WOLF STAR RISING

REPRIMAND

Revel – Repartee – Reprimand

The Disapparition was as uncomfortable as advertised; it felt like the invisible tube he'd been squeezed through had been three sizes too small. Before he could voice a groan a grinning skull filled his vision, skeletal hands clutching at his robes and head. His sharp gasp left him coughing up a lungful of dust from the thick air – he felt too ill to escape the attacking monster. Then the mask was pulled away, and his mother's anxious face was checking him over, cooing nonsense as she stroked his hair. She gave him an impulsive hug, but pulled away just as quickly.

"Did you do it?" asked Narcissa eventually. She backed away to give him breathing room, yet her eyes were fearful. If he hadn't done the task they were both as good as dead. She had whispered to him just before the start of the school year; I don't want to die. It was a cruel burden, but with Lucius in Azkaban and her social life in tatters she had none other to tell.

Draco waited for his churning stomach to settle before he replied. "Yes," he said, watching a relieved smile spread over her mouth.

"Mother, Snape was supposed to do it; wasn't he?"

The smile dropped. "You didn't kill Dumbledore?"

"He's dead, Snape killed him. I, er, I just…" Their eyes, matching pale grey, locked. "…I couldn't do it," breathed Malfoy.

Narcissa did a rare thing, and embraced her son a second time. She wasn't pleased at his cowardice. It was the terrible foreboding she would never see him again that prompted her to hold him so closely. This fear was transmitted to him somehow for he whispered an apology in her ear; an act even rarer than signs of affection.

"He may spare us," she said frankly, quietly. "You were essential to getting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, he cannot deny that. But you must understand, Draco, the Dark Lord never forgives. He expects his commands to be carried out to the letter."

A loud bang heralded the arrival of Snape. Just in time to hear the last of her words, he looked down his long nose at them both and scowled. Whatever had kept him so long caused him to burn with anger, tainting the advice he gave with a sour edge. "The Dark Lord had more resting on you than he revealed, Malfoy. You can be sure he will not go easily on you."

"What does he want to do to me?" asked the teenager, quicker than he'd meant to. The Professor raised uncaring eyebrows. "I have no idea what he intends for a weak-willed idiot like you. But the fact that he would endanger this mission by having you attempt to kill his most dangerous opponent speaks of a secret agenda, does it not?"

Draco stared at the hideous old-fashioned carpet, chilled. That made too much sense to be false. But You-Know-Who could be planning anything. He was crazy. He was Devil's Snare, and the more you wriggled to be free the tighter his grip became until you choked. He shuddered. The Dark Mark on his arm was far beyond the point of no return. There wasn't the faintest chance of escape.

"Stop whimpering, Malfoy! Pouting and crying will only make him angrier with you. And the angrier he is with you, the more irritated he will be that I did your job for you!"

The sound of Apparating sent staccato snaps cracking through the air. The Death Eaters were returning in twos and threes – there was a yell as two wizards tried to appear in the same place. An undercurrent of noise was building into a roar.

"We did it!"

"Dumby's dead – hnah!"

"Dumbledore is dead!"

"Dumbledore is DEAD!"

"Malfoy and Snape gottim!"

"Victory!"

"We will win this!"

"This war is ours!"

"No one can stop us now!"

"Only one died!"

"We stormed their stronghold, and only one casualty!"

"Who?" called a reedy voice in the crowd.

"Gibbon, wasn't it? Gibbon died."

There was half a moment's hush, and then the triumphant cheers returned full force. No matter that they were mature, adult Death Eaters, many with their own grown children. Tonight they had destroyed their greatest enemy, and they would celebrate. With Dumbledore out of the picture the Order would scatter, the Ministry would hesitate far too long before acting, and bloody Potter would probably be too depressed for any heroics. A wizarding world that was led by purebloods and ruled over the petty Muggles was becoming more and more a reality. The hour of their restoration as honoured families and powerful lords was approaching. Everything would change. That was worth the sacrifice, wasn't it? Only Gibbon died, thought every one of them. Not me. They didn't remember that Gibbon had been a me too.

