A/N:

Wasn't entirely sure where I was going with this fic when I started it, but now I've got a good idea. If I take long to update it's because I'm not happy with my chapter. Probably should've put it in the first chapter but this fic can get dark — no sunshine and rainbows here, folks.

Trigger warnings:

References to non-con and rape.

Chapter II

The Instigator

Draco remembers laughing and jeering with his friends at The Quibbler in front of Loony Lovegood because of the barmy articles her father published in them. Since September started, however, official Ministry papers have been about as informative as a plain piece of toast or one of Parkinson's Witch Weekly magazines. Now it's nearing the end of the month, even the Ministry's main news cooperation has become so much of a joke that Lovegood has the last laugh even though she is imprisoned in the basement of Malfoy Manor.

Small paragraphs on weather modifications to suit the seasons; wannabe seers predicting the outcome of the national Quidditch Premiere Championship before it's even started; yet more articles on the Dark Lord's history. Draco stares dispassionately down at the Daily Prophet blanketing his plate, his attention hitched by the photo captioned: Tom Marvalo Riddle, Age 16. The boy's cold eyes are piercing him through the paper, and although the Dark Lord is now unrecognisable in comparison to the photo, he still retains that sharp and calculating gaze.

It's an unspoken warning. The more foolish and quite honestly Gryffindor-like members of Pureblood High Society either miss it or choose to ignore it until it's too late. Draco is still haunted by Walden Macnair's almost feral distress echoing from one of the drawing rooms in the Manor. The dull thwock of his infamous axe punctuated his screams, until they died out completely. Draco had been trapped in one of his other drawing rooms, at the time, alone and gagging down the bile in his throat. When the Dark Lord entered the room with the axe slick with blood, he nearly collapsed, right there and then, in front of this all mighty, powerful dictator. But the remainder of Tom Riddle did not take a step towards Draco. He simply dropped the axe in the doorway, promising, "If you pity filthy animals, I will slaughter you like one," then disappeared. As time passed, and a victory was established, Draco had felt Macnair's punishment was more merciful.

But of course they don't publish such things in newspapers like the Daily Prophet. The Dark Lord is a Messiah, a hero for pure children to look up to. He dealt with 'dicrimination', 'animalistic violence' and 'terrifying moments' in the Muggle world as a child, according to this, and many other articles. 'We don't want our future generation to suffer from their pasts.'

"Malfoy?"

He drags his eyes up from the sentence, landing on a scowling Parkinson. "Hmm?"

"Were you even listening?"

"Yeah," he mumbles, shrugging and averting his eyes. She's got a bowl of fruit for breakfast. He has a plate of wallpaper. When it feels the side of his face is burning, Draco sighs deeply. "No."

"I thought not," she replies briskly. In a flash, her hand slaps over the Daily Prophet, replacing her bowl of fruit with it. He raises his eyes, carefully watching her scan the front page with a growing sneer. "Who in Merlin's name cares about Quidditch right now?" she demands, making his stomach sink.

He shrugs again, deciding not to speak since his throat has tightened. Of course Parkinson wouldn't have any reservations about the Dark Lord nor his regime. Even though Mr. Parkinson is an avid Death Eater, Draco's pretty sure his daughter has never even met the skeletal creature.

The abrupt snap by his ear jolts him out of his thoughts. Parkinson's hand retreats from the side of his head as he refocuses his gaze. "Seriously, Draco. What's going on with you?" He starts wringing his hands under the table. "You've been weird for ages…" She falters, glancing around the Great Hall. Draco mimics her, taking in the sparsely populated early risers mulling over their breakfasts. His eyes briefly flicker over the Ravenclaw table, but Padma Patil is alone with her porridge. Parkinson lowers her voice regardless, murmuring, "Nott thinks it's because Snape got most of the glory, and you're mad." She narrows her sharp eyes, and he clenches his jaw. "But I know you better. You were weird even before we won."

Draco swallows back a retort, and snatches the Daily Prophet back. He drops his eyes onto the article, turning to the next page and pretending to scan over the contents. As if the last five minutes never happened, Parkinson starts nattering away about whatever it was she was talking about. In his peripheral vision he watches her poke and prod at the fruit in the bowl, the fork flashing in the emerging sunlight. This won't be the last time that she'll pry.

