Chapter 12
howl like a wolf at the moon
Howling Like a Wolf at the Moon:
to waste your time and energy trying to do something which is impossible or trying to get something which you cannot have.
You need to adjust your expectations and stop howling at the moon.
DRACO
Draco stood outside the imposing walls of Malfoy Manor, the icy December wind biting at his skin through his heavy cloak. The night sky, pitch black, smelled of snow—clean, crisp, suffocating. The mission pressed on his shoulders, more oppressive than the frigid cold that bit through his clothes.
He didn't want to do this.
But he had no choice.
The Dark Lord had given him his orders. Capture Ollivander, bring him to the Manor, and ensure he is alive. Draco's jaw clenched at the thought of the frail older man being tortured, questioned, and likely broken beneath the Malfoy roof. His hands curled into fists inside his pockets, his fingers aching from the cold and the tension.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. As a child, he dreamed of being a respected wizard, an influential figure in the wizarding world. Not this. Not some errand boy for a sadistic, power-hungry tyrant.
The Dark Mark on his arm burned, a constant reminder of what he had become. A reminder that he was a tool, nothing more. No matter how much his family's wealth and status had once meant, now only his ability to obey orders kept him and his parents from Voldemort's wrath.
Kept Hermione secret, Voldemort, from his mind and, thus, kept her protected.
Draco drew a deep breath, trying to calm the twisting knot in his gut. To survive this mission, he had to compartmentalize and occlude.
Shut off your emotions, seal them away, and you'll get through it. A gifted occlumens, his mother trained him well.
A rustle of movement behind him snapped him from his thoughts. A group of cloaked Death Eaters approached, their faces hidden beneath masks; the only signs of life were the slight flickers of breath in the icy air. They were his companions tonight, his fellow captors in this dark task. He didn't bother acknowledging them—what was the point? They were all the same, shadows of what they'd once been, marching under the Dark Lord's banner like soulless husks.
"Ready, Malfoy?"
Draco didn't respond. Instead, he nodded, pulling his cloak tighter around him. He wasn't going to let them see his hesitation. Concealing his reluctance, it ate at him like a sickness.
He had a mission to complete.
Occlude, Draco, he told himself. Shut it all out.
The familiar sensation of pushing his thoughts deep into the back of his mind started to take hold, the emotions draining away like water slipping through his fingers. He focused on the snow crunching beneath his boots, the icy sting of the air in his lungs. Anything to distract himself from reality.
The Death Eaters moved silently through the night, apparating to the outskirts of Diagon Alley, where Ollivander's wand shop stood dark and closed for the night.
Draco was unsure of the Dark Lord's intentions with Ollivander. Honestly, he had no desire to know either.
The once-bustling street was eerie and silent, the windows of the shops boarded up. A once-thriving magical community reduced to ghostly remnants of its former self.
Draco could feel his heart pounding in his chest as they approached the shop. Ollivander was in there, somewhere, hiding or perhaps already resigned to his fate. The idea of removing the man from his home, seeing fear in his eyes, sickened Draco.
There was no time for hesitation.
The lead Death Eater, Dolohov, raised his wand and blew the door to Ollivander's shop straight off. The masked group entered with purpose, Draco along with them, his heart thudding louder now, but his stride sure.
He couldn't let them sense his fear or apprehension. They were like baying hounds, desperate to find anything to gain favour with their Dark Lord.
"Search the place," Dolohov said, his voice laced with impatience. "Find the old man and bring him out."
The others fanned out, their footsteps light on the creaky floorboards. Draco moved toward the back of the shop, his wand raised in case of any surprises. His eyes scanned the dark, dusty shelves lined with wands—so many wands, each one with its own story and life tied to it.
His throat tightened.
He remembered his wand being selected here, the excitement in Ollivander's eyes as he handed over the hawthorn wand. The rush of power he felt when holding the wand that chose him. The wand that he now held, poised to attack its creator.
A shuffle of movement caught his attention, and Draco's breath hitched. He stepped closer, his wand held out, ready. In the dim light, he could make out the frail figure of Ollivander huddled in the corner, his eyes wide with fear.
Draco hesitated. He didn't want to be the one to find him. He didn't want to do this.
"Mr. Ollivander," he said, his tone quiet. "You need to come with us."
Ollivander's watery eyes met his, and for a moment, the older man looked… disappointed. Draco was sure he recognized him, not by his voice, but by the wand he held aloft in his hand.
But there was no other way.
"I'm sorry," Draco's voice trembled. He hoped the others didn't hear it. Then, with a louder voice called: "Expelliarmus!"
The wand the wandmaker was holding, clutched to his chest instead of poised for attack, flew from his hand and landed in Draco's.
The Death Eaters swooped in like vultures, grabbing Ollivander by the arms and dragging him from the shop. Draco hung back, watching as they hauled the frail man out into the cold, his heart heavy with guilt and self-loathing.
Occlude, he reminded himself again, pushing the guilt down, shoving it away. He had a job to do.
The older man was tossed outside, his wide, terrified eyes staring back at Draco as someone grabbed his arm and apparated back to the Manor. The image of Ollivander's face imprinted on Draco forever.
This wasn't who he aspired to be.
But in this war, it didn't matter what he wanted.
He was playing a dangerous game where his life, and the lives of everyone he cared about, hung by the thinnest thread.
And there was no telling how much longer that thread would hold.
Draco waited until the dead of night, when the Manor grew still, and the old house fell silent, suffocating the walls with its oppressive quiet.
His parents had retreated to their room. His father was released from Azkaban at the same time the Dark Lord had taken over the ministry. Despite the months since then, his father was still pale and sickly, more so than usual. It was like some of his life, his soul, had been sucked from him. Though Lucius never received the Dementor's Kiss, he still suffered the ill effects of months in their presence.
It was late, and all the Death Eaters that normally prowled his home had retreated to their own. Even the Dark Lord and Bellatrix had vacated the manor for once, the Dark Lord leaving for some mysterious mission on the continent and Bellatrix returning to the Lestrange estate for once.
Draco was alone in his thoughts.
But tonight, his thoughts weren't just about survival or the growing dread that weighed down his every step. Tonight, he thought about the two prisoners in the dungeons below his feet—Ollivander and Luna Lovegood.
Ollivander, who once smiled while giving Draco his wand, was now shackled in a damp cellar. And Luna… She was just a girl from Hogwarts. A girl who had done nothing more than have an outspoken, lunatic father.
Luna Lovegood had been captured on the train ride home from Hogwarts for Christmas break. She was a political prisoner, a pawn to help force her father to cease his public political dissent of the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters in his subpar periodical.
But Luna was Hermione's friend, and that thought gnawed at him, tugging at his conscience. He had never paid much attention to Luna before, but the knowledge that she was now in his family's cellar-turned-dungeons, along with Ollivander, made it feel… worse.
