December 2006
"Draco, you need to leave now. The roof is going to fall now"
Draco knelt on the ground frozen, he could not bring his body to move. He was holding on to a cold body, that seemed to be somewhat mangled, but also covered. The face of the person in his arms was hidden with a scarf that covered her head and her mouth.
The only thing he could remember was her eyes. Her doe-eyed brown eyes.
"Draco, please, for me." her voice seemed to be trembling with desperation but Draco felt his body pull her tighter towards him, trying to provide it with warmth from his torso.
Draco felt his heart beating so fast, as if it was going to pop out of his chest.
He felt weak hands pushing against his chest but once they felt his heartbeat, they faltered, before the palms slid across his pectorals, to rest on the left one, over his heart, as if it were trying to calm him down.
"Maybe I will just take a nap" the voice murmured slowly, as if it were drifting off and Draco pulled the body away from him to see the roll only him as a deadly chill passed through his entire body. The witch in his arms was unconscious. He didn't even know if she would make it. Draco felt like he would die if she did.
His hands shook her, and he heard a horrifying scream behind him, which in a few seconds he registered to be his own.
.
.
.
.
Draco jolted awake, sweaty once again from his daily dose of nightmares. Todays nightmare was much nicer as compared to last week. There were some days he would just be stuck, floating around in darkness, as if he were in black paint, with this voice telling him to get out of there, while he struggled to move around in the emptiness.
When Lucius had found Draco outside the manor, he had been injured and was within an inch of his life, and when he had finally recovered enough physically to actaully wake up, he realised that half of his life had been wiped out, snatched away from him in a cruel twist of fate. The last thing he could ever remember happening to him was him falling from the Cherry Blossom Tree near the Lake in the manor, when he was 10 years old.
Other than that, Draco remembered nothing. Nothing about himself, his life or anything of importance to know who he had grown into. He had tried to speak. He had tried to tell him that he remembered nothing else but no words had seemed to come out. Frustration had built up in him and he had tried his hardest to push air through his mouth, trying to make any possible sound he could manage to make, but it seemed like he had been cursed and his voice had been sealed away.
When Draco had initially woken up, his biggest problem had been losing his voice and his memory, but once he had recovered well enough physically and was taken off the Dreamless Sleep, the nightmares hit him in full force.
His father had tried to do everything to get him to speak, but to no avail. He knew they seemed to be missing something vital, yet, he couldn't remember what. And he had been pissssed with the feeling of that realisation.
Lucius had called the best death eaters he knew, at least the best he could manage during the ongoing crisis considering the fact that any one with sane enough capabilities had either joined the order or they had been killed by the idiot death eaters when they had refused to pick a side.
The ones remaining, to their credit, had tried almost every spell that Lucius knew existed to break a curse but he was not satisfied enough. He had hexed them and ordered them to do better than this and find something he also didn't know about because he had done all these spells before he had called the healers.
His son had been muted and his memory was wiped and Lucius could not bear to see the insult.
Draco remembered his mother and to his gratefulness, his mother remained the same from his memory of being a 10 year old. She was still the sweet and kind person, despite all the company she kept of rampant lunatics at the manor owing to the Dark Lords frequent visits into their house. However, her body had withered over time and her eyes had lost the twinkle in them. He could now only see heavy walls.
His mother was a natural Leglimens and she had passed this ability to Draco. He had known this about himself since he had been a child so he did remember his mother teaching him from a very early age. " Draco we live amongst dangerous people, your fathers friends are not very nice people, so you need to always be on your guard. Never give up what you want in life but make sure to keep it all protected. A lot of eyes will always be on you" she had said.
Now, whenever she would come to talk to him, she would also drop a few tips on Occluding, how to practise patience and meditate before calming his mind.
Draco had quickly hidden away the nightmares, disguising them as the sealed away section of his youth in hopes that nobody would bother fidgeting with his sealed memories and he had to be careful with his current teacher, who really liked to tear through his mind so he was always on alert.
Which in turn was exhausting him out. His nights were worse because hearing that voice question every decision he seemed to take was getting to him. It sounded so much like his voice of reason had manifested to combine with the voice in his memory.