He sighs internally, staring unseeingly at the plate of dragon dung below him. The last paper to give actual news was the last one that reported an Undesirable that was caught before the Riddle Act was passed around the middle of August. Draco has reread the article so many times since he'd reached his conclusion about MJ McLaggen that he could write it all out by heart.

UNDESIRABLE NUMBER ONE CAUGHT

Harry Potter's Mudblood has been successfully captured and executed

Undesirable Number One Mudblood Hermione Jean Granger has been detained during the Ministry Infiltration of Monday morning.

By: Scarlett Selwyn

On Monday 13th August 1996, the Ministry of Magic was intruded by Undesirable Number One and its assailants. Hermione Jean Granger led a group of bandits into the Ministry disguised with the aid of Polyjuice potion as respectable civil servants. After it was captured, several knocked out Ministry employees were discovered near the vicinity, including Mafalda Hopkirk, of whom Granger was impersonating. Although Aurors took immediate action once it was realized what was happening, most of the infiltrators managed to escape.

"Wizarding Britain can rejoice, however," claims Minister for Magic Pius Thicknesse in a public statement, "for Undesirable Number One has been eliminated."

"Greengrass!" his friend suddenly simpers mid-sentence, jolting Draco out of his mental reading of the article that's currently sitting in his trunk in his dormitory. As he looks up to Parkinson, her eyes zero into a spot opposite her. "Happy Birthday, darling!" Draco follows her serpentine gaze, drinking in the sight of Greengrass leaning smugly over the surface of the table with three unbuttoned layers of her school shirt violating at least one of the school's dress codes. As if she'd been anticipating his lingering stare, he feels her eyes on him and when he raises his own, she sends him a lascivious look. If Draco hadn't had common reactions bred out of him, he would have gone red. Instead, he levels to her eyes with a cool gaze, before someone hovering behind her catches his attention.

His eyebrows raise slightly at Kevin Entwhistle just standing there, head bowed slightly, posture strangely stiff. Draco thinks, what in Merlin's name is the Ravenclaw 'hot-shot' doing? No sooner does he think it, then another thought slams into his mind — what in Merlin's name is he doing here? Entwhistle is not a Wizarding surname. Draco remembers when he'd been a pompous little boy scouting out heritages to consider who would make suitable allies in Hogwarts, and he wasn't the only one. Subtle investigating taught the Slytherins of his year that both Entwhistle's mother and father are Muggles. Just like they learned of Roper, Thomas, Finch-Fletchley, Granger…

For a moment he is distracted from his thoughts, eyes scanning over the Ravenclaw table again. Patil is gone, and there is no sign of MJ. His eyes dart back to Entwhistle, his bowed head and stoic expression sending a niggling thought in his mind.

Entwhistle is a Mudblood standing in a Riddle-reigned Hogwarts. He isn't here without a reason.

"Do you like my present, Malfoy?" coos Greengrass, confirming his suspicion. Keeping his face passive, Draco stares at her. She's wearing a coy smile that makes his stomach twist. "Father gave it to me. He said that it is the first of its kind."

"'First of its kind'?" Parkinson queries, reminding Draco that she's sitting next to him. He moves his numb stare to her if only so he doesn't have to have the former student in his peripheral vision. His friend is wrinkling her nose, her roving eyes presumably looking the wizard up and down. "We've had Mudblood infestations since Merlin was around."

Greengrass tuts, giving a sickly giggle. Draco drops his eyes to his forgotten newspaper, on whatever random page he'd opened it to. There's a photo of Snape holding an Order of Merlin in between the Minister for Magic — Pius 'The Puppet' Thicknesse — and a simpering Dolores Umbridge. A symbol of our evolving world, is the caption. "I know that! It's just that this Mudblood will do what I say."

Draco's eyes spring up from the paper, and Greengrass locks her smug gaze with his hopefully vacant stare. He's noticing more and more people settling on tables in his peripheral vision, and the more plates of food that appear with them, the more the more his empty stomach curdles at the increasing greasy and sugary scents.

"Oh?" Parkinson prompts.

