The intricate pattern of the wooden floor underneath swam in and out of focus. The swaying of the shadows was oddly mesmerising, but then there was nothing else to see other than the floor and his shifting, swaying shadow upon it. Every time his eyelids slid shut, pain screamed through his mind and he was gasping and choking on his breath again. It was hard enough to breathe, suspended as he was, his chest pulled impossibly tight with his arms taking his full weight. Yet when the hyperventilation started, the black spots danced in his vision, joining his swaying shadow.
Something dropped onto the warm brown wood. Something wet, glistening in the shimmering light coming from the candles. It was stark red, deep in colour. Blood.
The blood was coming off him, that much he knew, but he wasn't sure where from exactly. It could be from his face or from his wrists. His wrists were raw, the metal shackles that encased them had scrubbed his skin down to a point where the pain stopped him from struggling. Even his smallest movements inflicted pain. Not that he had the strength anymore to struggle. He hung from them, so exhausted he couldn't even lift his head. Even though the full suspension caused him exquisite suffering, he couldn't relieve the pain. His legs were limp, knees bent, his feet sprawled out from where he collapsed.
He couldn't remember when he collapsed. It was hard to remember. Hard to piece together his thoughts where they had been shattered. How could he think when so much of his brain was preoccupied with the agony he was in? Torture was very thought consuming.
Ah, right… that's what's happening…
A lone thought whispered in his mind, a voice that hadn't quite been snuffed out after he gave up using his actual voice while reduced to the wordless screaming he'd been forced to make. He hadn't quite been obliterated, a small tendril of self clinging on, spared destruction so he could slowly regain himself. That piece of himself wanted to laugh. How could he have forgotten that he was being tortured?
He'd even forgotten that he could move his eyes. He shifted his gaze from the speck of blood on the floor. Enough sense remained for him to know that moving his head would shift his body and cause more pain, so he kept still and limp, not even twitching a finger. Looking up from the floor, he saw the dark wooden panelling on the wall opposite him. A golden candle holder in front of him sported three candles, black, their flames flickering and dancing. The room was lit with candles… not by electricity. For a moment he thought it was odd.
Wizards don't use electricity, stupid.
He laughed then at himself. Laughing at the world with its candles and its magic. The laughter turned quickly to coughing and he soon was doubled over, pain assaulting him.
Torture, remember. You've been tortured. It's not funny.
Harry turned his gaze away from the candles. He had no idea how long had passed since he collapsed, but for some reason the torture hadn't resumed. It was only then he realised that he was alone. Harry's breath caught in his throat with the revelation, his chest and shoulders burning as he fought to breathe. His vision swam threateningly, close to fainting again. Groaning deep in his abused throat, Harry twisted his burning wrists, his trembling hands seeking out the chains which his shackles were attached to. Finding the cold, unyielding metal links, he seized them.
I need to stand. The thought was a simple one. Now that he could move without being tortured, he had to relieve the pain he was causing himself. With great effort, he drew on the strength lingering in the muscles that were recovering, heaving himself up enough so he could shift his legs back underneath his torso. The chain binding his ankles scraped on the floor as he clumsily moved to stand. The moment his feet planted on the wooden floor, the effort was worth it. His lungs fully expanded, blessed air rushing in to chase the faint away.
He gifted himself with a small rest, clutching the chains for dear life as he heaved at the air. Propping his chin against his chest, he blinked slowly, looking down at himself. His chest was bare, skin sticky with sweat. All he wore were his jeans, stripped of most of his clothes. He wasn't entirely sure when it happened, whether he was conscious for it or not. His chest was mottled with bruises, though they weren't from the torture. That had been from the crash.
The memory hit him, new thoughts joining him as his mind recovered. Flickers rushed through his mind, images flying through thick and fast. A jet of golden flame rushing out of his wand, the plummet through the air with the ground rushing up to meet him, furious blood red eyes glaring down at him… then the pain, endless pain… cold metal around his wrists… and he couldn't get away, he couldn't escape… no escape… no escape…
Harry closed his eyes, biting down on his lip as the rushing in his head built up. His heart was racing faster and faster, his chest tightening again. His legs nearly collapsed under him again, his knees shaking with the effort of standing. He knew what had happened to him, why he was in such a miserable state. He knew who had done it to him. That repeated word that delivered such agony, he fought against his chains with everything he had… but there was no escape.
His scar jolted with burning hot pain, forcing a hoarse cry out of him. Instinctively, he pulled weakly against the tension holding his arms up above his head and pulled his body into a Y shape. The skin under the tight, heavy cuffs burned with his efforts. He released the chains, his hands waving desperately to touch the cuffs. He twisted at his waist, raising his trembling head to see his bare arms, squinting up to see his restraints. His efforts to escape had caused a great deal of entertainment. He knew his struggles were a pointless waste of energy, yet he couldn't help himself. He'd break his own wrists if it meant he could escape. Because he could not let Voldemort see into his mind.
