Tied

It was supposed to be a time of great pride. His father finally thought him capable enough to handle meeting the self-proclaimed 'Great' Lord Voldemort, and that in itself was a high compliment. He should've been proud, pleased, and beaming with confidence that he'd get through whatever the Dark Lord threw at him.

But as Draco Malfoy walked side-by-side with his father down the long, dark corridors of Malfoy Manor, an unmistakable feeling of dread wrapped itself firmly around his stomach. He suppressed an involuntary shudder. Even though his pride was firmly set in his mind, Draco couldn't help but feel that the whole thing was a bit dodgy, something was amiss.

It wasn't until after they reached the deepest, darkest room that was in Malfoy Manor, and having stepped inside to be greeted by a small group of Death Eaters cloaked in darkness and sneering in wicked delight, that Draco began to feel a sudden heaviness.

Somehow, the air in the room seemed to thicken, and Draco felt that he was on the verge of suffocating. Something very bad, very wrong, was about to happen.

Draco and Lucius stopped when they reached the small group of huddling Death Eaters, whose faces Draco knew very well -- he had grown up chattering to them as an insolent child. Now those faces, which had once been lit with something faintly resembling amusement, were shadowed in only stony suspicion and a slight tinge of fear.

The group was assembled in a ring. In the centre stood someone whom Draco could only guess was Lord Voldemort himself, even though a strange-looking gentlemen he knew by the name of Nott was blocking his view.

Fighting the urge to run, he followed his father's previous instructions and made his way to the centre of the circle where Lord Voldemort stood in all his glory.

Actually, he stood in what seemed to be a heap of bones and skin as pale as death itself. This was the Dark Lord? The-Man-Whom-Everyone-Feared? The-Man-With-Absolutely-No-Vanity-Sense-to-Speak-Of? If it weren't for the fear gripping his heart, Draco would have scoffed at the outrageousness of it all.

Still, he stood there in front of the supposed 'Dark Lord'. He had been told not to stare directly into the Dark Lord's eyes, for that showed superiority, and the Dark Lord was inferior to no one. However, Draco couldn't suppress the urge to meet his “master” face-to-face. Grey eyes, almost challenging behind a veil of frightened curiosity, met with red eyes so cruel and wicked they should have only been seen in a ghoul in a nightmare.

Draco could sense the unease at his action in the surrounding Death Eaters. The Dark Lord, however, merely regarded him carefully, his eyes searching and contemplative.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” murmured the Greatest-Wizard-Since-Grindelwald.

Draco fought the urge to say, “Your Majesty,” in a mocking voice. He wondered vaguely where were all of these disobedient thoughts coming from.

“Draco, your birthday was this past Christmas, am I correct?” asked the wizard in a slithery-smooth voice.

Draco quirked a brow, unsurprised. “Yes,” he replied, and as an afterthought added, “sir.” He didn't feel quite comfortable calling him “My Lord” especially since, by all accounts, he was not “His Lord”.

“And how old are you now?”

“I am sixteen, sir,” he replied politely, if coolly. Draco had the suspicion that this man already knew every answer before he even had a chance to think of it.

“Sixteen, a fine age,” the dark wizard commented. He began to circle Draco, obviously looking him over. “You are of good stock, just like your father.”

Draco's chin jutted out proudly. “Thank you, sir.”

“Your father tells me you have proven yourself capable of becoming one of my Death Eaters. Do you believe you are ready?”

“To become a Death Eater, sir?”

“Yes.”

“A servant, you mean?” he asked with a hint of disdain.

“In some ways, I suppose you could call a Death Eater a 'servant',” the Dark Lord admitted.

Draco's lip curled. “I was once told that a Malfoy is never a servant,” he replied, spitting out the word “servant” scornfully.

“Draco!” hissed Lucius from behind him.

The Dark Lord chuckled -- a sound that caused Draco to suppress a tremor of fear passing through him. “You have great pride, my boy. You are most definitely a Slytherin,” Voldemort spoke with neither pride nor rancour. “However, you haven't answered my question: do you believe you are ready to become a Death Eater?”

“I don't believe I have much choice in the matter, but if you mean am I willing to fight for the superiority of the pure-blood race, then yes, I do believe I am,” Draco replied, fighting to keep his voice even and bored -- a very hard thing to do when trembling from head to toe.

“Excellent. Has your father informed you of the ceremonial process?”

“Ceremonial process?” Draco asked curiously. He had always envisioned some sort of ceremony, but as his father hadn't mentioned it, Draco had assumed he had been mistaken. However, the fact that his father had completely neglected to tell him about this “ceremonial process” caused his blood to run cold.

“Yes. It's nothing much. Come, tell me, do you swear your undying allegiance to the cause and thereby swear you will forevermore be loyal to me and the superiority of the pure-blooded race?” Voldemort asked as if he had said this ten thousand times before.

Draco raised his eyebrows and said nothing for a moment. He could feel his father's desires radiating towards him and, as expected, Draco would follow his father's wishes. “Yes, I do.”

“Now, hold out your arm -- your wand arm,” Voldemort ordered.

Draco rolled up the sleeve to his left arm and exposed bare pale flesh the colour of creamy ivory. Voldemort touched the point of his wand to Draco's skin and whispered something -- an incantation.

Draco could feel the magic all around him, encircling him completely and seeping into every pore in his body, concentrating most at the under-skin of his forearm. He hissed in pain as a searing heat burned its way through his flesh. It built up until he was barely able to stand.

