If Draco Malfoy had to guess where it had all gone wrong, he'd think back to that summer night he entered his library and saw Lord Voldemort reading a children's story.
Not just reading, in fact… he was downright obsessing over it, red eyes tracking every word while he took notes on a scroll of parchment already nearing three feet. His other hand had a tight grasp over The Tales of Beedle the Bard, claw-like fingernails about to dig a hole through the binding. The snake was absent but his wand lay on the table next to his notes, though Draco knew the Dark Lord didn't need it to spell him dead.
Hardly daring to breathe, Draco backed away step by trembling step, slow as possible so as not to grab the Dark Lord's attention. When he was a safe distance from the doors of the library, he turned around and walked so quickly to the staircase that a breeze picked up, cooling the droplets of nervous sweat that had gathered on his forehead. He had to remind himself to breathe the whole way up to his room and, finally as safe as he could be with a crazed murderer living in his manor, fell to his knees and groaned.
Up until then, Draco had assumed Lord Voldemort conducted all of his research (whatever that might consist of — reading, killing sprees, potion brewing, and ritual sacrifice, probably…) in the wing of the manor he'd monopolized. Could he not have had the house elves or a Death Eater grab him the books he needed? That would've been much kinder to Draco's mental state, for one.
Could he even call that research, though? His mind wouldn't allow him to entertain the notion of the Dark Lord reading recreationally, but what was so worthwhile to him about The Wizard and the Hopping Pot, or Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump? And to write feet of parchment on these children's stories…
Fear still overpowered Draco's curiosity as he hoped beyond hope that the Dark Lord had truly failed to notice his presence. The man simply terrified him. Every time he was unfortunate enough to make direct eye contact, Draco practically withered. Nagini was the only creature nearly as frightening, and Draco felt downright suffocated every time he remembered that he was literally cohabitating with the two.
The sight of the Dark Lord casually researching in his library like he owned the place — and at this point, he bloody well did — was so disquieting, Draco was genuinely afraid to wander around his own home for the next few weeks. He avoided the library in particular like there was a curse placed on it and awaited the start of his seventh year with no small amount of eagerness.
Just when Draco was getting over the ordeal, looking around corners in the family wings a little less religiously and allowing himself to breathe whenever he passed by an open doorway, his Dark Mark burned and he knew it was time to be in Voldemort's presence again. To his relief, he was not the only one summoned; to his despair, his mother was part of the group as well, and he knew her unmarked self had likely been personally willed to the gathering. She appeared quite calm, but Draco's anxiety returned tenfold.
"Take a seat, my friends," Voldemort said from the head of the table in their drawing room, the snake looping itself around his chair. "And our most gracious hosts…" Draco gulped as the attention fell directly onto him and his parents for a moment.
His quiet, battered father had drawn the Dark Lord's ire what felt like so long ago, but it showed no signs of letting up. Draco and Narcissa were always caught in the crossfire as well, pawns to the Dark Lord's new favorite pastime of terrorizing Lucius. Thankfully, he said no more to them and allowed the group to take their places at the table.
Severus and Bellatrix took the seats next to the Dark Lord, as always. It was a smaller crowd today, though, so Draco could not shrink himself near the other end of the table. Only his aunt and father separated him from Voldemort. Rabastan and Rodolphus sat across from Draco, and his mother was to his side, a perfectly manicured hand on his shoulder to steady Draco as she doubtlessly knew his nerves must be overwhelming him. He leaned into the touch gratefully.
It was an odd table of seven followers. Draco did not understand why him and his parents were included, as far out of favor as Lucius had fallen… Bellatrix seemed to be thinking the same as she sneered at his father, who was choosing to stare with great interest at the table. Lucius, along with everyone else, was brought to attention when the Dark Lord began to speak once more.
"As we are all residents of this Manor… with the exception of Severus, whose expertise seemed fitting for the task…. I felt it only right that we be together for an occasion such as today's," Voldemort said, leaving Draco at a loss. What occasion? Had he forgotten something?
"What occasion, my Lord?" Bellatrix echoed Draco's thoughts for him when Voldemort ran his finger down Nagini's scales rather than continue speaking. If he was trying to build suspense, it was working.