He knew he was out of time when he heard the click of the locks at his back as they were unlocked. He'd never been more terrified in his life as he held his breath, waiting for his torture to resume. The door swished open and Voldemort stepped inside, bare feet padding on the wooden floor. Harry's scar burned fiercely with each step he took.
Harry turned as much as he could with his arms extended upwards as they were. He squinted over his shoulder, the blurred visage of Voldemort waiting for him. Harry's head flicked back to the front, his fear escalating far beyond his control.
The door shut, locks clicking again, sealing them within. Harry started to search the space in front of him desperately for some sort or exit, some way out. Of course, there was nothing. He had nothing. He was utterly helpless.
"I am impressed."
Harry cringed at his voice, his abused joints all flaring with pain at the movement. He tucked his head down as Voldemort moved under the chain restraining his right arm. He shook with fear and pain, unable to hide his terror. He watched Voldemort's shadow join his as he moved to stand in front of him.
"You recover quickly… fortunate indeed. Let us see…"
Harry had nowhere to go as Voldemort advanced on him. He let out a small moan of fear as Voldemort's pale fingers grasped at his chin and forced his head up, his neck muscles bunching at the movement. The pain in his scar settled to a bearable burn despite the skin contact. Harry's eyes reflexively sought out Voldemort's. He could see his vague reflection in the black voids of his pupils, eyes slightly dilated. The red of his eyes appeared to gleam with his power and malice as his face loomed over him.
He realised too late what Voldemort was doing, staring into his eyes so intently. He went to pull away, only for his hold on his face to tighten, nails biting into his skin. Voldemort laughed softly when he closed his eyes in his effort to prevent his mind from being invaded.
"Lucid enough to know the dangers of eye contact," Voldemort mused, "It matters little. After all, our minds are connected, are they not?"
His scar seared with burning agony. A cry rattled out of him, his vision flooded with white before he found himself looking instead at a bloodied face. His bloodied face, twisted up with a grimace of severe pain…
Harry opened his eyes, instead looking at Voldemort's face, his head throbbing as the invasion passed. Hatred ignited as more tendrils of himself reconnected in his mind. Harry tried again to pull his head away, the movement rattling his chains. At the sound, he thrashed against them, gritting his teeth together in his futile attempt to escape. Voldemort took in his rage and desperation, his nostrils flaring. Harry had come to recognise what it meant, his monstrous face did not retain much humanity but he could plainly see his cruel amusement… and his pleasure. He was enjoying himself.
"Do it then," Harry goaded, saying his first words to his torturer and murderer. He'd kept his words back, not trusting himself to not start begging. But his tongue had been loosened, his control fractured apart. "Or are you afraid I'll force you out like I did before."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed, his amusement gone at once.
"Legilimency is not the only means I have access to. Do you believe your meagre defences will protect you from veritaserum? Tell me, Harry, what is there to stop me forcing it down your throat?"
Icy fear shivered down his spine. Though he'd been threatened with the truth potion before, he'd never experienced its effects. He'd seen it firsthand, however. He saw how Barty Crouch Junior had gone glassy eyed and didn't hesitate to spew out every secret he was questioned on.
Voldemort's cruel amusement was back as his thin lips curled into a smile. He raised his wand and Harry felt again the crushing in his chest as he stared at the end of his own wand. His wand… used against him… in the worst possible way. He brought it up to Harry's face, resting the tip between his eyes. Unable to hold back his fear, Harry let out a small moan, struggling against his chains again.
"Or I can use our dear Bellatrix's favourite method. Your resilience has impressed me but you will break, in time. I will deliver you to the very brink of your sanity and then deny you the solace of madness. Each time I do, you'll recover… and then we begin again… and again… until you cannot take it anymore and you will say and do anything to spare yourself from the pain."
Harry knew the threat wasn't a bluff. He could see it clearly, burning in Voldemort's eyes.
"Lucius's father Abraxas kept quite the collection of instruments as, you see, he favoured a more physical art form of torture. He commissioned the very chains which bind you. Oh, how it amused him to keep prisoners chained down here for days while, just up above, he entertained in the drawing room as his unwilling guests suffered in silence. Will you, I wonder, be more cooperative after sleepless days hanging from these chains?"
Shuddering, Harry began to succumb to the whining despair forging in his mind as each threat compounded his suffering. He'd rather die than spend days locked up in chains, unable to move, his own body torturing itself. The pain… the humiliation as he'd be forced to let nature take its course. He doubted he'd be taken to a toilet any time soon.
He did register at least that Voldemort confirmed where he was. He was in some secret torture chamber in Malfoy Manor. Of course, the Malfoys would have managed to keep such a room hidden during all the Ministry raids.
"You just want to torture me to make me suffer," Harry found himself saying, his mouth moving before he could tell himself to shut up. "You don't care about what I know or don't. Otherwise you would have ripped apart my mind already and killed me."