"The magic branded on it — the purest magic it'll ever have," she adds with a sneer, "is a similar form to house-elf magic." She pauses, inspecting Draco briefly. Although he believes her incapable of something as complex as Legilimency, Draco throws up his Occlumency walls. It's crucial to be cautious, and Morganna knows he's regretted underestimating people in the past. "It has to obey my commands. It has to comply with my demands. It has to satisfy my needs."

That earns a snide snigger from his friend, who drawls, "Your 'needs' I presume means you're enough of a whore that you'll let a Mudblood touch you. It doesn't matter that he was claimed the 'hottest wizard of our year'."

Greengrass' eyes narrow as they swoop to Parkinson, but the former smirks as she clicks her fingers. "Mudblood, give me a shoulder massage."

Numbly, Draco watches Entwhistle's hands immediately spring to action. He glances at the other man's face, but his expression is as blank as ever, eyes downcast, as he continues his task. Greengrass moans lightly, drawing Draco's eyes to her. Her eyelids are fluttering as she bounces gently on her seat, and the movement is not lost on Draco, nor where she clearly wants his eyes to settle on. She thinks she is in some sort of battle. As if all the times he's pushed her away before their snogging could go further was because of inexperienced hesitation and uncertainty. The sight of Entwhistle forced to massage her doesn't make him jealous. It makes him feel sick.

Dread gathers at the pit of his stomach. He already knows the state his hands will be in.

"I've suddenly lost my appetite," he remarks, rising from his seat and swinging his bag over his shoulder. Immediately, he shoves his hands in his pockets before he has to glimpse them.

"But you haven't even eaten," Greengrass whines, simultaneously bouncing more aggressively and glancing at the newspaper covering his plate.

"Not hungry," he replies cooly. He turns his eyes to Parkinson, who is watching him carefully. He wonders if her pinched expression has something to do with Greengrass' grotesque display or the fact that he's ditching her in this awkward situation. Perhaps both. "I'll see you in Charms."

"See you," she says, masking her revulsion with a simper.

Draco swivels around and marches straight towards the front of the Hall, catching Parkinson's fading voice: "So enlighten me, what else can you command him to do…" Despite himself, he smirks slightly at the ground. Parkinson is good at distracting people into doing what she wants, and what she wants is not to watch Greengrass ride off on the Slytherin table to Entwhistle's unwilling hands. His lips turn down just as quickly, thinking of what that poor Ravenclaw sod could be subjected to. The first of its kind. So there'll be more. Draco isn't part of the Inner Circle, but his father certainly hasn't mentioned anything of the sort. It must be a recent development — or at least not important enough to the Dark Lord. Maybe some twisted businessman enquired for his permission, and was granted it. Maybe it was Lord Greengrass himself.

Her coppery curls bounced as she carried a large box around the Great Hall. She tried Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, but apart from Loony Lovegood, most people laughed at the contents of the box or rolled their eyes. Draco had watched with raging curiosity, so much so he considered ordering Crabbe and Goyle to bully one of the Beauxbatons blokes into finding out what exactly she was showing Hogwarts. But Parkinson beat him to it, sashaying towards the Slytherin table after having a very enlightening conversation with a retreating Parvati Patil.

"House-elf rights!" His friend had scoffed. "Elves like having masters. This is why her sort doesn't belong here — they just don't understand. She's putting her absurd ideas on little badges like some political agenda, can you believe it?"

Granger's S.P.E.W campaign would later inspire him to make the 'Potter Stinks' badges. He wished he could know if his success in distribution irritated her, but she didn't seem to notice him much these days.

As he surfaces out of his unbidden memory, Draco frowns at himself for his loss of control. He can't let a slip-up, however vague, like that happen when the Dark Lord is slithering through his mind. He's vaguely aware of opening the Great Hall's door with some decent pressure on his foot, and of wandering towards the Grand Staircase. It's too early to go to Arithmancy, but he doesn't particularly want to go back into the dungeons, either. Most of his housemates will be starting to rouse and he's getting sick of young children watching him like he's a well-respected Auror.