His father had taken him to Voldemort, who had tried to then perform legilimency on him. He was sorely disappointed as it seemed like most of his mind had been erased. Everything looked like a dark night, with piles of sand and no wind blowing around it. There were signs of construction but it seemed as if they had sunk into the ground.
He had had these dreams for a while now and he knew that he needed to protect this memory from everybody around him. Every time he woke up, he would move this memory to the furthest part of his brain and try to lock it away as best as he could, burying it deep inside a ruin in his brain and digging it onto the ground before sealing the building with sand.
So far it had worked because the dark lord had not been able to access this part of his brain but it had not been like he had tried very hard. Once he had seen the emptiness inside Malfoy, his narcissistic brain had come up with an idea. An idea that would change his fate and many others lives forever.
Voldemort had decided to make him his best soldier. To train him under himself and to use him because undoubtedly the boy had extraordinary potential and prowess. A clean slate is what he had said and he had handed over the reign to his most insane follower, who happened to be his dearest Auntie. Dearest Auntie who liked to Cricio him for fun and then immediately trying to tear through him mind, nothing he wasn't prepared for,
Draco stood in front of the full-length mirror, his sharp gaze fixed on the reflection that stared back at him. The young man in the mirror that stared back at him was a stranger—his eyes held a haunted look, a silent plea for answers that seemed forever out of his reach. He couldn't fathom the depths of his own past, the shadows that had clung to him like an invisible shroud seemed to get heavier with each passing day.
In the weeks that followed, Draco's life became a series of hearing whispered conversations and feeling scrutinising glances. His mother, Narcissa, moved silently around him, her eyes a mix of concern and helplessness while keeping up with the pace of his father's guests.
The Malfoy Manor, once a place of power and influence, now echoed with the hushed tones of uncertainty with insanity bouncing along the walls along with heavy dark magic, that just seemed to linger around the property.
He found solace in the expansive library, surrounded by books that held secrets and spells. Draco often wondered if the answers to his existence were hidden within the dusty tomes that lined the shelves. But every page he turned, every incantation he mumbled in his head had yielded nothing. His voice remained trapped, a silent prisoner in a world that demanded words.
Lucius, driven by an unrelenting determination, continued his quest for a solution. He consulted with renowned wizards and sought ancient artefacts, hoping to find a loophole that could release Draco from the silent curse. Voldemort had initially let Lucius get sloppy at work for the sake of his heir. After all, the boy was a pure-blood and Voldemort was pleased by Bellatrix's report of Draco;s progress.
But the magic that bound Draco's voice and memories proved to be formidable, resisting every attempt to unravel its intricacies.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the Manor, Draco heard a sharp knock on his door, and he opened it to reveal Lucius in the hallway, with a bottle of firewhiskey in his hand. Draco gestured for him to come inside and beckoned him to take a seat on the sofa in his room.
He approached Draco with an expression that resembled a heavy heart. The lines on his father's face told a tale of frustration and despair. Draco met his gaze, his eyes clouded.
"We have exhausted every avenue, Draco, and the dark lord, he seems content with your memory loss, in fact he says you have grown stronger. He, he wants me to stop looking " Lucius admitted, his voice carrying a weight of defeat.
"I have reached out to the most skilled wizards, sought artifacts of great power, but it seems like the magic that binds you is beyond our understanding." Draco's expression remained stoic, but a flicker of something—resignation, perhaps—played in his eyes. The silence that enveloped him was both a shield and a prison, a paradox that defined his existence. Draco could see a lot of emotions in his fathers face, betrayal seemed to be most dominating one.
That night, as Draco took his father downstairs to the halls, he retired to his room and found himself drawn to the balcony that overlooked the sprawling grounds of Malfoy Manor. The moon hung low in the velvety sky, its silvery glow casting an ethereal sheen over the landscape. He leaned against the balustrade, staring into the distance as if seeking answers from the star-strewn heavens. The whispers of the night carried tales of magic and mystery, but Draco's world remained confined to the shadows of his own muted existence. He wanted to break free, of the prison he had been kept in.
Voldemort, intrigued by the potential within the muted Malfoy heir, continued to train Draco in the arts of dark magic. The absence of spoken words did not hinder Draco's ability to wield a wand with deadly precision. His movements were fluid, his magic potent, but his mind remained a fortress even to the Dark Lord. It had made him jealous. He had immediately turned and crucioed Narcissa in front of Draco and had warned him " I am pleased with you progress, however, if i dare find an ounce of disloyalty in that fortified mind of yours, your dear mother will bear the consequences."