Voldemort laughed in his face, his breath hot and sour. He released his chin, causing Harry's head to drop down and the chains to clink.
"Oh Harry… you haven't realised, have you?" He said, his voice mockingly soft as he tilted his head to the side. "Do you not remember what happened? Do you not know why I left you to recover your mind and piece yourself back together? I have already ripped through your mind."
No… no… no…
Harry couldn't remember what happened before he collapsed. He didn't know how he got in that room or how he ended up stretched out and suspended on chains like a grotesque marionette. He just remembered pain and the crash… that word, over and over…
He stared at Voldemort, horrified, as he then realised that the word hadn't been Crucio. Voldemort then released his face.
It had been Legilimens.
"You managed to put up some defence eventually, but far far too late. The effort nearly broke your mind so I left you to recover but it appears there was permanent damage after all." Voldemort said as he paced away, moving to circle him like prey caught in a snare.
"Y-you… you used legilimency…" Harry muttered, horrified, as he tried desperately to remember and drew up blanks. The pain in his scar spiked and he gasped. Squinting, he sought the cause, finding Voldemort over by where there was some sort of display, shelves lined up on the wall. Recalling what he said about Abraxas Malfoy and his collection, Harry struggled anew, gasping desperately as he wrung his wrists in the cuffs, ignoring the pain he was causing himself.
"Those irons were smithed by goblins," Voldemort's cold voice hissed out from where he stood with his back to Harry, "your efforts are worthless."
Letting out a wordless shout of frustration and anguish, Harry slumped down, hanging from the chains. His breathing was shallow as despair started to win. If Voldemort truly had already ransacked his mind, then he knew everything. It was all over. Ron and Hermione wouldn't stand a chance with finding the horcruxes if Voldemort knew they had knowledge of them.
Harry stared at the back of Voldemort's head, his chest heaving urgently as he started to hyperventilate again. His mindscape was an absolute mess. For all he knew, he could have been chained up for days instead of the hours he thought he'd been there. He couldn't remember what Voldemort had seen. All that remained was pain. Earth-shattering pain that had him screaming at the top of his lungs. That much he did remember but he just assumed that the cruciatus curse had been responsible.
"Wh-what is there even left to take from me at this point?" Harry croaked out, his face heating at the sound of the desperation in his voice. "You want me to suffer for my grave offences against you? You want to punish me for surviving ? I have suffered enough!" He lost control, his voice erupting out of him, breaking where his throat was roughened from his earlier screaming. "Because if you've seen my mind, if you've seen everything I've been through, you know… you know… that you already destroyed me the moment you took my family away from me."
Voldemort slowly turned, his red eyes vivid in his white face even in Harry's blurred, miserable vision. Harry's chest heaved as he tried to breathe. His vision swam, but not from his lack of air. Tears were starting to form, tears that he could not show Voldemort. He blinked them fiercely away.
The pain in his scar started to dwindle to an uncomfortable burn as Voldemort considered him, not moving.
"Knowledge. To answer your first question and… I will answer your questions." Voldemort said, his voice low and measured, not snarling in rage as Harry expected after his outburst. "I am not punishing you for your 'offences' against me. I am well aware that they are outside of your control. Your suffering is a means to an end. I must understand what it is about you… and I am not so blinded by hate to not see what is obvious. You do possess power of your own, Harry Potter, and it does make you dangerous. I was wrong to dismiss you as a snivelling child behind his protectors. If you hadn't been so limited in your magical education, you could have become as powerful as I was at your age."
A new fear burned deep within Harry, clenching at his insides in a way that made him need to curl up and hide. The way Voldemort spoke to him reminded him too much of how he sounded when younger and saner.
"If I'm so dangerous to you, then why am I still alive?" Harry asked angrily, clutching the chains above him so tightly that his arms were shaking. "You know I'm capable of killing you. I even know how to do it. You aren't as immortal as you think."
Voldemort surveyed him silently for a moment, not exploding into a murderous rage at his audacity as Harry expected. Instead, he rolled his wand between his fingers, contemplating. Witnessing him take a moment to actually consider his words was terrifying.
"What is it that the prophecy said exactly? One must die at the hands of the other?"
Harry let out an involuntary gasp at the confirmation that Voldemort had indeed ransacked his mind if he had privy to that specific detail.
"I'm destined to either kill you or be killed by you - and the same is true for you," Harry said tightly, meeting Voldemort's gaze. "If you believe the prophecy, that is."
"Do you not?"
"I don't know," Harry said honestly, "I wish I could say that Trelawney is a fraud, but I witnessed her make a prophecy myself – one that came true. It certainly seems like I'm the one doomed to die."
Voldemort moved closer to him once more, causing him to shudder in fear.