He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets as he jogs to catch the staircase leading to the first floor. As it starts moving to another platform, Draco strides up to the first floor. He wouldn't be surprised that Granger would be capable of escaping a pack of Death Eaters. Loath to admit it, his own father and his group of at least ten trained dark wizards and his formidable aunt couldn't capture a gaggle of fifteen-year-olds (Granger included) in a confined space — and he'd earned an Azkaban cell and lost the Dark Lord's respect in one sitting. Something Draco atoned for. He rounds a corridor, ignoring a passing portrait's comment on how messy his hair is. The lone Slytherin certainly wouldn't be surprised that the Ministry, and/or the Dark Lord would want to cover up such a scandal. Better to claim she's dead and blame it on Muggle Voodoo or something if she ever returns. They will always blame the Muggles, he thinks, their blatant laziness apparently something the public is blind to. Or just willing to ignore, he muses as he heads straight for the direction of —

"Ouch!"

Staggering backward, Draco rubs his suddenly throbbing chin. He blinks at the crimson silk and the slender limbs, briefly catching sight of a camera dangling over her abdomen, but he quickly finds himself searching for her eyes. MJ has a palm flattened against her forehead, which shadows over her gaze. There's a strap around her neck supporting her camera.

"Sorry," he drawls, straightening his back and looking down at her. His heart roars in his ears. "Wasn't looking where I was going."

"Neither was I," she admits in her fake New Yorker accent. Carefully studying her tone for any traces of animosity, Draco directs his signature smirk at her.

He extends his hand to her. "I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy." Her free hand twitches by her side; he catches it in his peripheral vision. For a few moments, his arm lays suspended and solitary in the air between them. Then her hand wraps around his, and Draco's breath hitches in his throat as they shake.

"I know. I've seen you in the papers. I'm MJ McLaggen."

"Pleasure." It comes out a lot darker than he'd intended, because he's wondering how many newspapers featuring him that she's read. The less, the better. He pauses, wondering if he should even say it considering the circumstances. "My condolences for your family's loss."

MJ shrugs. "I met him only once, at a Christmas party, and he was a bit of an asshole." Draco raises a brow. "But thank you. My uncles aren't holding up well."

His eyes drop down to their now motionless intertwined hands, and he spots a trickle of blood crawling down the back of his own. Frowning, Draco releases his grip and shoves his hands back into his pockets.

"So, Draco Malfoy." She emphasizes the name, as if testing it rolling off her tongue. He finds himself momentarily fixated on her lips. "They call you The Instigator," he feels his face turn stony, "back in the States. But everybody here is horribly vague — including the papers." Her hand finally slips down from her forehead, and Draco locks his eyes with hers. No malevolence or resentment. No searing fire. Just green, green, green. "So what's your deal?"

For ten seconds, he scrutinises her serene gaze and relaxed expression carefully. "If they call me that in the States, then surely they would have explained it to you."

Shaking her head, her locks swaying with her, she goes, "They say you started The Riddle Regime. So I was surprised to see you strolling through this normal school with your buddies like you're not some national hero."

Draco slices the distance between them so quickly that even he is momentarily surprised by their proximity. Then that surprise vanishes, and is replaced with something as sharp and painful as ice. Her eyes are wide and innocent and as vacant as an empty fireplace.

He doesn't believe them for a second.

"You want to know my deal?" he murmurs, voice dangerously soft. He watches her red eyelashes flutter. As he shoves the left sleeve of his shirt up, her eyes drop down and settle curiously on the skull and snake embedded there. Very good acting, Granger. "That is the Mark of glory, of supremacy and of death. I am one of the many who represent it. The only national hero here is our Dark Lord. That's all you need to know about my deal," he growls the last two words, just as her eyes flash and move up to meet his. But there's still no searing fire.

Draco rips his stare away, brushing past her to march into the library. In his mind he takes note of the scent that had drifted from her — it's the same British brand listed off the Witch Weekly magazine (which he knows because both Nott and Zabini refer to those whenever having to choose a present for their friend) that literally every Slytherin female wears. Despite its popularity, it has a sharp rose aroma with the description suggesting uniqueness: 'The piercing reminder of her'.

Clever woman.

When Draco emerges from the dungeons on an early October morning, he is unpleasantly surprised to find that the Entrance Hall is relatively crowded.

"What's going on?" grumbles Nott from behind him, while Draco's stare sails over the heads of the crowd. People are whispering and muttering, filling the cold air with a venom he feels seeping to his core. Shuddering when he captures the word 'trophy', Draco nudges Nott with his elbow.