"Draco! Snape! Draco! Snape! Dumbledore's death-dealers!"

"Glory to the Dark Lord!"

"Death to Mudbloods!"

"Power for us!"

As Draco numbly watched them revel in the death of one of the most loved wizards in the world, he finally appreciated how wrong it was. This was his bullying blown up out of all proportion. Or had he actually been like that? Swaggering around loudly making sure everyone knew his opinions, slurring the Mudbloods and praising his family…Seeing the long held desires of his forefathers made flesh was a completely different matter to just voicing them.

Glancing back at his mother, he was sickened to find her joining in with the jubilant chants. These are bastards who would stab you in the back as soon as look at you, he wanted to complain. Why are you cheering them? Her gaze flicked over his face for a second and her lips tightened, making the smile suddenly false and empty. He was too used to thinking only of himself to understand that, when Voldemort had placed him in the firing line; it had destroyed her confidence in her Dark loyalties. Narcissa had to fake allegiance perfectly to survive. But Malfoy could see nothing of this and only scowled at her praise.

"You don't look very pleased for the hero of the hour," muttered Snape, showing his lifelong dislike for anything approaching heroics. He accepted the adulation with curt nods of the head – half disdainful and half not knowing how to handle the admiration. "Kindly do not put your life in danger by making our colleagues suspicious until after your mother's foolish Vow is removed from me. I was under the impression you lived for this kind of attention."

Draco tried to enjoy being the centre of attention, and found it was easier than he'd expected. All regrets and insight melted away under the warm feeling of being applauded. Snape was correct, of course. Malfoy loved being worshipped.

"So tell us," prompted Bellatrix, shoving her way through the throng to her nephew. "How did you do it? I want every detail." Her heavy-lidded eyes burned feverishly.

"I lead everyone in through the Vanishing Cabinets," began the youngest person there, a wide grin on his face as he recalled the sensation of being in charge of the terrible, feared Death Eaters! "And we all spread out to take out anyone wandering the halls. I ran up to the Astronomy Tower and cast the Dark Mark so that Dumby," – picking up Macnair's stupid nickname seemed the right thing to do – "would be sure to head for it…" He would edit out the moment when his nerve broke and he tried to run. "So he came flying up all alone on some cheap old broom, and I disarmed him before he even had time to draw his wand –" er… "– and hit him with a couple of curses so he couldn't even stand up."

"Which curses?" asked a masked Eater immediately.

Crap. "Uh, Sectumsempra and a, er, paralysing one." He couldn't even remember where he'd heard the first spell beyond knowing it cut into things, but it didn't sound like one they would know of. They'd think it was for making headmasters look very, very ill and slightly green. Snape blinked at him, actually blinked; with the strangest of expressions on his unpleasant face. Luckily the black-robed, Halloween-masked audience found his curses acceptable.

"So he didn't fight back at all?" Amycus looked like he was about to interrupt and ask why he had been unable to kill the man immediately, so Malfoy leapt at the other question and tried to avoid the eyes of those who had joined him on the rooftop.

"He tried to do something wandless, but really, it was a pitiful attempt. He even started begging when Severus" (more familiar now that they were partners in crime – Draco would never know how much the Eaters mocked his presumptuous words) "arrived just as I was about to blast his beardy head into oblivion. He had no chance."

"Excuse me?" came a humoured, slightly breathy voice. Draco looked over the heads of the Death Eaters to find red eyes piercing into his mind. The eyes, crimson with slashed pupils, seemed huger and nearer than they really were as they reached in his head and picked through his memories. Occlumency was waved aside with a mental brush of a hand – Bellatrix may have taught him enough to block Snape, but Snape's strength was defence of the mind. The far greater Legilimens was the Dark Lord. His faltering, flinching, one-step-forward-two-steps-back laying of the trap, the long conversation with his victim, the surprise expelliarmus with no follow-up all flashed past his mind's eye. One lingering image was Dumbledore, head nodding wearily, wrinkles deepening as he spoke; "Draco, Draco, you are not a killer."