"Such a pitiful creature you make, Harry," he said as he prowled around him, moving behind where he was out of sight. He poked the tip of Harry's wand hard in between his straining shoulder blades, finding a sore spot to prod painfully. Harry let out a loud cry, more of surprise than pain. "So trapped, so used… and you can't even see it, can you? You are so determined to fight for what you believe is right, you gave up on ever fighting for yourself. Even worse… I do not believe that you ever have fought for yourself."
His words confused and terrified Harry as Voldemort paced back into his line of vision. He rested his cheek against his arm, starting to lose the strength to hold his head up.
"This is how we differ the most," Voldemort continued, his voice now soft and rhythmic, drawing Harry in as if the monster was the snake-charmer and Harry the serpent under his thrall. "I have only ever aspired towards my own ambitions. My pursuit for power has always been for my personal gain, for I believe it is my right. You on the other hand believe it is your duty to sacrifice your own future for a cause you feel is more important than your own life. A cause that you won't live to see fulfilled."
Harry turned his gaze away from Voldemort. That had hit a nerve. He tried to not think about how unfair it was that he couldn't live the life his parents had sacrificed themselves for. He didn't have the chance to even finish school or live to see his seventeenth birthday. He'd been tasked with a suicide mission, a mere teenager, just because a prophecy marked him out. Words uttered before he had even been born determined his life. He never had any choices, any control of his own life.
And it wasn't fair.
He closed his eyes, emotional pain joining in with the physical.
"I can't have a future because of you ," Harry said quietly, listening to Voldemort's pacing footsteps as he continued to circle him, robes swishing on the wooden floor. " You set the prophecy in motion the moment you hunted me down and tried to kill me."
"Ah, yes… but had you been out of my reach, I would not have felt it prudent to remove you as a threat. It was your parents who made the decision to remain in the country once they learned that I was after you. It was your dear mother and father who listened to the wise counsel of Albus Dumbledore over their own parental instincts."
"Shut UP!" Harry lost it then, thrashing his arms against his chains. "Don't you dare blame my parents!"
"I do not blame them. They were young… and frightened. Easily manipulated, which they were…"
"Stop it… stop what you're doing," Harry muttered, scared as he started to understand what Voldemort was implying.
It had been Dumbledore who told his parents to go into hiding… to use the fidelius charm… to stay in Godric's Hollow.
"Had they left Great Britain and started a new life away from the war, I would not have pursued them. Had they surrendered to me and taken a Vow to start a new life away from the war, I would have accepted it. Yet instead, they chose to hide where it was convenient for Albus Dumbledore. So he knew where they were, where you were."
"No, no…"
"Tell me, Harry, what happened after my curse rebounded? Who came to collect you from the ruins? Who came on Dumbledore's orders?"
Hagrid.
"I know… I was there, Harry. I know that Hagrid had been positioned close by. I know how he fumbled through the destruction to find you where you were wailing in pain-."
"SHUT UP!"
"I watched as Sirius Black arrived, heard their discussion as Hagrid relayed that he had orders to take you to your muggle relatives. Now, tell me… why would he have such orders? Why would Dumbledore have a contingency plan in place?"
Harry sobbed, unable to stop himself. His heart… he could feel it breaking as Voldemort's words dug in and tore into him.
"I… I don't know…"
"Control, Harry. Dumbledore couldn't have you ending up with Sirius Black. He knew the pureblood pariah would take off with you and raise you far away where you could be truly safe. No, Dumbledore had all his pieces right where he needed them to be. You were nothing more than a pawn, raised to become dependent on Dumbledore until it was time for him to make his final move after sacrificing you to achieve it."
Tears slid down Harry's cheeks. When he heard Voldemort stop his pacing, standing right in front of him, he opened his eyes. His vision swam behind a veil of tears before clearing. A gasp rattled in as Voldemort poked his wand under Harry's chin and moved his head away from his arm. Harry swallowed against the uncomfortable pressure, resigned to the end. He had no fight left in him.
"You are much more than a chess piece to me," Voldemort said calmly, his voice low as he tilted Harry's head up higher to look at him, "and I no longer wish to play Albus Dumbledore's game, not while he is dead and we are both free of him."
The tension in the chains holding Harry aloft lifted with a loud clank. Harry jerked in place, looking upwards as the iron chains began to lengthen as Voldemort activated the mechanism. The crank rotated, providing slack in the chains. Harry's shoulders popped audibly as they were released from their stretched state. He moaned in relief as his arms gradually bent at the elbows and he slumped forwards, dropping to his knees as he collapsed. The crank stopped, holding Harry at his knees, his hands held up at his head level.
Harry hung his head, tears pooling in the dip between his collarbones. Dried blood coated his upper lip and crusted around his chin from a nosebleed. He was so exhausted, unable to support his own weight. Voldemort grasped his left shackle. Harry heard a click before the cuff sprung open. His arm dropped limply, pain shuddering through him. His other wrist was released. He crumpled to the floor with a thud, his head striking the wood where he was too weak to stop his fall.
