A/N: This chapter is based on "I Constantly Thank God for Esteban" by Panic! at the Disco.
Expecting to be on the floor of an empty room, Draco opened his eyes. Instead, he found himself seated around a banquet table in the midst of what can only be described as a Death Eater convention. The Dark Lord sat at the head of the table, red eyes gleaming. Death Eaters flanked him along the sides of the long table. Hands folded, heads bowed, they chanted. Give us this day, our daily dose of faux affliction. Forgive our sins forged at the pulpit with
"Enough," the Dark Lord commanded. "Enough with your forked tongues selling faux sermons. I will not tolerate blathering and excuses. Your pathetic and insincere profusion of apologies for your sins is disgusting. Apologizing is a sign of weakness and failure. Failure deserves to be punished. Nagini, here, is quite interested in her next meal. Do not fail me. There will be harsh and obdurate consequences, and there is much to be done. There has been some dissention in the ranks. You know who you are."
Draco froze in his chair. Does he know? He subtly crossed his fingers. Were those tacky dancers really just Death Eaters in disguise? What would his father say about his pop-star impression? Would the Dark Lord crucio him first? Or just avada kadavra him? Draco would have quaked in fear, but that clashes greatly with his familial upbringing. Draco was ignored, perhaps unintentionally overlooked, as the Dark Lord continued his speech.
"When my faithful servants begin their—inquiries—I shall find and —reprimand— the coward responsible for the suggestion box. If you cannot say it to me, it should not be said at all. I am a new wave gospel, and I will be obeyed. Until you have earned a place as my equal, which you will not, you have no power and no ideas. My ideas are law, and you'll be thy witness. My name has been abused in the most common way possible. The litter left in the box all begins with 'Dear Voldemort.' I refuse to retain a name that has been tainted by so many quills. I have a new moniker. I shall be known as Lord Esteban."
Unable to control himself, Draco sniggered. What kind of name is Esteban? The red eyes of the Dark Lord and the slitted eyes of Nagini swiveled toward his chair. Draco schooled his features to be a façade of submissive respect. The Death Eater in the chair to his left had the misfortune of hiccupping as the Dark Lord focused his attention. With a well-placed curse, the Dark Lord blasted the man into the air and exploded the chair beneath him. He slammed into the ceiling before smashing down onto the ruins of his seat. Draco sat scared-stiff, posturally-controlled, trying not to draw any more attention to himself. Stifled snickers echoed around the chamber.
"PATHETIC," the Dark Lord rumbled. "How dare you mock so feebly in my presence? I do not allow half-assery in scheming, torturing, adoration of me, name-calling¸ or MOCKERY. Gentlemen, if you're gonna preach, for god's sake, preach with conviction!"
An impressive thrust of the Dark Lord's wand shot a Dark Mark high over the meeting table. With reverent bows of their heads, the Death Eaters followed suit. Dozens of Dark Marks swarmed across the ceiling as the Death Eaters began to chant again. Strike up the band. Whoa, oh, the conductor is beckoning. Come, congregation, let's sing it like you mean it.
The Dark Lord orchestrated a macabre ballet of his emblems. The chanting intensified around him. Come, congregation, let's sing it like you mean it. Come, congregation, let's sing it like you mean it.
Draco mouthed along with the words, slightly off from the others as he struggled to remember the words. He reflexively ducked when a Mark circled over him. The mysterious white device was thrown into the air by his rough movement. It catapulted through the mouth of the Dark Lord's talisman. The room spun again. Draco gratefully accepted the gift of slumber when he met the floor as an avada kadavra soared past his ear.