"C'mon," he mutters, "let's just go eat."

"Oi, Malfoy!" a hard voice hollers, and before he could consider bolting countless sets of eyes are turned towards him. As if taking a cue, the entire crowd disperses, revealing a towering ghostly pale Longbottom clutching his wand. "I bet you're real proud of your work, huh?"

"More than you could say, Longbottom," Nott jeers from behind him. The Gryffindor doesn't pay him any mind. He only has eyes for Draco.

The jet of red light is hurtling towards him in a blink; Draco whips his wand out of his pocket and deflects it with a nonverbal Shield Charm. He's vaguely aware of the crowd spilling away, disappearing into the staircases or the Great Hall. Someone screams when Nott shouts an Expulso Curse over his shoulder that Longbottom dodges, but makes the wall where his head had been explode in a beam of blue light. Draco should focus on the wand pointed at him, but he's distracted as the last of the debris falls. There is something hanging on the wall.

Something that is not meant to be hung on walls.

"Malfoy!" Nott shouts, lurching him out of his shock. He yells "Protego!" at an orange jet of light coming towards them, then squints at him over his shoulder as the light slams fruitlessly against the silver shield. "You gonna help, mate?"

Even though his knees feel weak, Draco forces a smirk as he raises his wand. "Was planning on having breakfast without you, actually," he replies dryly, although the thought of food makes his stomach twist. As Nott snickers, the shield dissipates just as Longbottom lunges to the right — Draco shoots a Leg-Locker Curse at him, which he just manages to jump over. In his peripheral vision, Nott gives him an incredulous look; Draco's jaw clenches when he sends a Reducto Curse at the Gryffindor, who manages to prevent himself from incinerating into a pile of ash by throwing up a Shield Charm with a harsh yell.

When Snape swoops into the scene, Draco almost sags to the ground.

His godfather doesn't spare him or Nott a glance as he prowls straight to Longbottom, deducting points, awarding him a month of detention, and a chat in his office this morning. The Gryffindor looks up at the Headmaster with a dangerously defiant look, chin up, jaw clenched, as if he might refute the punishment. Draco is surprised the silly git has survived the first month of this school year as it is. Longbottom shockingly keeps his mouth shut and follows Snape to the staircases, who silkily informs other dawdling students to get on with their days.

"Hey." Draco starts violently, looking down at sparkling eyes behind a wide grin. "Thought you guys looked like you needed help," says MJ, curling her finger on a strand of her silky hair. It seems her camera strapped around her neck is just a permanent part of her attire.

"You sent Snape?" Nott scoffs from behind him. "I was this close to getting rid of Longbottom." Draco glances over his shoulder, watching his friend compare his wand with the small gap in between his thumb and forefinger. He rolls his eyes towards MJ, who is still grinning.

"I hear he's a handful."

"Oh, you got that right."

"That was some nice spellwork, Draco Malfoy," she says brightly, eyes twinkling up at him. His breath hitches as he imagines the doe-eyed caramel hue instead of her violent shade of ivy looking up at him like that.

"Ju - just Malfoy's fine," he croaks, studying her innocent gaze. Too innocent for a woman who's just walked past a corpse hanging on the wall. He can feel the blood drain from his face. Any sweat he'd exerted in the duel turns to ice against his skin, as his eyes shift away from hers, over her head.

The 'trophy' the students had been surrounding this morning.

"You know, Malfoy, they've told us stories about him in the States," murmurs MJ conspiratorially, as if they're discussing a newfound potion recipe. He drops his stare to her, where she tilts her head with a smaller smile. He hears Nott shift behind him and curse under his breath, likely only noticing the wall for the first time. "But for all the talk and the legends and the prophecies, he really was just a boy. It's fascinating." She swivels around slowly. Draco releases a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, following her attention to the boy suspended on the wall.

Normally, in their funerals, they'd cast spells to prevent decay and rot before they put their beloved in a coffin. The Dark Lord wanted Harry Potter frozen in time, but he wasn't about to give the young man a resting place. Draco watches in what can only be described as pure horror as MJ McLaggen raises her camera, and the blinding flash momentarily blinds him from staring at his childhood enemy hanging on the wall of Hogwarts.

His hope fades with the camera flash.