"We will be welcoming a new guest," Voldemort answered cryptically. Draco winced as his mother's nails dug into his shoulder. He knew their currentnumber of houseguests made her unhappy enough, and guessed that she had received no warning about this. "Though entity may be the more apt descriptor… They are dark, dangerous, and their power is just waiting to be harnessed. With them, we may have the ability to more quickly crush all forms of resistance… and Potter… so I expect you all to be on your best behavior."
Everyone exchanged alarmed glances, unsure what to expect. Bellatrix alone seemed excited, worrying her bottom lip in between her teeth as her eyes gravitated back to the Dark Lord. He did not spare a glance at her, though. Instead, Voldemort fixated on him and Draco's heart seemed to fall into his stomach. This was the first encounter they'd had since the library, and Draco thought with despair that he was done for…
"Tell me, Draco… Have you heard of The Tales of Beedle the Bard?"
He couldn't move. Draco wanted nothing more than to sprint away, but he couldn't move. Every part of his body grew cold and numb at the same time, and his head felt faint. He realized a long moment later that he could quite literally hear his own pulse, it was racing so fast. Its loud thumps brought him back to reality as he remembered that, near death or not, he had a question to answer.
"Yes, my Lord," Draco said quietly, shaking slightly as he tried to brace himself for the Cruciatus.
"Of course — and I imagine you all have as well," Voldemort gestured to the others surrounding him with a flippant wave of his hand, still looking at Draco. He felt like he might be sick. "What is your favorite of the Bard's stories?"
Draco opened his mouth, confused. His favorite story? He supposed if he had to choose, from what he remembered of his mother's nighttime storytelling when he was a young child… "The Tale of the Three Brothers, my Lord."
Draco jumped as Voldemort let out a laugh, high and cold and echoing all around them. He felt that the sound might drive him mad. "Oh, Draco! Don't you see? This is a sign!"
Draco stared blankly, failing to grasp just why he wasn't in extreme pain right now, until his father used his cane to jab at his foot. "Pardon me, my Lord, but I'm not sure what you mean."
The jovial smirk dropped from Voldemort's face just as quickly as it had come, and he steepled his fingers together to level them all a serious gaze. Bellatrix was the only one who leaned in, enraptured as ever. "I am sure we all know Draco's favorite tale so I will not go over the minutia, but it is of great import. It's most vital that you understand this…. Beedle the Bard was a man who took the truth and sold it as fiction. This has gone over nearly everyone's heads… but nothing escapes Lord Voldemort."
Nothing and no one, Draco thought traitorously, bewildered at the current topic of discussion. It seemed that the Dark Lord actually hadn't noticed his interruption in the library because he was just that invested in a book of children's stories, to the point of convincing himself they were real. He watched Voldemort's hands rather than meet his eyes, in such a state of surprise that he didn't trust himself to properly occlude his mind and pretend to be taking this seriously.
"In this particular story, a man stops three brothers and gives them each an artifact from Death. One, a cloak of invisibility that will never fail to hide what is beneath it. The other, a stone that can call people back from the beyond. And the last…" Voldemort trailed off, lifting his wand into the air. It was new, Draco realized.
"The Elder Wand," Bellatrix finished for him, childish wonder dripping from every syllable she spoke. Her simpering would never fail to nauseate Draco.
"Yes, Bella, the Elder Wand. Said to be the most powerful wand of all, it would give its master strength beyond anyone's wildest dreams. I have to thank you again, Severus, for compensating for Draco's weaknesses this spring. Last week, I broke into Albus Dumbledore's tomb and took the Elder Wand from his cold, dead hand."
Everyone gaped at this revelation, but Draco just felt shattered once more at the reminder of his old Headmaster's death. He felt as though he'd always be haunted by the sight of the life leaving Dumbledore's eyes, so soon after he offered the Malfoy family a chance and safe refuge. How differently things could have gone…
"I am pleased it has found a most deserving master, my Lord," Severus bowed his head humbly. "I can think of no one else who is worthy."
"Are you a fool?" Bellatrix snapped at him. "Of course you couldn't think of anyone else. There is nobody as worthy as our Lord, there will never be anyone as worthy as our Lord!"
"Thank you, Bella," Voldemort lifted his hand, stopping her in her tracks. She smirked at Severus. "We must return to our story now. These artifacts are known as the three Hallows. It is said that whoever unites them will be the Master of Death. Gellert Grindelwald recognized their power and searched long decades for them, but he was not successful. After uncovering one of them, I have finally found where he erred; you see, the wand has not lived up to its full potential. I can feel the force simmering within it, but my spells do not yet draw it out. Have you any guesses?"