The once-proud Malfoy heir now walked the fine line between loyalty and survival. Draco, unable to voice his thoughts or protest, followed Voldemort's orders with a detached obedience. The scars of the past lingered beneath the surface, hidden from the prying eyes that observed his every move. The voice in his dreams faltered now.
In the stillness of the night, Draco had often found himself haunted by fleeting images and fragments of dreams that slipped away like smoke. He yearned to grasp the elusive memories, to decipher the whispers that teased the edges of his consciousness. Yet, the more he reached, the further they ran away from him.
Narcissa watched her son navigate this muted existence with a mother's sorrowful gaze. She knew the weight of unsung words, having to play what Draco had become when they had the death eaters over, the ache of a voice forever silenced. In the hushed corridors of Malfoy Manor, mother and son communicated through shared glances and nightly dinners in his room.
The war raged on in the wizarding world, and Draco, now a shadow within his own house, moved through the tumultuous currents of dark magic and shifting allegiances. As the High Reeve, Voldemort's deadliest weapon, Draco became a figure of mystery among the Death Eaters. Only the elite inner circle knew who he was, but there were whispers about him. All sorts.
His identity had been shared amongst trusted individuals as they were often over when Voldemort had held meetings in the Manor. His silent presence had spoken volumes, and even the oldest and the most experienced death eaters shuddered with the chill they felt when they landed their gaze on him.
And so, silenced, Draco Malfoy walked a path carved by destiny, his steps echoing in the corridors of a fate that danced on the edge of shadows and insanity that was threatening to burst out of him.
As the days melded into a seamless continuum of training, darkness, Draco had found himself moving through the halls of Malfoy Manor with a single purpose, his every step echoing the orchestrated rhythm of Voldemort's desires. The manor itself, once a bastion of pureblood supremacy, had transformed into a training ground for a power hungry maniac who wanted to train a soldier—the High Reeve.
Voldemort reveled in the silence that enveloped Draco. It was a different kind of power, one that resonated with the very core of wandless dark magic, he felt it through his energy core, he could see it flowing in his veins.
The absence of words only fueled the mystique surrounding the enigmatic figure that Draco had become. Death Eaters spoke in hushed tones about the High Reeve, about the silent storm that could unleash destruction with a mere flick of his hand.
Draco's training sessions were gruelling, each movement calculated and precise. His wand danced through the air, casting spells that left a trail of devastation in their wake and the magic in the manor repairing everything as soon as it broke apart.
Those who witnessed his training on their visits saw that the lack of spoken incantations only added to the eerie spectacle. His movements were precise and deadly.
Voldemort, a looming figure in the background, observed with a satisfaction that hinted at the unfolding of a chaos to come.
In the quiet moments between training sessions, Draco retreated to the balcony overlooking the expansive grounds. The whispers of the night seemed to hold secrets, and Draco strained to catch the elusive threads of memories that lingered on the edges of his consciousness. The dreams—the ones he desperately tried to protect from the probing minds around him—persisted, a haunting melody that played on the fringes of his existence.
Narcissa, watching her son from afar, could feel the weight of his silent struggles. Her eyes, pools of maternal concern, followed him like a guardian shadow. She moved through the manor with a grace that masked the turmoil within. Draco was her anchor in this storm, but she was also his.
One evening, as Draco had stood on the balcony, Voldemort approached him with a deliberate stride. The Dark Lord's piercing red eyes bore into Draco's. Obedient to the unspoken commands, Draco followed Voldemort into a dimly lit chamber within the manor. The room was adorned with ancient symbols and artefacts that pulsed with dark magic. Voldemort gestured for Draco to approach, his eyes alight with a sinister anticipation.
"High Reeve," Voldemort's voice resonated in Draco's mind, a dark echo that stirred the depths of his consciousness leaving a chill inside him.
"It is time for you to embrace the full extent of your power. In order to become the ultimate weapon, one must channel the darkest forces. Witness the true meaning of power."