"I have much to think upon," Voldemort said quietly, though it sounded like he was talking mostly to himself, "but for the moment, you will remain here."
Voldemort then rested his hand on the back of Harry's head, his touch almost gentle.
" Stop fighting, Harry Potter. It is over. Sleep… "
Harry's eyelids fluttered shut, unaware that Voldemort had spoken to him in parseltongue. Succumbing to his exhaustion – mental and physical – Harry passed out.
It was with an air of extreme trepidation that Draco descended down the tight spiral staircase to the chamber under the drawing room. Accessed through a concealed door behind a bookcase, the chamber was at the end of the staircase. Draco had only been in the room once before, many years ago when he was just a boy. He had once complained that his father was unfairly harsh with his punishments, so his father showed him how lenient he was. Stinging hexes and the switch was gentle compared to the punishments Abraxas Malfoy issued to discipline his son.
Steadying himself at the bottom of the stairs, Draco stared at the locked door. The handsome carpentry was a deception. There was nothing pleasant about the room beyond. Taking the key that the Dark Lord had given him from his pocket, he pushed it into the silver lock and twisted. Seizing the handle, he pushed the door open. In his mind's eye, Draco envisioned seeing Potter displayed in the shackles, bloodied and broken. The chains hung from the ceiling, only the cuffs were empty.
Instead, Potter was on the floor. He had curled up on his side in a protective ball, his back to the door. Both his ankles were shackled to the ring set in the floor, preventing him from attempting escape. Draco took a careful step forwards, his carpet slippers patting softly on the parquet floor. Potter didn't stir. Despite the discomfort he had to be in, he slept deeply.
He approached. Shock rippled through him. There had been times in his life when he wished a world of hurt upon Harry Potter. First for his slights against him, for insulting him at every turn, then it morphed into much more sinister, dark thoughts, wishing him the death that he escaped under the Dark Lord's wand. Yet never in those dark thoughts did he quite picture how Potter would look in defeat. He paced around him, nausea twisting at the sight of the hideous bruises over his ribs and chest. Potter's cheek rested against the wood, appearing almost peaceful. Dried blood streaked from his hairline as well as his nose and mouth. Dark red lines ran down his throat to his chest.
"Potter?"
He wasn't sure why he was speaking to him. Nothing happened in response. Potter was completely out cold. Fear rose up and Draco cast a diagnostic spell, a simple one. It confirmed signs of life, along with broken ribs, a missing tooth, head trauma and nerve damage. His magical core was still intact, his magic alive under his skin while he appeared so inert.
Swallowing tightly, Draco swept his wand down the length of Potter's body. He cast the spell that vanished the contents of his bladder and bowels. He then cleared away the blood on his face, his cleaning charms ruffling Potter's hair. It exposed his scar. It was red and angry-looking. He cleaned his wrists and forearms where blood streaked from abrasions caused by the shackles. Bruises were forming like tattoos around his wrists from where he had been restrained.
Draco backed away from Potter. He drew up his pride, restoring his occlumency shields, and turned his back on him. Leaving the chamber, he secured the door, locking it up behind him. The journey back up was somehow harder than the trip down now that he'd seen the reality. Each step that took him up towards his next destination, he went through his occlumency exercises, restoring his mental walls brick by brick. He could not be seen feeling anything other than contempt for Potter. He had to face the Dark Lord. It was a report that he had to get out of the way before he could torture himself with his guilt in private.
The Dark Lord's close council had gathered in the dining room. Sunlight streamed through the windows, dazzling Draco momentarily before slipping into the room. Paper rustled as plans were clearly under review, the huge mahogany table used as the centre of operations. At the head of the table, the Dark Lord sat upon a high-backed chair with Nagini writhing over his shoulders and settling behind the back of the chair where her body slumped and curled on the floor behind him. Standing at the Dark Lord's shoulders were Yaxley, Rookwood and Snape, raising their heads when Draco arrived. The Dark Lord didn't look up from the plans that he was in the process of reviewing.
Draco knew what it was they were discussing. The Ministry's takeover. With Yaxley in control of the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, infiltrating the Ministry and taking down Rufus Scrimgeour was only a matter of time. He knew that they were setting out the new infrastructure of the Ministry, the plans that would have to be in place at once after the coup to take full control. There were plans for who to target first when the Ministry fell, ambushes on high profile targets. One, Draco knew, would be the Weasleys and their hovel. Though they at least wouldn't be interrogated for Potter's whereabouts.
"Draco, come," the Dark Lord said softly. He then looked up. As he did, Draco bowed his head at once before he was caught staring curiously at what they were planning. Snape swept off to join the inner council.
Occlumency walls firmly in place, Draco smoothly walked over. As he reached the group, Yaxley stepped a little to the side to allow Draco to approach the Dark Lord. Yaxley gave him a lingering, displeased look.