Draco slipped out of his room, moving with practiced stealth through the darkened corridors of the Manor. Draco briefly entertained the thought of the consequences if he got caught doing this, but he pushed it aside. He had to do something, even just giving them scraps or water. He couldn't just leave them down there to rot.
The cold stone steps of the cellar descended into darkness, and Draco's wand illuminated the narrow passageway as he approached the door to the dungeons. The heavy wooden door groaned as he pushed it open, echoing down the stone corridor. Inside, it smelled of damp earth and mildew, a far cry from the luxury of the rest of the Manor.
In the dim light of his wand, he saw the familiar figure of Ollivander slumped against the far wall, his face drawn and tired, but his eyes still sharp. Next to him, in the adjacent cell, sat Luna, her bright eyes gazing up at the ceiling as though she were somewhere else.
"Draco Malfoy," Luna's voice chimed softly through the silence, and he paused, startled that she'd known he was there before he'd even spoken. She turned her head toward him, her pale eyes blinking as though she were examining a puzzle piece that had just clicked into place.
"Shh!" Draco kept his voice low. "Keep it down. I'm not supposed to be here."
"I won't tell anyone if you're worried about that." Despite being chained in a cold, damp dungeon, Luna gave him a serene smile, as though she were sitting at a tea party. "It's good to see you. Did you have a happy Christmas?"
Draco cleared his throat, but he was unsure how to respond to that. Was she always like this? He shook his head, reminding himself why he was there.
Draco pulled a small cloth bag from under his cloak and tossed it to Ollivander. It hit the ground near the older man's feet, and he stirred, glancing up at Draco with a weary but grateful look.
"There's food and water," Draco said, trying not to meet Ollivander's gaze directly. "It's not much, but… it should help."
Ollivander nodded, his voice husky when he spoke. "Thank you, young Malfoy."
Draco's stomach twisted. He wasn't doing this to be thanked; he didn't deserve thanks. He was just… doing what he could.
His attention shifted back to Luna, who was still watching him with her unsettlingly calm expression.
"You'll need this," Draco said. He reached through the bars and handed her a small bag made of a spare handkerchief. "It's all I could get without being noticed."
Luna took the offering with a soft "thank you," her fingers brushing his as she accepted it. She tilted her head, studying him like she could see through him.
It was unsettling. Luna Lovegood was the most unsettling person he'd ever encountered, which was saying a lot, given the characters running rampant in his home.
"I like your eyes," she said, soft and whimsical. "They remind me of a crystal ball. Cold, distant, and full of the future."
He wasn't sure whether to feel flattered or unnerved.
"They're just eyes." Draco shifted under her gaze.
"Everyone's eyes tell a story, you know." Luna's eyes glittered with some understanding he couldn't quite grasp. "Muggles call them the gateway to the soul. Yours tell a very sad one."
Draco swallowed hard, his throat dry. He looked away, the words catching in his chest. The sadness permeated his entire being; his guilt gnawed at him daily, no reminder necessary.
He cleared his throat, trying to shift the conversation.
"I'm sorry you're here," he said, his voice more gruff than he intended. "You don't belong here, in a place like this. You did nothing wrong."
Luna shrugged, unaffected by being captive in a dungeon. "Does anyone belong here?"
Her words hung momentarily, unease swirling in Draco's chest.
"I'll… I'll try to bring more tomorrow," he said, stepping back toward the door. "Just… stay quiet, okay? Don't draw attention."
Luna's smile softened, and Draco glimpsed a hint of gratitude in her eyes.
"Thank you, Draco," she said, her voice as light as ever. "I knew you would help."
His heart clenched painfully in his chest, forcing him to turn. Draco slipped out of the dungeon. Closing the heavy door, he felt the cold air of the Manor wash over him again, and he released a shaky breath.
His uncertainty lingered. How much longer could he maintain this charade? Playing the role of a loyal servant and devoted son, all the while assisting the other side covertly. He was bound to fuck up, eventually.
But for tonight, at least, he had done something.
Draco descended the cold, narrow steps to the dungeons again, the same heavy feeling settling over him as it did every time. The stone walls of Malfoy Manor felt more like a tomb these days. He imagined the prisoners in the cellar had it much worse. Ollivander, who hadn't spoken since they brought him here, and Luna Lovegood, who seemed disturbingly unaffected by her circumstances.
As he reached the bottom, he saw Luna sitting cross-legged in her cell, gazing at the ceiling as though she were watching stars instead of cold, damp stone. Her calm, distant demeanour irritated him and intrigued him all at once.
She immediately noticed him, turning her head as if she'd been expecting him. "Hello, Draco."
He hated how she casually said his name like they weren't enemies, as if the Death Eaters hadn't kidnapped her and kept her locked in his family home.
He swallowed the knot in his throat and moved closer to the bars, his steps echoing in the silence. Today, he brought more food, although it wasn't a lot. With extra scrutiny, he had to exercise caution. The Dark Lord's return was looming. Draco hoped to return to Hogwarts before then.
"I brought you something," Draco said, sliding a small bundle of bread and cheese through the bars.
Luna took it with a serene smile, as though he'd just gifted her a bouquet instead of a meagre meal. "Thank you. That's very kind of you."
Draco shifted, her gratitude making him feel like a fraud. Despite their limited interactions at school, she was now trapped in his cellar, and he was doing his best to keep her alive.
It felt wrong. All of it felt wrong.
He could open the doors, let both of them be free, and say hell with the rest of the world.
But he couldn't. That would risk his parents. He'd get caught and punished. Perhaps executed. Perhaps someone would force him to watch his mother's torture as punishment instead.
But worse, the Dark Lord was a skilled legilimens. If he managed to break Draco's mind, he would know about Hermione. Draco refused to endanger his wife beyond her actions.
He passed Luna another portion, which she passed along to Ollivander.
Her calm acceptance grated at him. How could she be so… so understanding? He was responsible for her being here, for her suffering. Despite being a Malfoy, someone she should despise, he found her looking at him with a knowing gaze.
"I wish I could do more." Draco clenched into fists at his sides. "I wish…"
Luna tilted her head, her eyes distant.
"Wishes are curious things, don't you think?" she said, her voice soft and dreamlike. "They're like dandelion seeds floating on the wind. You never quite know where they'll land…"
"Yeah." Draco had grown accustomed to Luna's peculiar remarks. "Okay, sure."
Luna's gentle and understanding look made him feel like screaming and hiding.
Draco ran a hand through his hair, his frustration boiling beneath the surface. Luna's calm gaze contrasted with his world falling apart. He wanted to shake her, to force her to see how dire everything was. How impossible.
Yet, he felt she already knew.