With a flick of Voldemort's wand, a bound Muggle materialised in the centre of the room, fear etched across their face. Draco watched as Voldemort, with cruel satisfaction, tortured the Muggle until he was screaming in silence.. The dark magic flowed through Voldemort and Draco could feel his knees tremble with the enormous amount of energy surrounding him.
The Muggle's screams echoed in the chamber, merging with Draco's internal screaming. As the torturous ritual unfolded, Draco felt a strange amalgamation of power and despair. The Muggle, a vessel for the darkness that Draco now harboured and witnessed, crumpled to the ground, their life force drained by the insatiable hunger of dark magic. Voldemort, satisfied with the display, turned to Draco.
"This is the essence of true power, High Reeve. Embrace it, wield it, and let the world tremble in your wake." With a quick wave of his wand, another muggle appeared in the room.
The room fell silent, the echoes of the tortured screams lingering in the air. Draco, his eyes reflecting the weight of the darkness within, nodded in acquiescence. The room hung heavy with the echoes of torment as Voldemort, a puppeteer of darkness, guided Draco through a macabre symphony of spells. The air crackled with malevolence, setting the stage for a performance that would etch Draco's destiny into the records of wizarding infamy.
"It is now your turn, Draco," Voldemort's voice slithered through the chamber, a serpent's whisper that coiled around Draco's consciousness. "Perform the spells I just showed you. Once you have mastered these spells, nobody can ever touch you. You should know, you have to mean the curses, or it would have no effect."
Draco, his gaze fixed upon the bound Muggle at the centre of the room, felt the weight of the dark lord's expectations. His mother's whispered tales of Voldemort's favourite spells from his childhood stories reverberated in his mind, a haunting lullaby that guided his wand through the sinister choreography.
The first incantation, the Cruciatus Curse, flowed effortlessly from Draco's wand. A flick, a circle, and the Muggle's screams pierced the air, a cacophony of agony that resonated with the cold satisfaction in Voldemort's eyes. Draco, a silent conductor of torment, watched as the bound figure convulsed in pain until the Dark Lord, sensing the crescendo, intervened with a touch on Draco's shoulder.
"Very well done, Draco," Voldemort's voice dripped with approval. "And now for the fun part. Take him apart, do your best and kill him."
Draco, the puppet now handed a blade of shadow, knew the dark lord's desires without the need for explicit commands. The Killing Curse—Avada Kedavra—was his next act. With a swift incantation, the Muggle's screams ceased, replaced by an eerie silence that settled like a shroud in the room.
Draco turned to face his 'master,' whose pleased countenance confirmed the completion of his unholy initiation and bowed.
His training was now a tapestry woven with the threads of darkness sewn into a pattern on his skin like a prickling sensation. Voldemort, satisfied with the creation of his ultimate weapon, saw in Draco a soul unshackled by morality or mercy. T
he High Reeve, now baptized in the cruel rites of dark magic, stood at the precipice of a destiny defined by blood and shadows.
In the aftermath of the twisted performance, Draco's gaze met Voldemort's, an unspoken understanding passing between them. The silent soldier had emerged from the crucible of torment, his allegiance irrevocably bound to the dark lord's insatiable hunger for power. As Draco stood amidst the remnants of his own humanity, a shadow danced within him—a phantom of the boy he once was, swallowed by the silent storm that raged in the corridors of his muted existence.
This had been months ago. His first kill. The dark lord was back in his manor today, signalling another gruelling session for Draco. As he traversed the hallways, he encountered his 'Aunt' Bella patiently awaiting him.
"High Reeve," came a voice from behind. Draco swiftly turned to witness Voldemort seated on an expansive velvet couch positioned beneath a family portrait that dominated the wall. The portrait, vast and covering nearly the entire expanse, depicted his parents standing with pride. However, with each glance at the boy in the painting, Draco found his recognition waning.
He respectfully bowed to the man on the couch before straightening up. Aunt Bella approached him, and instinctively, Draco moved away when she attempted to touch him. Her eyes gleamed like Christmas lights.
"My Lord, I propose a lesson. May I, with your permission?" she inquired.
Voldemort nodded at Bella, reclining. Before Draco could comprehend the unfolding events, the echoes of Crucio reverberated, and he crumpled to the ground, subjected to its torment repeatedly until unconsciousness claimed him.