To Rule in Hell

To Rule in Hell
A Harry Potter Fan Fiction
Written by Antenora

Chapter One
State of Affairs

The storm had been a looming threat all day and at this time of night it was a dark menace which seemed to consume the world. The air around him seemed to be frightened into stillness by the horror and smell of inevitable rain. Winds rocketed through the deserted streets of London; overturning trash cans and sending the rotting trash within scurrying through alleys into the wide open places. The winds didn't have much to do with the storm, since such winds were usually a sign of the Dark Lord's displeasure, but they did add to the gloomy, threatening atmosphere of the night.

Draco jumped a bit as thunder crashed in the distance and he turned in time to see a second bolt of lightening flash moments later, followed too quickly by the accompanying crash of thunder. The storm was getting closer. Too close for comfort really. Not for the first time, Draco cursed himself for not paying better attention to the world outside his office windows. If he'd seen how close the storm was, he'd have packed up and gone home a bit earlier. Perhaps he'd have even left on time, something that hadn't happened once in the years he'd held his current position.

If he didn't enjoy his second job so bloody much he'd have quit after the first time he'd found himself stuck in that little bitty office finishing paperwork at eleven o'clock at night. He'd no idea when he'd undertaken the position as personal secretary for that twat Marcus Flint that it would require so much bloody paperwork. But, of course, if Flint actually did any work himself, it probably wouldn't. Bastard.

Still, it was the perfect cover. No one would ever suspect that Draco Malfoy, personal secretary of Marcus Flint, Head of the Department of International Affairs, was a Hunter. He wore glasses he didn't need and stuttered just a bit when he was nervous. He'd had to stay at St. Mungo's for six months following the war and his doctor had lamented about the horrors of war and prescribed him medication to calm his frazzled nerves, to keep him sane.

In confidence his doctor told the world that Draco Malfoy was suffering from what he called 'Dark Shock Syndrome' as a result of the time he'd spent on the battlefields during the war. The disease was a strange hybrid of amnesia, anxiety, depression, and paranoia. The doctor had written a paper on it and won an award for his work. In the meantime, his star patient had been released back into society as a timid, absent-minded man who barely resembled the boy he'd once been. Marcus Flint had hired him on as a personal favor to his father and everyone felt a bit sorry for the tragic demise of the confident, determined son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

Draco smiled grimly at the memories, fiddling nervously with his jacket and shuffling his armful of files for the benefit of the guard he knew was watching him through the security cameras set up around the perimeter of the Ministry. He still marveled a bit as his own acting talents. It wasn't easy to build up a fake persona good enough to fool an entire world full of wizards. Only his parents and Voldemort had any idea that everything from the all-expense paid vacation in St. Mungo's to the exceedingly dull desk job under Marcus Flint's supervision was nothing more than smoke and mirrors. He'd worked long and hard to keep it that way.

Simply because he loved being a Hunter.

There was something thrilling about moving soundlessly through darkened alleys searching out the Muggles and rogue wizards that had craved out a crud existence between and beneath the society Voldemort had built. Something satisfying about chasing them, running down narrow pathways in pursuit of his prey. Capturing them with spells or his own hands and selling them off to the highest bidder on the Slave Market. There was definitely something glorious about the gold he received at the end of each successful hunt.

Many Hunters worked in packs, groups of three or four which split the profits evenly between them. Some worked in pairs or in still larger packs called Prides. He was the only Hunter who worked alone and he was, by far, the most successful. The refugees that were his prey called him Death. He was the nightmare bogeyman of Muggle children. Stay inside or Death will come for you, parents would admonish their little ones during the early hours of the morning before bed. He wore a mask when he hunted and none had ever seen his face, so to them and the world he was simply a nameless, faceless evil. A menace to civilized Muggle society as a whole.

There was a price on his head in France and America. They didn't like it when he came to hunt on their shores, not that he did it all that often. Hunting in America was like shooting fish in a barrel. Besides that most rogue wizards had kept to Great Britain after the war. Many of them hid themselves away in the countryside, hoping to one day band together with others like them and retake their land from the enemy. But he didn't much care for hunting them either. They were wizards, at least, but they'd grown fat and slow in their hidden places, far from the dangers presented by the larger cities. That was why he preferred to hunt in London, where the prey was inevitably craftier. He enjoyed the challenge those fast, clever wizards presented. And they were all fast and clever to a man. Rogue wizards didn't survive more than a week in London without skills enough to keep them from a Hunter's grasp.