"You really should take care of the nargles, you know," Luna said softly, as if they were discussing the weather. "They've been infesting your cellar for quite some time now. They tend to nest where there's a lot of fear, and I'm afraid the air here is thick with it. You wouldn't want them to grow too comfortable."
Draco blinked at her, thrown off.
"Nargles?" he echoed, his voice flat. "Luna, there aren't any nargles. That's… not even a real thing."
She smiled, the corners of her lips quirking as though she found his disbelief amusing.
"Oh, but they are real. Just because you can't see them doesn't mean they're not there. You might not notice them, but they can make your thoughts go all fuzzy, like trying to remember a dream after you've woken up. Sometimes, it's not the things you see that cause the most trouble."
Draco stared at her, at a complete loss for words. Something unsettlingly wise lurked beneath her whimsical voice.
She saw more than anyone gave her credit for.
"So what do I do, then?" Draco asked, his tone laced with sarcasm, though he found himself intrigued despite himself. "Brew up some anti-nargle potion? Charm my cellar with… what? Fairy dust?"
Luna tilted her head, considering his words. "No, I wouldn't recommend fairy dust. It tends to irritate them. What you need is peace. Peace of mind, peace in the air. They don't like it when the atmosphere is calm and clear. Fear and doubt—they thrive on those things, you see."
Draco looked away, her words hitting a little too close to home.
"Can't do much there," he muttered, voice quieter.
The Manor stunk of fear, fear from the people brought here to be tortured and meet their end. Fear from the Death Eaters, knowing that if they anger their master, it could be their last day.
Luna's gaze softened, her dreamy expression fading just a little, replaced with something closer to sympathy. "Chaos contains pockets of hope. You just have to find them. Even in a place like this."
She glanced at the dungeon walls as if she could see beyond them.
Draco didn't respond. Instead, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor.
"Thanks for… that," he said, vaguely gesturing toward her, unsure what else to say. "I guess I should get rid of the nargles then."
Luna smiled. "That would be wise. And perhaps you'll find a bit of peace for yourself as well."
Draco shook his head, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Only Luna Lovegood could talk about imaginary creatures and make him feel she understood everything.
"Holidays are over," he said. "I'm returning to Hogwarts."
"I know." Luna's eyes were soft, too soft for what he deserved. "But thank you for the food. It was very kind of you."
He nodded, already turning toward the door. "Yeah, well… don't tell anyone about it, alright?"
"Your secret is safe with me," she said with that odd, knowing smile.
As Draco left the dungeon, her words—about nargles and peace—clung to him like a shadow he couldn't shake.
The atmosphere at Hogwarts had shifted. Even within the stone walls of Slytherin's dungeon common room, escaping the suffocating tension that now hung over the school was impossible. The once lively, if mischievous, air that permeated the Slytherin quarters was replaced by something cold and dangerous.
Draco sat on one of the green leather sofas, his posture stiff as he stared into the flickering flames of the fireplace. Firelight cast shadows on walls, stretching and shifting with fire. Theo was lounging in an armchair nearby, Blaise perched on the armrest, while Pansy and Daphne sat across from them. The silence was thick, the unease tangible, even among friends.
"Can't even breathe in this place without wondering if one of the Carrows is going to hex you for it," Pansy said, breaking the silence, her arms crossed over her chest. Her usual sharp tongue and haughty demeanour had softened, giving way to an almost palpable anxiety.
"Tell me about it," Theo agreed. He slumped, fingers tapping on the armrest, unable to sit still. "One wrong step and—bam—Cruciatus."
Draco's jaw clenched at the mention of the curse. He'd seen it enough times at Hogwarts in the past few months and heard the screams echo through the halls like a macabre symphony orchestrated by the Carrows. The so-called professors thrived on fear, enjoying their power over the students like hungry wolves circling their prey.
"Snape's worse now, too." Blaise glanced up from the fire.
Draco's eyes flicked up at that. Snape had been their Head of House for years. But this year, his strictness had taken a different turn. Headmaster Snape wasn't the same person who used to protect and favour them. Now, he was cold in a way that made even the Slytherins wary. Draco sensed resignation and defeat in Snape. It sent a chilling flash down his spine.
Pansy shifted in her seat.
"Well, we're Slytherins, aren't we?" she said, forcing a brittle smile. "Shouldn't we be safe? I mean… we're on their side, right?"
Draco let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and sharp. "Do you really believe that, Pans? That we're safe?"
Theo shifted, the subtle movement catching Draco's eyes.
No, Theo had never been safe from Death Eaters. His father had shown him that enough times as a boy when he beat him black and blue or nearly to death. Draco studied Theo for signs of panic, an unnatural stillness, or increased breathing speed, but was relieved to see neither.
Pansy's gaze snapped to Draco's, her expression caught between indignation and uncertainty.
"Aren't we?" she asked, her voice wavering. "Safe?"
For a moment, Draco fixed his gaze on her before shifting his attention to the dancing flames.
"The Carrows don't care about houses. They don't care about bloodlines anymore, either. They care about power and torture. Any misstep makes us as expendable as the others."
Theo's fingers stopped tapping.
"He's right," he said, his voice quieter now. "You've seen it. Slytherin or not, if you get in their way, they'll make an example out of you."
There was a long pause as everyone absorbed Theo's words. It was true. They'd all seen it. Some of the younger Slytherins had already been punished. Dragged to the Great Hall, enduring unspeakable pain as 'lessons.'
And why? Failing to perform a curse correctly? Looking at one of them the wrong way?
Silent until now, Daphne spoke in a soft and strained voice.
"I saw them make that second-year Gryffindor girl scream last week. For something small. She was just… crying because she missed her family, and Amycus cursed her." She swallowed hard, her eyes downcast. "I didn't do anything. None of us did."
Draco could feel the guilt creeping into his chest, all too familiar. He, too, had stood by while the Carrows inflicted their twisted brand of 'discipline' on students.
"We didn't do anything," Pansy echoed softly, her voice trembling. She glanced at Draco, her eyes pleading for reassurance he couldn't give. "What are we supposed to do, Draco?"
Draco's fists clenched tighter in his lap, his knuckles white. His mind wandered to Hermione—she was out there, somewhere, fighting this war in ways he couldn't. She had the strength to stand up to all of this, to defy the odds. And here he was, stuck at Hogwarts, paralyzed by fear and uncertainty.
As a Death Eater under this regime, he was supposed to be safe, wasn't he? As a Malfoy, he was supposed to be protected, wasn't he?
What a fucking lie.
Hogwarts had lost its sense of safety when Albus Dumbledore fell from the Astronomy Tower.
Now, each curse, each echoing scream, reminded him he wasn't safe.
None of them were.
He was thankful his wife hadn't returned to Hogwarts this year. She was safer in the woods in that tiny tent with Harry Potter than at school with the Carrows on the loose.