They all paused to search for what the Dark Lord wanted them to say, aware that although he asked for guesses there was only one correct response. Draco wasn't sure if he was just playing along anymore or if he had, in some pique of insanity, accepted that this children's story was real. There was a stone that could reach the dead, a cloak that could hide someone from anything, a wand stronger than any other, and whoever gathered all three would be the Master of Death. He thought of the other stories, and wondered madly if there was really a hopping pot and cackling stump out there somewhere…
"Forgive me if I am misinterpreting, my Lord," his mother spoke up, surprising him. "Perhaps there is already a person the wand has sworn its allegiance to?"
Draco and his father took a second to look at each other in terror, certain that she had overstepped in implying the most powerful of all wands would take any master other than Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord only gave Narcissa a chilling smile and a nod of the head, to Draco's shock.
"That is, I believe, exactly the case. Grindelwald did not consider whether someone had already completed this journey, and Beedle never stated that the Master of Death must have all three Hallows on them to keep their power. The wand is lost to them, but they are still in likely possession of the stone and cloak, and the unimaginable powers that come along with their title. I will, naturally, be taking them for myself."
"Have you found the Master of Death, my Lord?" Rodolphus asked, fascinated as they all were — the Dark Lord knew how to tell a story. Bellatrix glared at her husband, seemingly just for talking. She liked to be the only one that Voldemort gave any answers to.
"I'm glad you asked," Voldemort gave a menacing grin. "We will be finding them tonight."
"How?" Rabastan breathed.
"In my younger years, I spent some time in Albania and delved into some of the darkest magics. The wizards and witches there spoke of a long-lost tome that held the secrets of a world out of our reach. They called it, loosely translated, the Parallax. The one who laid eyes on it was said to never see anything the same way again — forever elevated in their perception of our physical reality. There will never be a challenge too great for me, and so I found the Parallax by the year's end. I have held onto it for decades, and tonight, we will be performing a ritual within that is capable of summoning any person and binding them to my will."
There was a pregnant silence as everyone took this in, and the implications it spelled out for the war. If Voldemort was on the right track, Draco thought with a heavy heart, the Wizarding World as he knew it was lost forever. Muggle-borns would have no place, anyone who spoke against the Dark Lord would meet an immediate end, and Potter… Potter would die painfully. They'd make an example out of him.
For all that he fought with Potter in school, Draco didn't want the boy dead. He'd actually been letting himself have some small hope that this Chosen One drivel was right, that Potter would be the one to end the Dark Lord's reign. He didn't know where that would leave him and his parents, but their happy life as a family had already been thrown out of the window without ceremony. If this Master of Death and Voldemort used their powers together, everything else Draco cared about would go out with it. For a brief second, he cursed Beedle the Bard.
"Can we use this ritual on anyone, after this?" Bellatrix looked feverish at the thought. "I could give my blood traitor of a sister a piece of my mind… and break hers."
"No, Bella," Voldemort bit out, visibly irritated with her this time. Bellatrix sunk back in her seat at once, shamefully. "I have been saving it for the perfect moment. This ritual may only be used once by a person. Any further interference, and their soul would be lost to the Parallax."
"How can we be of assistance, my Lord?" Severus asked, blank-faced as always.
"The summoning ritual calls for seven casters and one person — myself — to have their will binded onto the visitor," Voldemort said, flicking his wand and bringing several worn pages into existence. They dispersed, one page going to every person at the table. "You, my faithful followers, will be doing the heavy lifting…" Lucius winced at the emphasis, a clear dig to him.
They looked at the pages in front of them. Draco could see that his and everyone else's had some phrases on it — Latin, he was fairly certain — and an image of a wand movement. There was a number at the top of each page: an order, he surmised. As they studied their parts, the Dark Lord ignored his page in favor of raising his wand and bringing forth various items for the ritual.
There were different ingredients floating loosely in the air that he recognized from Potions class — fairy wings, a Fanged Geranium plant, fire seeds and moonseeds. Next to them was a container of what looked like salt and a jar of Honeywater. Candles danced around above all of the items.
