"Poison of the Blackest Blood"
My prompt: "Who's Afraid of the Dark?"
Imperius gouged the eyes and strung nerves on puppeteer strings, contorting macabre ballerinas into cruel demise.
Cruciatus cut through the night like a dagger, burning flesh and blood from bone in place of piercing knives and shrieks.
Avada Kedavra descended the steps of the dungeon and embraced the lonely soul, together embarking toward a veiled grave.
Day and night wore the other's skin, sun slipping into pale pools of opalescence, moon masquerading in golden flame. Time stood still on stilts, where minutes mumbled and seconds shivered into the eleventh hour, where Draco Malfoy stood on the marble floor, his wand pointed at the trembling form of the Manor's newest prisoner, an orchestra of groans and screams swelling in crescendo.
"You know what to do," came the chilling voice of the Dark Lord in the corner of the room, observing the progress of his protegee.
"Yes, my Lord," he managed to utter, droplets of sweat running down his neck.
He shut his eyes and thought of the summer after first year.
Lucius Malfoy sat on the chaise lounge by the fire, concealing all emotion as he opened the letter revealing Draco's examination results.
"And why have you come home with not only an E in Herbology, but one in Defense as well?"
Draco blanched. "I studied for both, father."
"Evidently not well enough. No son of mine brings home such disgraceful results." Lucius cast the letter aside.
"It's not my fault my Defense professor died! What was I supposed to do, resurrect Quirrell and make him fix my marks?"
Lucius snarled. "No, boy! You were supposed to quit fooling around with those two bumbling oafs, Crabbe and Goyle, and focus on your subjects! I had thought I made myself quite clear during your Easter holiday, but it would appear my advice has not penetrated your thick skull."
"It's not like they're O.W.L.s, Father. I've probably done better than Potter and Weasley."
"I don't care about those two buffoons. They are not the heirs to the Malfoy family. You are. If you wish to make a name for yourself and be deserving of our good fortune, then you will improve."
"I will do better next year, I promise." Draco looked his father in the eye. "And I will make the Slytherin Quidditch Team as well."
"There is no point in making false promises, Draco. You will only disappoint me further." Lucius sighed, then rose from his seat. "I will be contacting the manufacturers of the Nimbus 2001. The entire team will receive a broom along with a polishing kit, and in return, they will make you their Seeker. Tell me, who is the Captain?"
"Er - I think his name is Marcus."
"And his surname?"
"Flint." Draco swallowed, feeling his heart pound beneath his ribs.
"Hmm," Lucius said, peering suspiciously at Draco. "If my memory serves me correct, his family is one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."
While his father used his wand to summon a thick tome from the mahogany bookshelf, Draco shuddered, having broken out in a cold sweat. He wiped his palms on his trousers and cleaned a scuff on his patent dragon leather oxfords.
"Ah yes, the Flints are one of us." Lucius nodded and returned the book to its place in the cabinet. "Now, I believe it is customary for every Quidditch Captain to host try-outs at the start of the school year."
"Yes, Father."
"This will be unnecessary, as he will be awarding you the position, but in the event that that fool, Dumbledore, requires this, you will participate. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Father."
"Of course, I may have to check the handbook as it pertains to the rules of Quidditch Teams and the delegated services of the Captain, but it's nothing I cannot discuss in civilized conversation with the rest of the School Board." Lucius wore his trademark smirk.
"May I be excused?" Draco was more than willing to try out with the rest of the Slytherins for the Seeker position, but once Lucius began to pull strings, there was no point in arguing.
"Go practice with that German broom I bought you. It's made of the finest wood in the Black Forest."
"Yes, Father."
Once Draco left his father's study, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The pressure to live up to Lucius's sky-high expectations had tired him out for the day, and he genuinely did not think he had the energy to practice diving drills, but what his father wanted, his father got.
"Your father raised you better than this, Draco. You must never give them the advantage," Voldemort hissed into his ear.
"Please," gasped Peter Pettigrew, his skin blotchy with bruises, slick with sweat. "I will never disobey you again! Never! I'm sorry! I will do better!"
Draco felt his hand waver, and he bit down hard on his lip to keep it still and straight.
"You lie, Wormtail. You always lie. And time and time again, I forgive you for your transgressions. But tonight you will be punished severely." The Dark Lord grabbed the front of Pettigrew's robes and looked him straight in the eye. "I want you to taste death. I want you to hear it, see it, touch it."
"Y-yes my Lord. I will do anything to get back in your good graces!" Pettigrew sobbed, bowing his head as though to worship his Lord and Savior.
"Go on, Draco. Teach my humble servant a lesson."
Draco nodded, and focused on Pettigrew's greasy, matted head.
The cardinal rule of the Unforgivable Curses was the unparalleled desire of the caster to demand control, cause pain, and seek death.
Draco did not want any part in this. A few years ago, he might have encouraged the sadistic streak within him, and volunteered to curse and jinx to his heart's content. But he no longer cared about his privileged childhood. He simply wanted to return to his room on the second floor and sleep until the war was over.
He thought of his family, his broken father and vulnerable mother, and the torture they would experience if he did not go through with this. Mother and Father. Father and Mother.
Draco thought of the word that brought the shrieks and the screams and the sobs and the groans, and uttered it.