"I don't know," he said, his voice low, almost defeated. "I don't know what we're supposed to do."
Blaise shifted beside him.
"I think we just survive," he said grimly. "Keep our heads down. Get through the year."
"And then what?" Theo asked. "What happens when school is over? What happens to us then?"
No one answered. The future was a black void none of them could see past. Would they be on the winning side? Once this war was over, would anything be left of them?
Draco stood, unable to sit still any longer. The room suffocated him, pushing a crushing weight into his chest.
"I need some air."
Draco's mind raced as he strode through Hogwarts's dimly lit dungeon corridors, his footsteps echoing softly in the oppressive silence. He felt trapped with the walls closing in on him. He couldn't stop his thoughts—the war, his family, friends, and Hermione.
Especially Hermione.
His heart clenched as he thought of her. Out there somewhere with Harry Potter, camping in the woods, moving from place to place in that blasted tent. He hated the idea of her roughing it, but he also knew she was safer out there, far away from the Carrows and the oppressive grip of the Dark Lord's regime.
His mind spiralled. The mission he'd just completed, Ollivander and Lovegood now rotting in the cellar of his home, haunted him. The way his family was being torn apart, slowly but surely. And the knowledge that the endgame was approaching fast.
He needed to clear his head, but the castle felt like a prison. He felt under surveillance by the Carrows and sensed Snape lurking, ready to strike.
The fear of Hermione being caught in the crossfire of this war haunted him. A constant phantom haunting him.
Draco reached a secluded hallway and leaned against the cold stone wall, pressing his palms into the rough surface as if the solidity could ground him, could pull him out of the chaos swirling in his mind. He closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath.
"Running away again?"
Draco opened his eyes and turned, his hand twitching toward his wand out of reflex.
Theo stood at the end of the corridor, his posture casual, hands shoved deep into his pockets. In his eyes, a glint, understanding, knowing. He knew Draco too well and could read him like a book. It was infuriating, yet comforting.
"Not running." Draco exhaled, letting his hand fall away from his wand. "Just… thinking."
Theo raised an eyebrow, his expression one of mild disbelief.
"Sure, mate. Because we all know thinking is your strong suit." He smirked, but the attempt at humour was flat, hollow, like everything else these days.
Draco rolled his eyes, shoving off the wall and running a hand through his pale hair. "What do you want, Theo?"
Theo shrugged, his gaze sweeping the empty hallway before landing back on Draco. "I could ask you the same thing. You stormed out of the common room like it was on fire."
Draco didn't respond, his jaw tight as he clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides.
They stood silently for a moment, the distant sounds of the castle—echoes of students moving about, the occasional flicker of magic—filling the gap between them.
Draco could feel Theo watching him, waiting for something. It wasn't like either of them to open up easily, especially about… well, anything. Not when they'd been raised in families that prided themselves on stoicism, on keeping their emotions locked behind walls thicker than Gringotts' vaults.
Theo had always been his best friend. Their shared experiences made it impossible to ignore the chaos engulfing them.
Theo stepped closer, leaning against the wall beside Draco. At first, he didn't say anything; he stood there, silent between them.
"You miss her, don't you?" Theo asked, his voice soft but steady.
Draco's stomach twisted. "Who?"
Theo raised an eyebrow.
Draco stared ahead, his throat tightening. There was no use denying it. Theo knew something; he'd always been too observant for his own good.
"Every damn day," he admitted.
Theo let out a long breath, nodding.
"I figured as much." He paused, glancing over at Draco with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You always were rubbish at hiding your feelings. Especially where she's concerned."
Draco's lips twitched, but it wasn't a smile. "Says the bloke who's never had a feeling in his life."
Theo laughed, a muted, humourless sound.
"Touché." He kicked at the stone floor with the toe of his shoe, his expression more serious. "You think she's alright? Out there with…?"
Theo didn't dare say Potter's name out loud. The Carrows had terrorized the school so thoroughly that they believed the place could be booby-trapped with dark magic. Ready to trigger at uttering any incorrect word.
Draco's jaw clenched, but he forced himself to relax. As much as he didn't like the git, Draco knew Potter would do everything he could to protect Hermione. Still, it didn't make it any easier.
"She's probably safer there than here," Draco admitted. "She's smart. Smarter than anyone here, that's for sure."
Theo gave a curt nod, his gaze drifting to the floor. "Yeah, she always was."
They fell into silence again. Raised to value bloodlines and power, the two ended up trapped and powerless despite the purported freedom that this regime was meant to bring to people of their status.
After a long pause, Theo spoke again, his voice softer this time. "I don't know how this ends, Draco. For any of us."
Draco swallowed hard, the truth of those words settling deep in his bones. He didn't know either. The future was a black hole, a void that could swallow them whole. Each day brought him closer to the edge.
"I don't either," Draco admitted, his voice tight. "But… I'm going to survive it. We are going to survive it."
Theo glanced at him, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he nodded, pushing off the wall and standing straighter.
"Then I'll stick around. Make sure you don't do anything stupid."
Draco managed a slight, crooked grin. "Like what? Risking my life for a Mudblood?"
Theo's lips twitched in a smile as he cocked his head, his mischievous mask falling back into place with careful practice. "Like falling in love with one."
Draco's heart clenched, and he looked away, his throat tight. He didn't respond. He didn't need to. Theo already knew the answer. They both did.
"I've got your back," Theo added after a moment, his voice quieter now, almost vulnerable in its honesty.
Draco nodded, unable to speak for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion. "I know."
They stood together in shared silence. Two Slytherins, stuck in an unwanted world, fighting unwelcome battles. But they would survive it. Somehow.
Draco stood before the familiar outline of Malfoy Manor, but it never felt as foreign or unwelcoming as it did now. As a Malfoy, he could have apparated straight into the Manor, but as a Death Eater, he didn't want to stumble into a situation he had no desire to witness. Instead, he entered through the front door. Shadows clung to every corner of the Manor, stretching toward him as he strode to the drawing room where the Dark Lord waited, enthroned like some twisted god over his family's once-proud estate.
Voldemort's red eyes fixed on him, a gaze so intense that it felt like needles piercing his skin. Draco felt the bile rise in his throat but forced it back, trying to keep his face a blank mask.
"Ah, Draco," Voldemort's voice slithered over the room, soft yet piercing. "I trust you know why I've summoned you?"
Draco's mind whirled, his heart hammering. He hadn't the faintest idea what he'd done to bring the Dark Lord's attention to himself. But he knew better than to falter.
He bowed. "How may I serve you?"
A twisted smile curled Voldemort's lip.
"Your family heirloom, Draco. The ring that you received on your sixteenth birthday." His gaze was stony, calculating. "I wish to see it."