"The news of Potter's disappearance has spread quickly." The Dark Lord said in a way of greeting, a small smile curling up in the corner of his mouth. Draco met the Dark Lord's vivid red eyes directly, swallowing harshly. "Our enemies are dispersed and leaderless… and now without hope. The Minister is desperate… he has offered a reward for any information about Potter's whereabouts - gold and safe-harbour. Though of course… as we demonstrated last night… nowhere and no one is safe from Lord Voldemort."
Draco's palms were starting to sweat and he cast a quick glance over at the plans laid out on the table.
"Rest assured, I am not questioning my trust in your loyalty. I am, however, entrusting you to be vigilant."
"I will be, my lord," Draco said. His head flicked over to the other side to regard where Snape had joined Rookwood. The Dark Lord followed his gaze, bringing a hand up to his chin thoughtfully.
"Severus, your assessments of Harry Potter have always been so…" He twirled his fingers absently as he sought the word, "unflattering. You imply that he is spoiled and pampered, that those closest to him cater to his every need, making him wholly dependent on them. You imply that he is weak . You made it clear to me that Albus Dumbledore was wasting his time and it is only a series of coincidences, all of which were orchestrated by factors outside of Potter's control, that are behind his continued survival."
As he spoke, his light tone changed, turning colder and crueller, his thin lips twisting with displeasure. Draco nervously swallowed, relieved that it wasn't him at the receiving end. Instead, Snape kept his expression impassive as he inclined his head in response.
"I admit your assessment had credence. It was not Harry Potter who turned my curse against me, it was his mother. That same protection allowed him to thwart me again, later, but it was not him responsible. Again, he prevented me from killing him due to our wands sharing the same core, something which was not his making. However, there is one thing you overlooked. Each time, when he did face me, he did so out of choice. His actions are not of a coward, hiding behind the skirts of more powerful wizards."
The Dark Lord leaned forwards as he ranted at Snape. The temperature in the room grew colder.
"I do wonder if you have allowed your past grudges to cloud your judgement because the boy who I spoke with last night was no snivelling brat. He impressed me with his resilience and… I suspect I will be able to unravel Dumbledore's indoctrination with time."
He then flicked his attention back to Draco.
"How does Potter fare, Draco?"
He opened his mouth, stunned at the sudden question, then closed it, bowing his head respectfully.
"He sleeps, my lord."
The Dark Lord dipped his chin, thoughtful.
"Good. He understands to take his moments of rest when he can. He will wake in due course, I have no doubt. Draco, you are dismissed. You need not tend to our guest tonight. I have it in hand."
"Yes, my lord."
Slow, methodical, not suspicious, Draco thought to himself as he backed two steps before turning from the Dark Lord. His palms were sweating as a result of the near inquisition. The moment he cleared the room, he took a deep breath. His thoughts were turbulent as he rushed up to his bedchambers. Why did he have a sudden urge to be sick? He should be rejoicing that their enemy was in chains beneath his feet, but there was just a cold weight in his stomach.
Somehow he found his way into his suite, walking as if possessed. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, dressed like he was expected to dress, like a pureblood from a long line on both sides. He was meant to be the archetypal wizard, his blood the purest it could be. And yet, he felt powerless, bowing and scraping to serve a man whose whims changed at the blink of an eye. At any second of any day, he could decide that he was displeased with something Draco said or did… and there would be nothing he could say to defend himself. Voldemort's word was law. He risked witnessing his mother being hurt, risked his father being exiled or killed… and he also risked being tortured and killed himself. He had already been tortured as it had been apparently the only way to really learn how to use the Cruciatus Curse.
His family had been threatened and coerced into hosting the Dark Lord in their home, smiled through clenched teeth and convinced themselves that it was an honour. Was it an honour to live in fear? When would it end? When the Dark Lord finally got what he wanted, would he let them be? Or was Draco eternally shackled in servitude because he thought, in his naivety, that being made a Death Eater made him better than everyone else.
He covered his face with a hand, succumbing to his weakness while in private. He had no ghost of a murdered school girl to murmur platitudes to him here.
After a good hour of feeling sorry for himself, Draco began the process of preparing himself for a meeting with the full assembly of Death Eaters. The last meeting had been when they planned the assault on Potter's muggle home, and now they were meeting to celebrate its success. Draco brought himself to his bed where Nocket, the new elf, had laid out his Death Eater robes. He hated them, but kept that thought to himself. The collar was too high and throttling. The sun had set, the evening drawing to a close as night settled in and with it, the meeting itself. Draco went about pulling on the robes, sighing to himself as he faced the mirror, fastening them up all the way to his neck.
There was a knock at the door.
"Draco, may I enter?"
"Yes, mother."