At last he was released, head spinning uncomfortably. Now all the wizards (and the handful of witches) had turned to face their master. He was seated on something akin to a throne, dark teak carved with tangles of snakes. He was poised, leaning forwards with long hands clutching the arms of the chair, eyes thinned in thought.

"You disarmed him," repeated Voldemort, in a surprisingly human voice. "He was unable to retaliate." Somehow he put a different slant on the words, the true slant. "And the all-powerful Dumbledore did indeed beg Severus. But I don't see wounds from this 'Sectumsempra', nor does he appear truly Petrified. Please, Draco, do not attempt to lie in my presence. Not even in the presence of my followers, for you know I see and hear what each and every one of you does. A benefit," he added calmly; "of the marks you all wear in my honour."

Malfoy had expected a hissing, screeching, insane old man. Voldemort was rumoured to be over fifty years old, after all. Instead an intelligent, if emaciated adult watched them all, his face distorted into an unnatural flattish visage where all orifices became slits. There was a serpentine lack of hair, none had grown since his rebirth and all visible skin was flawless pale cream. But his presence in the room was completely different. He gave off a tangible aura of power, control and the promise of dread. Just looking at him sent a frisson of wrongness down the beholder's spine, unless they were a supporter and of a kind with him.

He had met He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named before, during his initiation into the Death Eaters; but it had passed in such a blur he remembered nothing.

"The Dark Mark, Malfoy, which is inked into your skin. A testament that you have sworn to obey all of my orders from the most serious to the utterly whimsical." He said this with a straight face – he was not whimsical in the least. "And yet…"

The razor edge on those words made Narcissa grip her son's shoulder tight. Another premonition of impending doom shivered through her, despite the warm, musty air and the blazing fireplace halfway along one wall of the wide chamber.

"And yet…you did not obey. You stood and trembled and made no attempt! Where is your nerve, Malfoy, where is your strength? If you wish to partake of our new age you must work towards it." His anger flared suddenly. "How long were you in control of Dumbledore! How much time did you waste, how many opportunities did you have to kill the old dotard? Any other of my followers would have murdered the man with glee, but you, pathetic, spoilt brat – without the interference of Snape the entire assault would have been in ruins!"

Being criticised by Voldemort was like being stabbed by thousands of tiny icicles; and that was before he even considered lifting his wand. Draco shrunk away from the livid wizard, expecting a crucio to come at any moment.

"It was not an intelligent thing you worked out," ground out the Dark Lord, content to flay the boy alive with his tongue rather than his wand; and disgusted that his invasion had relied on a vain teenager for its success. "Any fool could recognize the possibilities of a Vanishing Cabinet were they aware of it. Perhaps the only thing of merit you achieved was disarming Dumbledore, and you only managed that because he was half dead when you reached him! If you are incapable of killing, you are of no use to me!" There, at last, was the screeching, hissing yell Draco had waited for. He supposed a Death Eater who couldn't kill was useless, but Voldemort's rage seemed too intense even for that much of a failure. "Why join my followers if you are incapable of following! I ORDERED YOU TO KILL HIM!"

"I DIDN'T WANT TO JOIN!" bellowed back the pale boy, frightened out of his wits. "I had no choice!"

The Dark wizard settled back, a displeased sneer twisting his malformed features. "Imperius, then? Your father has done you few favours, raising you so spoilt, so pompous that there's no room for intelligence in your head past all the vanity, unable to throw off a simple Imperio. Substandard, Malfoy; the half-breed Potter can do it, why can't you?"

But we all know you're a half-breed too…whispered a treacherous voice in the back of Malfoy's mind. The sneer turned to a snarl – Voldemort had somehow sensed the thought and grew incensed.