Draco's blood ran cold. The family ring. The one Hermione had taken was on her finger right now—hidden Merlin knew where with Potter. His pulse pounded as he tried to conceal his panic, a thousand thoughts flying through his mind.
Why did Voldemort care about the ring? Why now?
From the corner of his eye, Draco saw his father shift, his face ashen. Lucius, always cautious, took a hesitant step forward and cleared his throat, speaking in a careful, respectful tone.
"My Lord, if I may—why the sudden interest in the ring?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Voldemort's expression darkened.
"I have plans, Lucius. Plans that extend beyond these borders. I am considering advantageous matches for some of our young followers as we move further into Europe. France, perhaps. Loyal families with worthy blood." His eyes fell on Draco again, sharp and unforgiving. "And so I require the ring. A marriage may soon be… advantageous."
Draco's stomach twisted, horror filling him as he pieced it together. Voldemort wanted to use him—to marry him off like some pawn. He forced his expression to remain neutral, though his fingers clenched into fists at his sides.
"My Lord," Narcissa's voice rang out, steady yet tense. "The Malfoy ring is given to one's betrothed when they announce the engagement. We have no such arrangement yet. When the time is right, we will, of course, produce it."
Bellatrix laughed harshly from her spot beside Voldemort, her lips curling in sadistic delight. "Silly Cissy, the time is right. I'm sure Draco will make the Dark Lord proud with a fine match. There's no reason for such a delay."
Draco kept himself from glaring at her. She was relishing this. Every twist of the knife.
"Silence," Voldemort said, his voice as soft and deadly as a snake's hiss. Bellatrix fell mute, but her smirk remained. Voldemort's gaze remained locked on Draco, pinning him in place. "Bring me the ring, Draco. I want to inspect it myself."
His heart raced. He didn't have the ring. And even if he did… he couldn't let the Dark Lord take it, couldn't let him lay a hand on it. On her.
The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity, and he could feel his father and mother's eyes on him, could almost hear their thoughts: say something, anything.
But what could he say? How could he explain that the ring wasn't here?
The only way to retrieve it now would be… would be to make him a widower. His body was filled with an icy dread that spread from his spine and throughout his bloodstream.
Draco's mind raced with the desperate knowledge that he would have to tell the truth—at least, a version of it. He no longer had the ring. But he had to protect his wife. Hermione he had to protect Hermione. The minute the words took form in his mind, he summoned every ounce of willpower, slamming down his Occlumency barriers, fortifying his mind as fast as he could.
"I don't know where it is, my Lord," Draco confessed, sticking closely to the truth. "It went missing from my trunk at school. It just vanished."
Voldemort's lips curled into a smile that held no warmth.
"Vanished?" Voldemort's voice dripped with bitter mockery. He moved closer, his gaze piercing Draco as though he could see every hidden thought. "Do you take me for a fool, Draco?"
"No, my Lord, of course not."
"Then perhaps you can explain why a simple ring—a Malfoy family heirloom—would vanish without a trace?"
Draco opened his mouth to answer, but no words came. Each second stretched out as he stood there under the scrutiny of those piercing red eyes.
Voldemort's voice lowered, taking on a sinister tone that made the hairs on Draco's neck stand on end.
"Perhaps you need… motivation." Voldemort turned to Lucius, a twisted smile spreading across his face. "Nagini?"
The enormous snake entered from whatever dark hole it was hiding in. It slithered across the floor, circling Lucius. Draco's heart lurched at seeing his father surrounded by the snake he'd had to watch swallow the Professor of Muggle Studies whole. Draco moved forward, but a look from Voldemort froze him in place.
"My Lord," Draco stammered, panic flaring in his chest. "It's my responsibility—I'll find it, I swear. My father had nothing to do with this!"
"You see, family loyalty is powerful," Voldemort said, his tone almost conversational. "And yet… it often clouds judgment." He pointed his wand at Lucius, his eyes alight with malevolent glee. "Perhaps a little reminder of what's at stake will spur your efforts."
"No, please—" Draco's voice broke, the fear clawing at his insides.
"It's a shame the Cruciatus curse doesn't work on Malfoy's wives. It's so much less messy. And I find that mothers tend to have a much stronger push on sons." Voldemort tsked, glancing towards Narcissa, who stood frozen. "But your father will have to do for now. Nagini, bite."
The snake pulled back and struck in one moment. Lucius gritted his teeth against the pain, refusing to scream. The snake released him from its jaws, and Lucius collapsed. The back of his head smashed into the marble, smearing crimson out beneath him.
Nagini posed to strike again.
"Stop it!" Draco pleaded, his voice trembling. "Please… I'll find it. I swear, I'll find it. Just… stop!"
Voldemort tilted his head, watching him with amusement. "How touching, Draco. Such devotion."
"I… I just need more time." His voice cracked as he forced himself to keep looking at his father, at the pain twisting his features. "Please, my Lord… I'll do whatever it takes."
Voldemort's gaze lingered on Draco for a moment. Draco felt a renewed sense of dread. He could feel Voldemort's displeasure radiating off him, sharp and suffocating.
"You disappoint me, Draco," Voldemort hissed, his voice soft but laced with venom. "I expect results. Not excuses."
Draco forced himself to nod, his throat tight. "I understand, my Lord."
"Good," Voldemort murmured, his voice deceptively calm. "Then find the ring… or I shall have to find other ways to ensure your family's loyalty. Your mother's ring doesn't protect her from everything."
Draco swallowed, his mind racing. The threat was clear. The Dark Lord would not rest until he had what he wanted, and if Draco failed again, it would be Narcissa who paid the price.
"Thank you, my Lord," Narcissa spoke up, her voice trembling ever so slightly as she dipped her head. "My son will not disappoint you."
"Yes, see that he doesn't," Voldemort replied, his gaze sweeping over the three Malfoys with a cold satisfaction before he turned away, dismissing them. "You may go."
As Voldemort dismissed him, Draco moved to his father's side. He checked his head wound, casting an episkey before he used a reinnervate to awaken him. Once Lucius was aware again, Draco helped him up with trembling hands. His mother was at his side in an instant, helping to steady his father. Draco's mind was a storm of conflicting thoughts as they led his father away, his stomach churning with fear for both his family and wife.
The anti-venom was located in his father's study. They deposited Lucius there, Draco administering the potion. The wound hissed against treatment as it started to ooze the venom and seal the skin. It would take weeks for his father to heal.
Lucius placed a hand on Draco's arm, his voice raspy and low. "You must stay strong, Draco. We'll find a way through this."
Draco nodded, his jaw clenched, though didn't believe the words. He had no idea how he was supposed to save both his mother and Hermione, no idea how he could find a way out of the trap that was closing in around him.
Narcissa's hand was on his arm in a flash, her eyes wide with worry. "Draco… what will you do?"