The door clicked open and his mother entered purposefully, the scent of her favourite perfume preceding her as she swished her way inside. Her robes glimmered in the fading light coming through the window. Draco considered her, seeing her collar of diamonds and pearls that she fastened around her neck. Their wealth was all that was left to be proud of. That which could be reclaimed after his father had been arrested.
"I have something for you," she said as she approached him. She held out a hand, unfolding her fingers. Draco gave a sharp gasp, eyes snapping back up to her face.
"Mother, I can't…"
"You're the head of the family now. It's your duty."
"I'm not taking that from him."
In her palm was the Malfoy signet ring. She sighed, closing her hand. "I told Lucius that you would say that. The loss of his wand has hit him hard. He isn't thinking clearly."
"Well, we have Ollivander. Didn't he make a wand for Wormtail?"
"You know all too well that your father is too proud to ask for a wand," she shook her head, joining him and looking at him in the mirror. He glanced over, watching as her hand came up to touch the necklace she wore. She'd chosen to pair her dress robes with elbow-length black gloves.
"I thought our saying was 'life before pride'."
He could feel the intensity of her stare as he looked down at her hand where she clutched his father's ring. She sighed softly, turning to him. Her free hand reached up, brushing silk-clad fingers over his face. He flinched away, not feeling deserving of comfort. Her hand then rested on his shoulder. He couldn't stand to face her understanding.
"It is alright, Draco. I feel it too." She said it quietly, her voice so soft, it was nearly a whisper. "I do not feel the boy deserves such a horrible fate."
He drew in a sharp breath.
"You say this… after what he cost father? What he has cost us ?"
Narcissa met his gaze. "I do wish to see him pay for his offences against us, but there is having him removed from where he opposes the true order and then there is this . When I saw them bring him in, all I could think about is… is that he's not even of age yet. He… and you… you're still children." Her eyes glimmered with tears. "What kind of parents allow children to be imprisoned and tortured in their own home?"
"Mother, please, be careful." Draco looked at the door in alarm. "If anyone heard you say that, if Bella… ?"
His mother sniffed, her brow arching. "If she did, I would remind her about how we were raised and whether she enjoyed being tortured at that age as well. Our parents were monsters and they raised monsters."
"Am I a monster too?" Draco asked, his throat tight. His mother patted his cheek, smiling sadly at him. She reached for his hand. Draco sighed as she then pushed the ring over his forefinger, the metal warm where it had been in her hand. He didn't want to see the monogram 'M' set into the silver. Instead, he just looked at his mother.
"You had to become one, my son, to survive in this life… you had no choice."
Night had fallen completely by the time he received the summons to join the other Death Eaters. While he had been preparing, most of the guests had arrived. Draco held his chin aloft, his eyes glittering as he surveyed each passing Death Eater, receiving different levels of cordial greeting. Some of the nods he received surprised him, causing him to wonder if he'd risen in status since the fall of Potter. He wasn't left pondering the cause for long when Amycus and Alecto Carrow swept towards him the moment he entered the dining room once more. He caught the lingering stares of the others assembled, yet to take their seats for when the meeting began.
"Draco dearest," Alecto crooned, making him wince at once, "little birdies tell us that you are playing jailor to a certain prisoner. Is it true?"
Her words stirred interest as the conversations dwindled, making him the centre of interest. Draco cleared his throat, drawing himself a little taller. He could very clearly see his Aunt waiting at the table, her eyes fixed on him as she sipped at her wine.
"He is a guest in our home," Draco said, the words twisting on his tongue. Amycus laughed lowly, causing his sister to smirk.
"A guest… that doesn't imply a very permanent stay."
"For the moment, at least, he is staying," Draco made clear, then glanced around to see that the others were still listening.
"You have seen him then," Alecto pressed on, her hand resting on his elbow as she guided him over towards where the drinks were already prepared. She collected him a glass, passing it over while her brown eyes latched upon his, eager for the information he possessed. Bellatrix rose from her position, five seats down the table from her once position of great honour at the Dark Lord's immediate side. Alecto stiffened as she approached, her long, black robes rustling on the ornate parquet floor, her shoes clattering on the hardwood. As she drew towards them, she tapped her long nails on the crystal glass she held in her hands.
"The Dark Lord gives my nephew a great honour in being personally responsible for his most prized prisoner yet. He has been awarded the satisfaction of seeing our great lord's art for himself. How did you find Potter, Draco? Well-rested, I trust."
Draco painted on a small smile, one that was easy enough as he sipped at his wine to give himself time to think of an answer. He was very aware that his aunt was helping him in her own twisted way, giving him the opportunity to flaunt his position and affirm his status among their ranks. While her position in the Dark Lord's favour had fallen, there wasn't a single Death Eater among them who didn't respect Bellatrix Lestrange for her power and mastery of the Dark Arts. No amount of failures would change that she was the most dangerous person in that room with the Dark Lord absent.
"If unconscious constitutes 'rested', then yes."