The storm rumbled and crashed overhead, more menacing now. Tonight many would be hunting. Storms were the best time for hunting, not that he knew from experience. He didn't hunt during the storms, never had. When his father had asked him why, he had simply told him that it took some of the sport out of it. It was true, but that wasn't the reason he preferred to stay locked away in his small flat while the rain poured and the thunder crashed overhead.

Not even close.

He shook away the memories that threatened as lightening lit the sky and hurried homewards. The streets were silent as he maneuvered through the dimly lit alleys towards his flat. They'd been silent for years really. People seldom walked openly through the streets during these dangerous times and when they did they didn't speak or linger, but hurried toward their destinations with a single-minded purpose. There were no cars anymore, not in England. No purpose really since the only people allowed to travel were wizards and wizards could just Apparate or use floo powder to arrive at their destinations.

Of course, he would have been able to Apparate as well if he hadn't fashioned himself a persona that couldn't be trusted with a wand.

Scowling, Draco clutched the files against his chest and picked up his pace. The relative silence of the coming storm was beginning to wear on his nerves and his mind was beginning to wander already. He wanted to be safely ensconced in his flat before those particular memories came. It might have been a bit easier if there had been some sound, some distracting bit of noise to annoy him and keep his mind from dwelling on the past. A crying child, a barking dog, a singing bird, something.

But, of course, no birds sung in London.

He was actually beginning to wonder if birds had been just a dream, it had been so long since he'd seen one winging through the air. A dream of childhood. A time before Voldemort became reality, supreme power of both the Muggle and Wizarding world. Before hatred and fear ruled the shores of Great Britain and Muggles were either killed or became slaves lower even than house elves. Before raging storms had become a time of memory and regret.

Memories of that night at Hogwarts, his last night at Hogwarts. Of hot, sticky sheets and sweat-soaked bodies. Warmth and the smell of wild things and magic. Back when magic still smelled good and clean and so very, very right. The feel of that lean body thrusting against his own during those first desperate moments.

Later, sheathed in the heat of each other's bodies, filled to the brink. Screaming and moaning and bitten, ragged nails scrapping over his back leaving behind the scars that he still wore as a reminder that that night had been real. Exploring every option, exploding in flames again and again. That one endless of night of thrusting, eager bodies, riding the hard edge of pain and pleasure. Finding at last the best solution to their bitter rivalry in the darkened private room he'd lived in during his time as a prefect. Fitting a lifetime of want into a single night. No future, no past, only the very immediate present.

No vows of undying love, no promises of tomorrow. Just hungry kisses and insatiable desire thread and woven into a dark tapestry of sounds and smells and scars and hot, hot flesh in his memory. A constant torment on days like these when the thunder raged and lightening crashed. Days when he could catch fleeting glimpses of that single night in his mind's eye like rainbow light reflected in hot oil. Too painful to touch, too beautiful to turn away from.

Then, just over a year later, the final battle. Voldemort's triumphant victory and that beautiful, scarred body that had been flushed with heat when it had lain against his own, lying cold and broken at the Dark Lord's feet. The birth of a new world built on the ashes of a hero and those who had been foolish enough to stand and die beside him. A land where Muggles were enslaved or massacred on a wizard's whim. A land where one man, if he could be called a man, ruled all and those who did not serve him were virtually extinct. Reduced to hiding in sewers and beneath the cover of darkness where only Hunters dared to tread.

This was the world he lived in.

The world he had helped create.

The world his father had told him would be great.

Four years since that last battle and he was practically running through the darkened streets of London, intent on reaching his small flat before the clouds broke. He still wasn't quite sure how he'd managed to lose track of time so completely. Perhaps it was because he was simply so used to working late these days that when it wasn't required he still ended up staying late more of force of habit than anything else.

In another world he might have been chumming about in a pub with friends at this hour. He was, after all, only twenty-two. Twenty-two year old men were rather expected to do things like call off work early to have a few drinks with friends, weren't they? Hell if he knew. He'd never been particularly fond of crowded places, darkened by the smell of inevitable sex and no small amount of magic. Too easy to fall under another wizard's spell. Not that he really thought any wizard would dare try to bespell him. He was, after all, a Malfoy. Even if the world saw him as defective, the name still did much to protect him from its harsher realities.