Draco shook his head, trying to quiet the storm of thoughts in his mind.
"I… I'll think of something, Mother. I have to." He forced himself to straighten, squaring his shoulders. He couldn't show them his fear, not now.
Narcissa set her jaw and nodded. Draco could see the wheels in her head turning, twisting the situation in every manner she could think of to ensure they came out on top. Malfoys always did.
Draco glanced back to his father, who placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. A silent but definitive show of support. Even in their own home, they had to be guard each word exchanged.
The Dark Lord's eyes may be on them, his demands unrelenting, but here, in this small show of unity, Draco found a flicker of hope.
He gave a final nod to his parents, steeling himself before stepping back into the shadows of their dark reality, ready to face whatever waited.
It was a cold, grey day at Hogwarts, and the chill seemed to seep through the ancient stones of the castle, winding its way into the Slytherin common room. Draco sat slouched in one of the leather armchairs by the flickering fire, a Charms textbook open on his lap. But he hadn't read a single word in over ten minutes.
The familiar comfort of the common room turned tainted and uneasy. The looming presence of the Carrows prowling the halls was enough to keep everyone on edge.
But Draco wasn't thinking about the Carrows. He was thinking about his wife, and the last time he saw her over the Christmas break.
Blood, Potter's blood, had covered Hermione.
The tent they stayed in was meager, something used and borrowed from the Weasleys no doubt. He should have brought her a new tent, but he hadn't thought of it when he grabbed the emergency potion supplies the Malfoys kept on hand, grabbed the necklace, and apparated straight to her. He hadn't even known she was staying in an old tent in the middle of the forest.
Fuck. He should have bought her a house. Somewhere safe. Maybe somewhere on the continent. Then insist that she move there immediately.
But he knew that she'd never agree to that.
Now, he found himself trapped at Hogwarts. Hermione likely relocated the campsite once Potter could stand. That's what he would have done, anyway.
"Draco?" Pansy's voice broke through his thoughts, low and tentative. She sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, flipping through a potions notebook with more attention than she usually gave her assignments. "You've been staring at that same page for ages."
He blinked, tearing his gaze from the unchanging text.
"Right," he muttered, closing the book with a snap. "Just… tired."
Tired. Tired from always trying to think two steps ahead, only to be pulled back by his puppeteer's strings.
How the fuck was he going to get the Dark Lord what he wanted? If Draco showed up to his next summons without the ring, he didn't want to think about the consequences.
"We're all tired." Theo, sprawled out on the sofa nearby with his eyes half-closed, snorted. "Every day feels like a year now."
Theo opened one eye and glanced at Draco, his gaze sharp and knowing. Draco acknowledged that Theo somehow knew about Hermione, but he got the feeling Theo knew more than that. Draco adjusted the long sleeves of his uniform, resisting the urge to cover his left arm.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Blaise said from across the room. He was leaning against the wall with his arms folded, watching the fire with a distant look. "Hogwarts… it's like a prison now. All the rules, the curfews, the Carrows."
Pansy scowled.
"I hate them. The way they strut around the school like they own it." She glanced at Draco. "Doesn't it bother you too, Draco?"
Of course it bothered him.
"What do you want me to do about it?" Draco stiffened. "I don't like it any more than you do."
Blaise raised an eyebrow. "It's different for you, Draco. You're… closer to them. To the Dark Lord." The words were carefully spoken by Blaise, but the truth was there, raw and exposed.
It was an acknowledgement. An accusation. All rolled into one statement.
"Just because my family is close doesn't mean I am." Draco looked away, clenching his jaw. But even as he said it, he could feel the weight of the Dark Mark under his sleeve, a reminder of his position—a brand that bound him more tightly than any set of chains could.
The room fell silent, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the muffled footsteps of students in the corridors beyond. Within their inner circle, unspoken truths and hidden fears lingered.
"You think it's all worth it?" Theo asked. "All this… loyalty? Do you really believe he's going to make the world better?"
No. But he couldn't say that aloud. Especially in the Slytherin Common Room. Draco clenched his fists, staring hard at the fire, wishing it could burn away the guilt he felt. Luna Lovegood was still being held in his family cellars. Along with Ollivander and a recently captured goblin.
When he was a child, the only thing down there had been his immense fear of ghouls and his family's collection of fine wine.
When it was clear Draco wouldn't answer, the conversation shifted uneasily, each of them pretending, if only for a moment, that they could slip back into normalcy. They chatted about upcoming exams, Pansy complained about the cold draft in the dungeon corridors, and Blaise wondered if they'd get any time off during Easter.
And Draco ran through every possible scenario he could in his mind. All of them leading directly to death for either himself or everyone he loved.
Draco sat alone on his bed in his dormitory, hands clenched tightly in his lap, heart pounding so loudly he could barely think. His mind was racing, caught between a desperate need to protect his family and the cold, brutal reality that he simply couldn't do what the Dark Lord had demanded.
The family ring was with Hermione—it was on her finger, permanent and binding.
Draco barely slept since he'd received the summons, the threat hanging over him like a noose.
How was he supposed to fix this? He couldn't, and that thought alone was enough to suffocate him.
The door cracked open, and Theo's head popped in, a concerned frown on his face.
Draco quickly wiped his face, forced his expression to neutral, but he knew he looked terrible, that the hollowness would still show through his facade.
"Drake," Theo said, stepping inside. "You look like hell."
Draco glared at him weakly, but Theo didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped fully into the room, locking the door behind him and casting a quick Muffliato charm.
"What's wrong with you?" Theo asked, crossing his arms as he studied Draco intently. "And don't tell me it's nothing."
For a moment, Draco considered lying, waving Theo off. But the words caught in his throat.
How could he possibly explain any of this?
His fingers brushed over his left arm where the Dark Mark lay beneath his sleeve, feeling the burn of it, a constant reminder of his loyalty to the Dark Lord—whether he wanted it or not.
"I… I can't talk about it." Draco turned his gaze to the floor.
Theo sighed, clearly not convinced.
"You've been pacing the dorm like a madman for days. You think I haven't noticed?" He lowered his voice. "Look, mate, I don't know what's going on, but… whatever it is, you don't have to deal with it alone. Just… tell me."
Draco's jaw tightened, the weight of Theo's offer almost unbearable. He didn't want to drag Theo into this, didn't want him to be tainted by the same darkness that had swallowed Draco's life. But the pressure, the sheer suffocating fear, was clawing its way out of him, desperate for release.
Theo took a tentative step forward. "Draco… whatever it is, you can tell me. I'm not going anywhere. I've got your back."
The words shattered something inside him. Draco felt a tremor run through his body, his carefully constructed walls crumbling.
"They want… they want the family ring." He took a shaky breath, his voice barely audible as he stared at his hands. "The Dark Lord demanded it. Said he'd use it to secure the alliances he needs on the continent. France, maybe."