"No time like the present, as they say," Voldemort said smoothly, exiting his chair and heading to an empty area of the drawing room, in front of the long staircase. Without needing to be prompted, the others grabbed their instructions and followed, watching as he prepared the place.
Draco had heard horror stories of rituals gone wrong, and if this one was so dark… he looked nervously at his parents and Severus. They appeared to have their reservations as well, exchanging glances while Bellatrix, Rodolphus and Rabastan only waited in anticipation. Severus spoke up for them. "My Lord, I trust your judgment implicitly. Is this ritual… perfectly safe?"
"Yes," Voldemort said simply. He poured the salt out and spelled it into a perfect circle on the ground, just big enough for one person to fit in. Chopping up the Fanged Geranium into pieces with motions of his wand, he continued. "As the one to be binded to the subject, I am the person who would be at risk here. However, I am much too strong to be overpowered. So long as you all take great care to follow your part word by word, breath by breath, my willpower will exercise dominion on the Master of Death. If you do make a mistake… I will escape on time, but I don't trust that you'll do the same."
Even more wary, Draco gulped and squeezed his mother's hand where it had been gripping his arm. She let go and gave Draco a long look — he understood it as the warning that it was. He had to be careful. Nearby, Snape was threatening Rabastan and Rodolphus while Bellatrix rolled her eyes.
Voldemort lit a fire at the center of the circle and threw the large batch of moonseeds inside, turning the flames a strange pearlescent pink. One by one, he levitated the pieces of the Fanged Geranium into them. The fairy wings were then held over the fire and crushed into a fine powder. Finally, Voldemort put the candles around the circle of salt and lit them. He extinguished all other light sources in the drawing room, but with a squint, Draco was still able to read his part of the ritual well enough.
"The number on each of your pages corresponds to your place in the casting," Voldemort said calmly. "Do not break the spell once it has begun, for your own sakes. Lucius, you are first. When you are ready…"
"Yes, my Lord," Lucius nodded, steeling himself. He started the incantation and as he went on, Draco thought that his father looked slightly revitalized. Still a shell of his former self, but there was an energy about him that Draco supposed came with starting a powerful ritual like this one.
As his father neared his part's conclusion, Draco spared a thought to the world he had been living in some thirty minutes prior, where there was no mysterious Master of Death or arcane ritual that might kill him. It had gone south so quickly… Lucius nudged Draco with his cane before he could ponder any further. He took a deep breath and picked up where the spell left off.
His mother was next, then Severus, then Rabastan, Rodolphus, and finally, Bellatrix. While she poured her heart and soul into her part of the ritual, Draco could swear the faintest taste of butterbeer filled his mouth. He could smell it, if he tried… Where was that coming from? Finally, she finished and Voldemort threw the fire seeds into the flames. For a moment they roared, still that odd pearlescent hue.
The room grew strangely colder as the fire burned and Draco had the irrational thought that the circle was sucking some of the warmth out. He started to shiver, from fear or from the chill, he wasn't sure. As they all looked around — for what, he didn't think anyone knew — he noticed Rabastan had his hands in his robe pockets and his mother was rubbing her shoulders. There was nothing in the circle nor outside of it… Nothing but this unexplainable cold…
Then the fire stopped without warning, and a wind that came from nowhere blew at the candles. They were plunged into pitch black darkness. Draco felt his heart skip a beat and tried to grab for his mother's hand like a child while nobody was watching, but where she had been a moment earlier, he couldn't feel a thing.
He didn't hear anything, either… in the middle of the longest, most drawn out silence of his life, Draco was deathly afraid to break it. Afraid of alerting anyone… anything… to his presence. He held his breath and tried to stop his teeth from audibly chattering, still freezing. The cold was the only thing saving him from a total loss of his senses.
The quiet seemed like it would never end — until up high above him, where the banisters were and nobody should have been, Draco could have sworn he heard something scampering.
Bellatrix was the one to break at that. "My Lord? My Lord, what was that? Where are you?"
There was no answer. She sounded far away, too, but Draco wondered if it was his mind playing tricks on him. Unsure just what was going on but very much afraid, he wished the Dark Lord had never found the Parallax. Or read Beedle the Bard, either.
"Lumos!" Bellatrix cast — her wand lit up for just a second, and Draco was able to make out everyone's forms, still standing around the circle — but no, no, no, something was in the middle of it — he backed away in a rush, and then Bellatrix screamed at the top of her lungs — scared out of his mind and disoriented at the loss of her wandlight, Draco toppled backwards onto the floor.
