Master." Chilled to numbness, Draco stepped forward, wrapping his arms around his body in a futile effort to keep warm. "P-please let my mother go. She…"
"Birthed a failure," Voldemort said softly. "Raised and coddled a failure. Betrayed me to protect her failure." He touched her cheek, and his long nails scratched her, drawing blood.
"It was m-my fault," Draco said, and blinked hard, forcing the tears away. Through his teeth, so he wouldn't stutter, he said, "I beg you."
"This is how you beg?"
He dropped to his knees without hesitation. "I beg you, my Lord. Spare my mother. I'm here."
Voldemort smiled, a tight grimace that did not touch his eyes and conveyed no pleasure. "No. Incarcerous."
What he might have done to stop it, Draco didn't know, but he lunged forward nonetheless, his wand sweeping up. Too late, he thought, despairing, as thick ropes bound his arms to his body, knotted around his ankles and sent him tumbling to the floor. But it had been too late the moment he looked into Albus Dumbledore's eyes and realized that he couldn't kill him. Could not. It was impossible.
Voldemort pointed his wand at Narcissa, and Draco opened his mouth to protest, but found his voice was gone. He waited for it—nothing wrong with his ears, he could hear the fire crackling—the rushing sound of wind, the green light, his gray eyes wide with horror, tears streaming freely down his cheeks and he could give a damn who saw it, even as his mind whirled desperately, unwilling to accept that this was happening, there must be a way to stop it, and his own child's voice rung in his memories, sobbing Mother from the depths of a nightmare…
Voldemort did not speak, but flicked his wand. No green light. No rushing wind.
Narcissa wobbled and dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut, her eyes blinking slowly, settling on her son.
"Draco!"
His lips worked soundlessly. Mother!
She looked up at the Dark Lord and floundered backward, tangled in her own robes.
"What are you going to do to him?" She asked, her voice high and breathless. "My Lord…"
"Weak," Voldemort spat, his lip curling. "Weak, both of you, the same spineless whimpering…I will not hear it again."
He gestured with his empty hand to something that lurked on the second shadowy level of the library, and in the deepest darkness Draco saw fog curling, clammy and smothering.
Now he understood.
Voldemort heard his mental shriek and turned, smiling in approval. "Disloyal and weak, perhaps, but you are not an utter fool." He gestured again, upward, the hood slipping backward over his scaly skull as he looked up, the extra joint on each finger curling.
From the shadows, a Dementor emerged.
Another.
A third.
The fog rolled with them.
Draco's eyes bulged and Narcissa began to scream, fumbling at the pockets of her robes for her wand. It wasn't there, of course not, and she backed away from the scabbed hand of the first Dementor as it reached for her, scuttling into the crimson satin drapes. One small hand beat unconsciously at the glass, but there was nowhere to go.
"Please!" She screamed, curling into a ball, away from the reaching hands of the Dementors. "Master, please!"
Voldemort did not speak. The Dementors did not hesitate, breathing in rattling breaths that made the air darker and heavier, a solid weight that was compressing Draco's chest as if a stone lay atop it…
The first Dementor drew back his hood, and Draco screamed in his mind, his lips moving soundlessly, writhing in the ropes that bound him. The thing's head was hairless, scabbed, wet skin clinging tightly to bone, and even from the back he saw how unnatural it was, how wrong…
Narcissa's screams rose still higher, the death-screams of a baby rabbit.
Almost tenderly, the Dementor gripped her face in its hands, drawing her up despite her struggles. Her eyes locked on it, and whatever she saw, her breath left her all at once.
From his perspective on the floor, Draco couldn't see the moment the Dementor's mouth touched hers. He was sobbing breathlessly, the ropes that bound him contracting more tightly with every exhalation, the carpet under his cheek damp with his tears. It was too late. It was already too late.
Narcissa fell silent, and her hands slid limply to her sides. The Dementor drew a wheezing breath and released her, and she slumped bonelessly to the floor. Her eyes were utterly empty.
"Away," Voldemort said brusquely, and there was something—a mockery of sympathy perhaps, a cruel grief that was an obscene parody of Draco's own—in his face that made Draco cringe back as the Dark Lord approached. The Dementors moved a pace, fog roiling like the fetid mist off a swamp beneath and about them, and Voldemort made an impatient gesture that sent them floating back to the second floor, there to be lost in the darkness.
"Now," Voldemort said, smiling slightly. "Now I will hear what you have to say."
He gestured, and Draco gulped, his sobs suddenly loud and wrenching. It had somehow been a little easier—just a little—to deny what he'd just witnessed when he couldn't hear his own weeping.
"What do you want me to say?" He rasped, and didn't care if he stuttered or if his voice cracked. "You'll do whatever you want. It doesn't matter."
"You have learned much in a few moments," Voldemort said silkily. "See how your wisdom has increased."
The mockery solidified fear into hatred; maybe the hatred had always been there, beneath the fear, ever since Potter came back Fourth Year and said the Dark Lord was back, that Draco no longer had a choice; he was a Death Eater's son and his path was chosen for him. He didn't know. It was impossible to sort it out, and he wasn't going to waste what were likely the last few minutes of his life worrying about it. He hated Voldemort and he let the Dark Lord see it. What else could he do to him? Kill him? Set the Dementors on him like he'd done to Narcissa?
"A pity, a pity…" the Dark Lord whispered, moving restlessly before Draco, smiling to himself as he drank in the waves of loathing. "If only you had learned sooner, if only…"
"If only…" Draco echoed hollowly. "I would've told Dumbledore about Snape. If I'd learned sooner."
Voldemort drew back, and the mockery was gone from his face, as was his smile.
"You dare!" He spat, and Draco laughed, high and wild.
"Yes! I'd've told Dumbledore everything I knew, I would've taken his offer, and my mother would be alive now! Dumbledore was everything you could never be, and…it…kills you!" Draco gasped, breathless, the ropes tightening around his midsection like a boa constrictor.
"Disloyal…"
"To you?" Draco managed, though his voice barely topped a whisper. "Yes."
Voldemort's face twisted, and he brought his wand up, those eyes burning, burning, and Draco braced himself, his eyes locked on his mother. This wouldn't be the worst thing that could happen to him. Avada Kedavra would be a mercy.
A piercing cry, and he squirmed back unconsciously, squinting against a sudden and blinding light. From above, he heard the shocked rattle of the Dementors, and Voldemort flung his robe over his face as fire, real, warm fire, burst in a pillar between them. Within the flames, Draco thought he saw wings, and the robes burned off his body somehow without harming him…
"NO! NO, IT CANNOT BE—"And something crooned a song that made him cry, and made him warm at the same time. A jewel-bright eye flashed and the song swelled, music that wrenched inside his chest, breaking his heart and healing it, even as he looked over at his mother's endlessly and hopelessly empty face—
And he understood, standing on legs that shook as blood began circulating properly again, and that fierce bright eye winked at him again, and the song whispered go, my son…
It sounded like Albus Dumbledore's voice.
Incredulous tears leaked anew over his drawn cheeks. Draco pivoted on the spot—
And went.
Endnote: Before I forget: in writing Bad Faith, the use of Merlin as an epithet got repetitive, so I switched it up with Morgana Le Fey, Alberic, and a few other names off the Chocolate Frog Cards. All hail the almighty Lexicon.