Theo's brow furrowed, but he waited, sensing there was more.
"The ring… it's," Draco's voice cracked. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms to ground himself. "I can't give it to him, Theo. It's… it's out of my reach."
Theo nodded slowly, processing the information, but Draco saw understanding flash across his face.
"Hermione stole that ring," Theo said, his voice cautious. "I was here when she did. Are you telling me… this has something to do with Granger?"
Draco's throat tightened. He didn't answer, but his silence was all the confirmation Theo needed.
Theo knew Hermione put on the Malfoy ring. He knew what that meant.
"Merlin." Theo raked a hand through his hair. "This is… this is bad, Draco. If they find out…"
"They'll go after her, Theo." Draco laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and humourless. "If they find out that she's wearing the Malfoy ring…" His voice wavered. "They'll kill her."
The thought of it twisted his insides, filling him with a sick, helpless rage.
And once again, he was helpless to the whims of others.
"What am I supposed to do?" Draco whispered, his hands twisting into his hair. "My parents… they're going to be punished because of me. My father could be killed, and my mother… she'll suffer the same fate or worse. And Hermione…" He swallowed, the words barely making it past the tightness in his throat. "I'm going to lose all of them, Theo. I'm going to lose everything."
Theo's face softened, and he placed a steady hand on Draco's shoulder.
"You're not losing anyone," he said firmly. "Not if I have anything to say about it."
Draco looked up at him, hope flickering in his eyes, but it was tempered with doubt.
"How? You think you can fool the Dark Lord? Because I don't have any ideas left, and every second that passes, I feel more and more like I'm running out of time."
Theo was silent for a long moment, his brow furrowing as he thought. Then, his gaze sharpened with determination.
"I don't know if it's possible, but…" Theo paused for a moment, his eyes darting back and forth like they did when he was thinking, seeing visions of plans that existed only in his mind. "If I can make a replica of the ring, something that looks just like it, we might be able to trick them—at least long enough for you to figure something else out."
"You… you really think you could do that?" Draco's heart leaped. "Theo, that ring has centuries worth of enchantments and blood rituals. You'd have to be able to fool any investigative magic."
Theo nodded.
"I've worked with enchanted objects before. Just a tinkering hobby when I'm at Nott Manor to stay out of the way. It won't be a perfect solution, but it'll buy you time." He met Draco's gaze, his expression deadly serious. "And that's all you need right now. Time."
Draco exhaled, relief flooding through him, though it was tinged with doubt. "But… what if they realize it's a fake? The Dark Lord is no fool. If he sees through the fake…"
"We'll make it good enough that he won't," Theo said resolutely. "I'll take care of it. I've got some contacts who can help with the enchantments."
A silence fell between them, and Draco felt a surge of gratitude that he couldn't quite put into words. He didn't deserve this loyalty, didn't deserve Theo's help, but he wasn't going to refuse it.
"Thank you, Theo," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
Theo smiled faintly, clapping him on the shoulder. "Then it's a good thing you'll never have to find out, isn't it?"
For the first time in days, a glimmer of hope sparked in Draco's chest. It was fragile, hanging by a thread, but it was something.
And right now, it was everything.
Draco sat on the edge of his bed, rolling the imitation ring between his fingers, watching the way it caught the dim light in their dorm room. He didn't want to admit it, but he was genuinely impressed. Theo had managed to replicate nearly every detail of the Malfoy family ring—the intricate design, the weight of the metal, even the faint aura of ancient magic that surrounded it.
"You're sure this will pass?" Draco asked as he finally tore his gaze away from the ring to look at Theo.
Theo leaned against the bedpost with a casual shrug, but his eyes were sharp, assessing.
"As long as he doesn't try to inspect it too deeply," he replied. "Anyone outside the family wouldn't notice the difference. And since the Dark Lord isn't exactly a Malfoy, we should be fine… for now."
"Should be fine" Draco's jaw clenched as he echoed Theo's words, the tension coiled tightly in his chest. He couldn't risk a failure, not now, not when his family's lives were hanging in the balance.
Theo folded his arms, his voice dropping to a serious tone.
"Look, Draco, I've done everything I can. That ring is as close as anyone could get to the original without having the real one to copy." He leaned in slightly, his voice quieter, almost conspiratorial. "Just remember, if he tries too many spells to probe its magical signature, it'll unravel fast. The enchantments won't hold under intense magical scrutiny."
Draco nodded, turning the ring in his palm one last time.
"I understand," he said.
But his mind raced, imagining what would happen if Voldemort saw through the facade—the consequences, not only for himself but maybe for Theo now, too.
He slipped the ring into his pocket, feeling its weight settle as if it were the real one.
"I don't know how to thank you."
Theo snorted, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Don't get all sentimental on me, Malfoy." A faint flush crept up Theo's neck suggested he wasn't entirely immune to the sentiment. "Besides, if this works, we're just buying time. You'll still need to come up with another plan."
Draco tried to bury the anxiety gnawing at him. "Always the realist, aren't you, Nott?"
"Someone has to be," Theo shot back, his expression softening just a fraction. "And right now, I'd rather it be me."
They fell into a brief silence, an unspoken understanding settling between them. Draco knew that Theo's help came at a cost—a risk he hadn't asked for but had willingly taken on. And for a Slytherin, that kind of loyalty wasn't given lightly.
"Thank you, Theo," Draco said again, and this time his voice was steady, almost… warm. It felt foreign, like a piece of armour he'd forgotten how to wear.
Theo gave a slight nod, brushing it off with a roll of his eyes. "Just don't get us both killed, alright?"
The tense humour was short-lived, though, as a sudden, sharp pain flared in Draco's left arm. He hissed, clutching his forearm, feeling the searing pull of the Dark Mark. He looked at Theo, the fear in his eyes mirrored by his friend's sudden, worried gaze.
"Drake?" Theo's voice was cautious, his gaze flickering with concern. "You alright?"
Draco forced a tight nod, as the burn settled into a dull throb. His heart hammered against his ribs. There was no way to mistake it: the Dark Lord was calling him.
"He's summoning me." Bile rose in Draco's throat, his heart hammering.
Theo's expression hardened.
"You have the ring," he said, as if willing Draco to believe it would work. "Remember, he's not expecting you to fail, Draco. He doesn't know what we've done. Just keep your head clear, and you'll get through this."
Draco nodded, swallowing against the lump in his throat. He tried to steel himself, to summon the same cold detachment he usually managed to wear as easily as his school robes. But this felt different—darker, more final.
His mind flitted to Hermione, and he forced himself to focus, pushing the thought away before it could deepen his resolve into something reckless.
Draco turned to Theo, his face a careful mask of indifference. "If I don't come back…"
"You will," Theo interrupted, his voice cutting through Draco's hesitation with a surprising fierceness. "And when you do, we'll figure out what comes next."