"Oh, you may think so, precious pureblood;" he murmured venomously, "but the blood of the greatest of sorcerers, the blood of Slytherin, does not thin so easily. And this body I fashioned myself, despite being formed from Muggle bones and Potter's blood and the flesh of a lesser wizard; is made clean through being a creation of magic. Who else could possibly lead us to the reestablishment of wizard superiority rather than wizard hiding other than the descendant of the greatest champion of purebloods ever known – Salazar himself? We all, we purebloods, are the descendants of legends. If you dare think yourself purer than me, brat, then you should remember that the true value is when we show the strengths that gave our forefathers eternal fame. I am the greatest wizard living. But you, dear Draco, named after the powerful dragon, show nothing but incompetence."

Draco Malfoy's world was crumbling. A lifetime of being treated like solid gold, of living the life a Malfoy heir took for granted; only to be told by this hideous, aberrant, almost undead thing that he was worth nothing? And having his parents' peers, the people he had to seriously impress to continue his cushy lifestyle; muttering and backstabbing and agreeing with the jumped up bastard with the Muggle father? A stronger person would have fought back – he could only gape and flap his mouth like a suffocating fish.

"What you are has quite some value. Who you are has none. If you could have proven yourself tonight, by killing Dumbledore as I asked; I would have given you the highest of honours upon your return. I had planned to place you on the path to immortality; an accolade my followers would do anything for…instead you are unqualified to accept my gift."

Confused as the Dark Lord switched between reproach and rewards, Malfoy wondered if he was going to die. He wondered if a year of plotting murder and suffering nightmares was going to be for nothing; if he'd be tortured to death, his mother hit with the Killing Curse, his father given the Kiss by a Dementor in Azkaban. Draco crumpled to the scratchy floor, crippled by the fear of dying.

"Yes…prostrate yourself. Take the weakling's way out. You've wasted more than enough of my time, when we should be enjoying our night of triumph." He sighed long sufferingly. "Stop quivering, Malfoy, I shall not be killing you. You were essential, in your pathetic way, to the success of this invasion. You have earned your survival at least. But I will not pardon your transgression, and I will not spend any more energy on you for now. You are unsuited to the role of Death Eater, the Order nor the Ministry will take you in, you cannot return home; and with your father in Azkaban you are locked out of that secret manor I heard tell of, because he did not trust Narcissa with the location or some such stupid reason."

"What are you going to do with me?" blurted Draco. His master looked him over coolly.

"I don't care to have you here, and you would impede my Death Eaters about their business if you stayed with any of them…"

Narcissa choked out a low moan as she realised the only place left to him. Scared, Draco glanced around at all his fellow Eaters for some hint of his fate.

"You may not kill him. You are forbidden to bite him or let any of your…contemporaries attempt to turn him. Any permanent damage will be repeated tenfold on the aggressor. Do you understand?"

"No permanent damage. I understand," leered Fenrir Greyback.

The filthy, dishevelled cannibal bowed in deference to their master. He straightened with a hungry gleam in his yellow eyes. As Draco stared at the werewolf in horror he felt his soul tumbling into the black depths of hell. As he looked back at Voldemort he felt he'd hit the lowest point he possibly could.

Time would tell that he was nowhere near.

((((--))))

Phew…I spent ages on the first draft then dumped it in favour of this version which was a lot quicker but I'm still wondering if it follows on from the first chapter smoothly. I tried not to have Voldemort monologue-ing as in the first version but he was determined to get his rant in. Please say so if it drags on too long.

Couple of inconsistencies in the first chapter for major nitpickers: Gibbon (who died) cast the Morsmordre wotsit in the book, and they arrived on Madam Rosmerta's brooms, not the Firebolt and Dumbledore's!Broom. There may have been another thing but hey, I forgot.

This chapter took place in the Riddle mansion.

Thank you Homeric and BWB!

Please R&R!