Only two more blocks to go, at least. He dug his keys from his pocket as he fell into a full run during the last block. His shins were screaming by the time he reached the stairs that led up to his second floor flat. He managed to get his key in the lock and shove the door open as the clouds finally broke and rain came flooding down in sheets. "Bloody hell," he grumbled, slamming the door behind him and dropping unceremoniously onto the floor inside his apartment. He'd always hated the rain. Well, that wasn't exactly true. He'd only really hated the rain since that night.

The memory of the madness of that night and the rain always seemed to go hand in hand after all.

The message light on his machine was blinking frantically as he lay back on the shag carpeting, tossing his armful of files carelessly to the side. "Announce," he called to the machine, which whirred to life at his command.

It was a newer model, having been purchased only the year before and it announced messages with a monotone dignity that seemed to demand the listener pay heed. "You have eight new messages. Message one, nine-fifty-nine."

"Draco, this is your father. Pick up. Pick up, damn it. Are you working late again? I'll try you at the office."

The answering machine whirled and spun. Draco frowned a bit; his father had never called the office. Though, then again, he hadn't been in the office the entire time and had never thought to check the answering machine. Perhaps he should give him a call once he...

"Message two, no time available," the sexless, emotionless voice of his answering machine intoned, summoning Draco's attention back to the box.

Static burst from the small speaker followed by a single garbled word, "Malfoy."

A single word, but the voice that had spoken it...

The answering machine whirled and spun. "Message three, no time available."

"It was a night like this, wasn't it?"

Whirled and spun.

"Message four, no time available."

"A storm like this. I wanted to beat you senseless. I usually did. Do you remember who kissed whom first? I rather fancy that you were the one who kissed me. Were you?"

"Yes," Draco croaked, rolling onto his stomach and pushing himself slowly onto his hands and knees.

"Message five, no time available."

"My bed seemed cold when you left."

"Message six, no time available."

"Is being Voldemort's lap dog near as much fun as you thought it would be?"

"Message seven, no time available."

"Do you like the world you helped create?"

Draco shivered, shook with the desire to tear the answering machine from the wall. The desire to smash it to bits. This wasn't real, couldn't be real.

The answering machine whirled and clicked, "Message eight, eleven o'clock."

"Draco, where the devil are you? I tried you at work and all I got was a busy signal. If you're listening to this message than I want you to Apparate in directly to the Manor. Do not wait. Goyle and Crabbe were found in the underground this evening. Goyle was dead and Crabbe followed shortly thereafter, but not before he managed to identify the leader of the rebels that had captured them. Harry Potter is alive, Draco."

The answering machine whirled and clicked, "End of messages."

He pushed himself slowly to his feet, noticing with detachment that he was trembling as he took off his dark coat. He hung it on the rack near the door and took up the soft, green suede jacket in which he kept his wand. The phone rang as he shrugged into the jacket and patted the pockets to be sure his wand was still there. It was, of course, and he crossed to the phone and picking up the receiver and tucking it against his ear, "Malfoy."

"Yes, I suppose you are."

Draco stilled, his fingers clenching around the receiver. "Potter." The name felt like a curse upon his lips.

"You remember me. I'm touched," the voice replied, dripping sarcasm in a very un-Potter like fashion.

"And you sound it. What do you want?" Draco noticed vaguely that his voice was clipped and cold, his mask of fragility fractured and swept away by the dead man's voice on his telephone. Good thing no one was around to hear him.

"Well, your father, actually. Our informants felt sure he would come to the aid of his addled son if he were in danger, seeing as how you aren't supposed to be able to handle a wand, much less Apparate. Seems our informants aren't nearly as good as they think they are, but I suppose we'll just have to deal with that at a later time. For the moment though, I'm afraid you're going to have to come with us. You may not be in possession of as much valuable information as your father, but you'll do in a pinch."

He'd been a Hunter for years, but anonymity had made him over-confident. He really should have checked the apartment when he'd first come in. His only excuse was that he hadn't known there was a single wizard alive besides himself, his father, and Voldemort, who had skill enough to pass through his defenses unnoticed.

The last thing Draco remembered was the sound of footsteps at his back and Potter's voice, no longer spoken through the phone. Instead coming from just behind him, little more than a whisper in his ear. "I loved the rain before that night, Malfoy."

And then the world went black.