"No, Theo, listen." Draco grabbed his arm. "If I don't come back, from this or at the end of this war, I need you to promise me something."
Theo stilled, his jittery energy for once focused on one single point: Draco.
"Anything."
"Protect her." Draco tightened his grip, but chuckled deep and derisive. "She'd hate that I said that. Look out for her, please."
"You mean your wife?" Theo's eye's narrowed.
Draco nodded, face set. He trusted that Potter would keep Hermione safe, but he didn't trust that the dim wit would be able to understand anything else she was going through.
"Yeah, Drake." Theo sighed, his eyes moving to the ceiling. "Yeah, I promise."
It wasn't an unbreakable vow, but with their arms clasped together it certainly felt like one. Draco knew Theo felt it too, knew that he would keep his promise.
Draco rose to his feet, adjusting his collar as he slipped into the practiced confidence he'd been raised to wear. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but he wouldn't let it show. Not now. He glanced at Theo one last time.
Draco repeated Theo's words to himself like a mantra. He could do this. He had to do this.
But deep down, the doubt festered, relentless and cold, whispering that he might be running out of time.
He turned, Death Eaters now permitted to apparate within the walls of Hogwarts, and disappeared.
As Draco made his way through the shadowed corridors of the Manor, his thoughts churned with conflicting emotions—fear, anger, but mostly a bone-deep exhaustion. The facade he wore, the lies he had to tell, the ever-present danger of exposure—it was a constant, crushing weight. And the thought of facing Voldemort, of placing his life in the hands of an imitation ring, twisted his insides in a way he hadn't felt since he'd first taken the Dark Mark.
Draco's heart pounded as he stood outside the drawing room at Malfoy Manor, his stomach twisted in knots so tight they felt like iron bands.
This ring had to work. He knew Voldemort wouldn't accept excuses.
And there was no way he'd produce the genuine ring. The only way to bring that ring would be to bring his wife to the manor. Something he would rather die himself than do.
He took a shuddering breath, steeling himself, and pushed the door open. The room was dimly lit, casting long, eerie shadows across the walls. The air was thick, laced with a dark magic that seemed to pulse from Voldemort himself as he stood near the fireplace, his crimson eyes glinting with impatience.
Draco's steps faltered when he spotted his father. Narcissa knelt beside the Dark Lord, her face pale but composed, her body taut with restrained fear.
Draco's father was absent. That didn't calm him in the least.
"Draco," Voldemort's voice was a sibilant whisper that cut through the silence like a blade. "You bring me news of the ring, I hope?"
"I… I have found, my Lord." Draco swallowed, forcing himself to keep his gaze steady.
"And where was it before?"
"My friends thought they'd play a prank on me," Draco said, his face blank as he occluded. "When I showed them I meant business, they produced the ring."
Draco held his breath as he felt Voldemort's gaze pierce through him, cold and probing. The Dark Lord's long, bony fingers extended toward him in a silent command, and Draco swallowed hard as he slid the ring out of his pocket and held it out. His hand shook slightly as he passed it over, but he fought to keep his face impassive, giving no hint of his terror.
Voldemort's lips curled into a cruel approximation of a smile as he inspected the ring, turning it between his thin fingers, the dark glint in his eyes revealing nothing of his true thoughts.
"Tell me, Draco," Voldemort drawled, his voice a soft hiss that prickled the skin on Draco's arms. "How loyal are you to me?"
Draco's heart pounded painfully in his chest, and he forced himself to bow his head. "I am loyal, my Lord. Entirely."
Voldemort's gaze sharpened, his pale fingers tightening around the ring.
"Good," he said, his voice low and almost gentle, but Draco could feel the venom beneath it. "Because disloyalty is… unwise. Painful. Fatal, even."
Draco's mouth went dry, his palms damp with sweat. He wanted nothing more than to tear his gaze away from the ring that Voldemort now held in his grip, but he couldn't risk betraying any hint of doubt. He fought to breathe evenly, to project a calm he didn't feel.
"Now, Draco," Voldemort's voice dropped lower, more sinister. "Let's see if you're telling me the truth."
Before Draco could brace himself, he felt a sharp, searing pain explode in his head. Voldemort's mind forced its way into his like a dagger, tearing through his defenses with vicious intensity. Draco clenched his jaw to stop himself from crying out, but the pain was relentless, burning as Voldemort tore deeper, clawing through his memories and thoughts with ruthless precision.
Draco bit down hard on his lip, willing himself to stay calm, to maintain his mental barriers. He concentrated fiercely on a set of fabricated memories, images he had practiced constructing in his mind: his friends laughing as he demanded the ring, his anger flaring as he confronted them, their reluctant return of the ring after his threats.
But Voldemort was relentless, his presence heavy and suffocating, like a poison seeping through Draco's veins. Draco's vision blurred as he struggled to hold on to the memories, to keep his true thoughts hidden. Every second felt like an eternity, the pressure in his skull mounting, the agony pushing him to the edge of what he could bear.
Just when Draco thought he would break, that his walls would crumble and expose everything he was fighting so desperately to protect, Voldemort suddenly withdrew, the invasion as abrupt as it had been brutal.
Draco staggered, the absence of pain almost as disorienting as the pain itself, and he fought to keep his breathing steady, his gaze downcast as he forced himself to look unshaken.
Voldemort's expression remained impassive, but his red eyes glittered with something almost approving as he inspected the ring one last time before setting it down beside him.
"Very well," Voldemort said. "It seems you have proven yourself, Draco."
Draco forced himself to nod, slipping the ring back onto his finger with hands that trembled only slightly. He could still feel Voldemort's presence lingering in his mind, like the echo of a scream that hadn't fully faded. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs, but he forced himself to straighten, to keep his face impassive.
"Thank you, my Lord," he managed, his voice hoarse.
Voldemort smiled, a chilling, reptilian smile that made Draco's stomach twist. "Let's hope your loyalty remains… unshakable."
With a flick of his wrist, Voldemort dismissed him, turning his back as if Draco were nothing more than an insect. Draco took a shaky breath, trying to ignore the way his skin crawled, and with one final glance at his father—still kneeling, still silent as a reminder of what was at stake—he backed out of the room, careful not to turn his back until he reached the door.
Only when he was safely out of sight did he let out the breath he'd been holding, his chest heaving. The panic, the terror that he'd forced down in Voldemort's presence, surged to the surface, clawing at him as he stumbled down the corridor, his mind reeling.
He'd survived, but only barely. And now, as he walked away, every nerve still pulsing with fear, he knew it was only a matter of time before Voldemort's suspicions returned. When he decided to have the ring undergo magical testing.
And when that happened, the fake ring wouldn't be enough to save him.