"MASTER! CISSY! I SAW IT, I SAW IT LOOK INTO MY EYES, MASTER, MY LORD —"
"Silence," Voldemort said and Bellatrix quieted down immediately, but her pants of terror were still audible. Draco suspected the Dark Lord had cast a partial Sonorus to get through to her. He struggled to get back onto his feet and contemplated running away, because what was that thing, but then — "Lumos."
For all that he said his wand refused to work to its full ability, the Dark Lord's spell went miles above Bellatrix's. Rather than light up his wandtip, he sent bright orbs darting all around the room, fully illuminating the place once again. Draco put a hand over his eyes, momentarily blinded by the sudden brightness.
His vision adjusted, along with everyone else's. Quiet once again, they stared at the figure inside of the salt and candles. Crumpled on the floor in a black robe with the hood drawn over its head, Draco didn't know what to think. And for some reason, he could still taste butterbeer…
"MASTER, IT WAS HERE!" Bellatrix screeched, visibly startling all but the Dark Lord himself. Draco must have jumped about a foot in the air, he was so rattled. He swiveled his head, looking back and forth between the person that they had summoned and his aunt, screaming like a loon. She had no idea about their visitor, it seemed, pointing instead to the staircase that Draco had heard the scampering from. "THE GRIM! IT WAS HERE!"
"Bellatrix, control yourself before I am compelled to cast the Cruciatus," Voldemort said slowly, voice full of promise. The orbs had been slowly returning warmth to the room, but Draco shivered regardless from the threat in Voldemort's tone.
"My Lord?" Bellatrix turned around finally, gasping at the sight of the robed figure. "My Lord… my Lord, you have succeeded… forgive me…"
She was right — this must be the Master of Death. Draco backed away slightly, more carefully this time. All he could think was that he didn't want to see what was under that hood… Draco's mind flitted between various demonic expressions, imagination running wild.
Voldemort had no such hesitations. He grabbed the jar of Honeywater that Draco had forgotten about, took the lid off, and threw it into the circle. On the Master of Death.
As the others froze, Voldemort only calmly watched as the figure stirred. It let out a weak groan, and Draco started to feel light-headed with trepidation. The circle might not hold it… it might beat the Dark Lord's will, he thought wildly, remembering the time Potter proved himself resistant to the Imperius…
"Good," Voldemort said evenly as the figure moved itself into a sitting position, hood still drawn over its face so that nobody was able to get a clear glimpse. "You are awake. I presume that you are the Master of Death… my name is Lord Voldemort and I have brought you here to help me bring justice and order to the Wizarding World."
There was no reply… ever so slowly, the figure tilted its head, but remained silent. "It is unfortunate that we have to meet this way," Voldemort tried again. "I have used a ritual to summon you. Through this, you are bound to my will. With our combined powers, I will be a great ruler and you will see your work pay off."
The figure started to shake very slightly. Its shoulders trembled and it brought a hand to its mouth. Draco wasn't sure if it was crying or laughing… and he didn't think anyone else could decide either.
"For so long as you prove useful, you will be treated well," Voldemort leveled at it. "You will stay at this manor and be privy to my strategizing. Many would envy you."
There was a very long pause as the figure continued to shake, and then finally — a huff of breath. A snort, one might call it. It chortled. This thing was laughing the whole time, Draco realized, jaw dropping.
Voldemort seemed to come to the same conclusion as he scowled. "This is no laughing matter. You must do what I say. Face me, Master of Death."
No longer laughing, it slowly stood up. It didn't strike the most impressive figure, a good foot shorter than the Dark Lord and lithe in build. Still, Draco dug his nails into his palm in fear as he waited to see what was under that hood…
The hands lifted and pushed the hood down, inch by inch.
The first thing Draco noticed was the scar. Next, the eyes. They were that one shade of green, and looking right at him.
"That's Harry Potter," he blurted out, all decorum gone.
"Hello, Draco," the Potter replica smiled kindly at him. "How's your summer been?"
+ Draco's POV will end, he just helped me get started.
+ yes, another WIP. this semester has been kicking my ass but once that's done, more updates...
+ this fic is inspired by wynnebat's Hell is Other People series on ao3.