His aunt smiled at him. "Soon the very stones of this humble house will once more resonate with his screams. "
Draco dignified her response with another sip of wine. He could see Potter's pale, bloodied face clearly in his mind. Pain shot through Draco's arm, a burn that was felt all around him. He didn't need to peel back his sleeve to know that the Dark Mark branded into his skin had flooded black. He could feel the orders pressing into the back of his head as if a phantom voice whispered them in his ear. In response to them, his aunt took his arm and guided him away from the Carrows, who would be sitting further down the table. As they all split off to take their seats, Draco was forced to pass his father who didn't spare him a look. Guilt spiked through him, the ring on his finger feeling heavier. His Aunt pulled out his seat for him, his position on her left while his father was on her right. Out of the three of them, Draco had the highest position. Only a day ago, he'd been the lowest.
His Uncle Rodolphus then joined him, nodding in greeting. He was flanked by Lestranges instead of Malfoys. Opposite them at the table were Dolohov and Rookwood, then further down sat Selwyn, Travers and Avery. Draco glanced over to where Crabbe and Goyle Senior had been positioned, both talking with Nott. At the top of the table, in the positions of honour, sat Snape at the Dark Lord's right hand and a newly elevated Yaxley at his left. One wizard to take over Hogwarts, the other the Ministry.
There was always an odd, subdued silence as they waited for the Dark Lord. It reminded Draco bizarrely of being in class, waiting for the teacher to show up. To his surprise, his thought brought up a spark of amusement. That spark immediately died when the Dark Lord did arrive. His eyes gleamed with triumph as the assembly rose to bow at his presence, his pupils sweeping down the length of the table.
"My friends. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and to some… the Chosen One… is ours. "
Cheers and shouts called out down the table, tapering off to applause. The Dark Lord smiled as he went to take his seat. The moment he did, all the Death Eaters followed suit. He then raised his hand, presenting them a wand that Draco recognised with a jolt. He'd been at the end of that wand a few times. The last had nearly caused him to perish in a haunted bathroom.
"Fate's answer to my power, the one prophesied to even stand a chance to vanquish the Dark Lord, has been defeated."
In just a few words, the Dark Lord altered the mood. The jeers and laughs faded as silence fell on the gathering.
"This… is his wand. Brother to my own. Of all the wizards who entered Ollivander's shop since my own wand chose me, this boy was the one suited to wield its brother. Our wands bear phoenix feathers from the same creature. It saved him from me twice now… but it cannot save him now."
The Dark Lord then placed the wand on the table carefully in front of him.
"In taking Harry Potter as our prisoner of war, we have secured ourselves a clear path to victory. For now none stand in my way. Those that attempt to oppose me will find themselves facing a power that they cannot even hope to contend against. In a matter of days, the Ministry of Magic will surely be ours. The dream of a pure society, of one that values magic above all else, will finally… after years of strife and hardship to fight for our beliefs… come true."
Cheers sounded as he paused in his speech. Draco jumped a little, painting on a broader smile.
"We will crush those who dare to prevent our progress. All muggleborns will be put in their place. Blood traitors will submit or die. Then when we are elevated to the heights of power, the rest of the world will fall to their knees as magic rules all."
More cheers, louder. Draco made himself join in, catching his aunt's eye and earning himself a proud look. The reaction made him feel, if possible, worse. The Dark Lord raised a hand, signalling for silence, which fell at once. Draco looked away from his aunt, seeing how her breast rose and fell with her elevated breathing, her passions stirred.
"My lord…"
Yaxley dared to break the silence that was left in the wake of his announcement. The Dark Lord turned his gaze over to his left, dipping his head in response.
"I believe I speak for us all when I humbly ask what will become of the prisoner."
The Dark Lord thoughtfully tilted his head, his smile triumphant.
"I have not yet decided how to deal with Harry Potter. Killing him so soon runs the risk of turning him into a martyr and giving those who still fight a cause to rally behind. His capture and uncertain fate leaves them shaken and lost. The boy has been defeated and well secured. I am not in a hurry to terminate his life now that he is well outside the Order's reach."
Draco caught the confused gazes around the table, but no one dared question the Dark Lord.
"I do believe this is cause for celebration. I propose a toast," The Dark Lord said. From over at the drinks table, Wormtail hurried over, carrying a goblet of wine for the lord. He approached, handing the Dark Lord the vessel. He took it and then raised it. Everyone hurriedly took their drinks, lifting their glasses.
"Although he cannot hear this, this is for him. To Harry Potter. Who, in the end, possessed a spirit unrivalled. His fire, if left unchecked, could have had the potential to spread. To a worthy adversary."
If any of the Death Eaters disagreed with the toast, they didn't show it - wisely. Draco, for one, sincerely made the toast. He let out a breath of relief when the food began to arrive, courtesy of his family's elves. He set down his glass and went to busy himself with the feast, thoroughly in need of something to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth.