The reunion of the Malfoys had been a grim one. Draco's hands still slightly shook from the Cruciatus Curse he'd been subjected to for failing to kill Dumbledore. His father still reeked of Azkaban, all his features ashen and protruding. And his mother, ever-so-composed, crumbled completely once the three of them were alone. Draco held her hand as she sobbed into his father's chest. He had never seen her weep before. It killed her that she wasn't allowed to heal them. Draco brushed his tremors off as nothing. They would pass soon. His father would recover, too. Draco found himself much more concerned for his mother. It must have been a nightmare—living in a house swarming with these disgusting creatures, not to mention the Dark Lord himself. After a year spent in constant worry for his mother's well-being, he was relieved to find her unharmed, but his soul ached for her nonetheless.
Father, he pitied much less. He'd brought this upon himself. Upon all of them.
No, it was not pity Draco felt towards his father. It was anger. With each passing day since his father's return, Draco grew more and more furious. And, as he took in the man's trembling, shrunken shape, Draco's unwavering devotion, for the first time in his life, was beginning to give way to contempt. He didn't even have a wand now. The Dark Lord said it was a great honour, but everyone knew it was done to humiliate him even further. Malfoys were supposed to be cunning and powerful, feared and respected, and always on top. It was in their nature to be masters. Instead, they were mere servants, and of lower rank at that. Reduced to a joke. Shunned by everyone, foes and allies alike.
Their house, their money, their very lives were no longer their own. His father had squandered it all away.
Draco Malfoy felt powerless. And that was the worst feeling in the world.
If Draco wasn't so consumed by anger, he would have been consumed by fear. Between the two, he much preferred the former. He was careful, though, to banish any hints of displeasure with the Dark Lord himself. His Occlumency shields notwithstanding, harbouring such thoughts seemed dangerous.
This instinct wasn't born out of paranoia either. Draco knew he was being watched. Each time he found himself in the same room as Bellatrix, she would stare at him, studying his expressions. Once, at the end of a regular Death Eater meeting, he could swear he felt her presence in his mind, replaying the memory of that night at the Astronomy Tower, searching... Thankfully, she was interrupted by a question from the Dark Lord. She didn't get to the moment Draco had lowered his wand. She didn't get to read his thoughts pertaining to that moment. The experience left Draco terrified, and from then on, he made sure to keep his shields up whenever he was around people, never letting his guard down, not even for a single moment.
Aunt Bella already knew he didn't have the stomach for murder. What she didn't know was that, for a second, Draco almost believed Dumbledore—the old fool—could help him, and that he actually considered his offer. If that bit of information were revealed, Draco wouldn't have gotten away with just an hour or two of torture.
As it was, he was disregarded as weak and useless, finally left alone. Or so he thought for a time, as his family went about their lives undisturbed, largely confined to the first floor of the West Wing—ghosts in their own home. Draco preferred to spend his days reading in his bedroom. He had no idea what his father was up to; it seemed like not much—just dragging his skeletal form around, staring at walls with vacant eyes.
His mother was by far the most active. She spent her days researching intricate healing spells and protective magic. She was currently engrossed in another one of her Healer projects, though she didn't tell Draco much about it. He couldn't remember when she had first taken up this interest—years ago, it seemed. As it turned out, she had a natural talent for it. Although his mother always framed her studies as independent and merely a hobby, Draco suspected that protecting him and Father was the real reason she had begun studying Healing in the first place. Fully aware of the dangers that awaited them, yet unable to prevent them, perhaps this felt like the only thing she could do. And now, the Dark Lord had forbidden her from using any of her healing spells on her family. Draco might have thought it cruel—more of a punishment for his innocent mother than for him or Father—if only he hadn't been quashing any negative thoughts about his Lord.
Draco sat alone in his chambers. The July night was quiet and clear. A warm summer breeze drifted through the open window, playing with his hair. A Potions book rested in his hands, but he couldn't bring himself to focus on the words. His mind was wandering, his eyes watching distant stars, when she entered. Bellatrix never knocked.
"Draco," she cooed.
He put the book down on a coffee table and made a move to rise from the armchair, but she stopped him with a lifted hand.
"Good evening, Bella." He kept his voice neutral and his expression schooled, immediately Occluding his thoughts. "What brings you here at this hour?"
Viper-like, she began circling him in silence. Draco couldn't help but tense.
"Draco, Draco... You are the spitting image of your father, do you know that?" she finally spoke, coming to a halt behind his armchair. "Of course, you do. You've heard that line ever since you were a baby. And yet, I had hoped the resemblance stopped at the surface."
She dug her long, dirty fingernails into his shoulders and whispered in his ear, "You've disappointed me, Draco. You've disappointed our Lord."
Draco tried to swallow, but his body seemed to have frozen.
"Luckily for you, the Dark Lord is merciful," she continued. "He's willing to give you another chance to prove yourself."
"What..." His voice sounded hoarse when he spoke. "What do you mean?"
"Potter," Bellatrix all but spat, her nails digging deeper. "That filthy half-breed. They're going to move him in a few days."
"The Order of the Phoenix?"
"Blood traitors and mudbloods, the whole lot of them. We're going to incinerate them all."
She withdrew her nails and stepped out from behind the chair. Her manic smile turned into a deep frown as she fixed his gaze on him.
"The Dark Lord will graciously allow you to come along," she said.
Draco's expression remained stoic, even as his heart skipped a beat.
"I will do my best to serve our Lord."
"That is not good enough," she hissed. "Don't you understand, boy? You cannot afford another failure."
His mother's sad face flashed before his eyes. He had thought that once Dumbledore died, it would all be over. Draco Malfoy was a fool. Of course, it wouldn't be over. It would never be over. A sudden weariness descended upon his shoulders.
"I know," he said quietly.
Perhaps a quick death in battle would not constitute a failure. Or at least wouldn't be considered a punishable offence. Surely, the Dark Lord would spare his grieving parents. Surely... Oh, Draco Malfoy was a fool. His death wouldn't save them. Nothing would.
"For the sake of my sister," Bellatrix continued, "I will help you."
Despite the kind words, his aunt's eyes glinted with a menacing sparkle.
"Get dressed," she ordered. "It's time you overcame your irrational fear of the Unforgivables."
He was already dressed—black shirt and trousers, as always—but any objections he might have had died in his throat under her icy stare.
"Where are we going?" Draco tried his best not to sound panicked. There were several prisoners in the dungeons—the wand-maker, for one—but a cloak was hardly needed down there. No, they weren't going to the dungeons. They were leaving Malfoy Manor.
"You'll see."
As Draco threw on a robe and followed Bellatrix out of his chambers, his mind raced. Why didn't the prisoners suit her needs? Torturing or Imperiusing them wouldn't raise any objections. Killing them, however, was a different matter. They must have held important information to warrant a kidnapping. No, they weren't Draco's to kill. That's why they were heading out—to find subjects suitable for his training in the Killing Curse. His heart sank.
Draco, you are no assassin, Dumbledore had told him.
Well, tonight, Bellatrix sure as hell was going to make him one.
They descended the stairs to the ground floor and entered the empty Grand Hall. Bellatrix strode toward a fireplace, casting an impatient look at Draco. He close the distance between them in several strides. Taking a handful of powder, she snarled, "Lestrange Manor!"
"Wait!" came a voice behind them.
As green flames flared up, Narcissa Malfoy hurried toward them, placing herself between Draco and his aunt. Warm gratitude filled his chest, though he didn't dare hope she might save him.
"Where are you taking my son?" she demanded.
"Oh, Cissy." Bellatrix sneered. "You need to stop coddling him and start treating him like a man grown."
"Where are you taking my son?" his mother repeated, her voice slow and measured.
"Out to train!" Bellatrix threw her hands up as if it were obvious. " I intend to make him worthy of the Death Eater name."
The women stared each other down for a long moment.
"I only wish to help," Bellatrix lowered her voice. "He is weak, Cissy. He will not last a day out there. And you know you can't hide him behind these walls, you know that."
A sigh escaped his mother's lips. Her shoulders slumped slightly in defeat.
"At least give me a moment. A moment alone with him," she pleaded.
With an exasperated huff, Bellatrix retreated to the window. Mother turned to Draco and took his hands in hers.
"Promise me you'll be careful," she whispered. "Promise me you won't let any harm come to you."
Before he could tell her it wasn't exactly up to him, she slipped a hand inside her robe pocket and produced a piece of jewellery—a golden bracelet with tiny runes inscribed on it. There was no time to read them.
"I didn't mean to give it to you just yet," she said. "It is almost finished, but there are a few reinforcements I wanted to place upon it. No matter. Once you return, I'll—"
"Mother, you shouldn't." Draco glanced nervously at his aunt, who still had her back to them. "What if he—"
She cut him off with a look, fastening the bracelet on his right wrist and concealing it under his shirt sleeve. Both her hands lingered on his wrist as she closed her eyes and leaned into him. He inhaled the familiar flowery scent of her hair—home.
"Be careful, Draco," she whispered. "Be safe."
"Enough with the mollying," Bellatrix's voice rang out across the room.
The next moment she was beside them, pulling Draco's arm and side-stepping Narcissa.
"Lestrange Manor!" she cried out once more.
As the flames swallowed them, Draco cast one last look at his mother's sad face, wondering why it felt like a farewell.