And then, everything went black.

“…put some sort of spell on him, Lucius?” asked a familiar voice distrustfully.

“I would never, m'Lord. I sincerely do not understand why that happened….”

More things were said, but Draco could not discern them. His head was swimming with blurry recollections that didn't make a great deal of sense, and he was utterly freezing all over -- as if his skin was gradually crystallising into ice. A pounding, throbbing ache was ripping through his head and he felt that if he didn't get an anti-nausea charm soon, he'd end up tasting lunch all over again.

“…no spell that could've done that to him, right? At least, no spell that I've ever heard of.” That was his father speaking, he knew that much.

“I don't mean to sound rude,” came the raspy voice of Draco Malfoy. “But would you mind terribly keeping the volume down to a minimum?”

The two voices ceased at once and Draco could only guess they were staring directly at him. He opened one eye, standing shakily, and was met with a swirling abyss. He choked back a gasp and was immediately brought to his full senses. His eyes widened in fear; he stared into the swirling abyss for a moment, staggering back drunkenly.

And then everything came back into focus and the Dark Lord stood where the abyss once floated.

Draco shook his head and blinked several times. The abyss was an illusion then. Good. He thought he was going bloody insane.

“Feeling better, Draco?” asked a bitter voice. Voldemort.

“Oh, yes, loads better -- that fall to the concrete really didn't do much damage to my skull,” he retorted sarcastically. Dark Lord or not, Draco was always cranky after waking up. The headache didn't help much either. “By the way, big thanks for the pillow after the fall -- oh yes, and that blinding pain you hadn't mentioned before. Helped clear my sinuses, it did.”

“This is no time for your tongue, Draco,” Lucius chided maliciously. “I'm sorry, m'Lord, for my son's insolence.”

Draco was taken aback, surprised by the change in demeanour that had come over his father. While Lucius had scolded him on many occasions, he had never, never done so scathingly. He found he could think of no suitable retort.

There was a short silence, and then Voldemort spoke again. When he did, Draco could actually feel his world collapsing around him. “Lucius, this boy is obviously useless in our cause. You saw his violent reaction to my spell. He cannot be trusted. There are other forces at work here and I don't feel we can quite…trust your son.”

Lucius drew himself up and Draco fell back against the wall behind him in disbelief. What was he saying? What had he meant by that?

“I believe you know what to do. Also, I will not hold you responsible for your son's lack of benefit. It is clearly a reflection on his own magic,” Voldemort sneered as he began walking off. Pretty quickly, he had disappeared with an audible *pop*.

Draco stared at his seething father. For the first time in his sixteen years, he felt real fear. Voldemort was frightening, yes, but also rather silly when he thought about it. His father, on the other hand, had brought Draco up to fear and respect him. Now, he had lost whatever pride his father had had in him and without it, Draco was no longer valuable.

There were only two ways Draco could see this scenario ending, and quite frankly, he wasn't keen on either outcome.

“You are a disgrace to your name, Draco,” his father said in calm rage. It was always calm rage -- never an outburst, never heated -- always cold, calculated, and unpredictable. Just this once, Draco would've gone for an explosion.

“Father, I don't know what you mean,” Draco said pathetically. It was the truth. He did not know what the hell had just happened. One second he was ready and willing to sell his proverbial soul to the devil, just to please his father and the next he was on the cold, stone floor in immense pain with said father practically spitting at him in disdain.

“You mean to tell me that you had absolutely nothing to do with what happened?” He didn't sound as if he'd believe Draco even if he told him the absolute truth -- which he did anyway.

“That's exactly it! What happened?” Draco cried, exasperated. Really, he had never had such a headache. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to pass out.

Lucius loomed over him and he winced at the proximity. He really was angry. Lucius never got that close to him unless he badly wanted Draco to know what he was feeling.

“Don't pretend you don't know, boy!” he hissed under his breath. He lifted Draco to his feet by his collar. “Go ahead, check your arm -- see the result of whatever spell you cast upon yourself.”

Draco furrowed his brow, but complied anyway. He fought back a startled gasp, but failed to hide the surprise flashing across his features. His father had trained him well, but such a wave of shock was difficult to push down.

On his arm, where the Dark Mark should have been, a totally alien tattoo looked up at him. It was a black dragon, snakelike in figure but with four legs, upon the hilt of a small dagger, its long tail wrapped around the blade. On the hilt of the sword, hidden beneath the tail of the dragon, Draco could make out the words: In Tenebrae Credeo. “In Tenebrae Credeo?” he whispered, more to himself than for his father.

His father's eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

Absentmindedly, he repeated, “In Tenebrae Credeo. It's right here on my arm….”

Lucius grabbed his arm viciously and squinted at it. “I see no such inscription.”

“What? But it's right there.”

“Then you're obviously hallucinating.”

“I'm not hallucinating.”

“Draco,” Lucius said in a calm, bitter tone. “Do you still claim ignorance to what happened before? About how you got this mark and everything?”

Draco shrugged, not meeting his father's eyes. “I don't know what happened. It must've been you or the Dark Lord who put this tattoo on me. I've never seen it before.”

“Neither the Dark Lord nor I put that on you,” Lucius said through clenched teeth. “I should have known this would happen.” He took a step forward. Draco took a step back and looked down at his father's hands, at the wand slowly coming up towards him, and he felt a sudden flurry of panic pass through his heart. “You were always such an insolent boy, and the way you spoke to the Dark Lord, as if you were somehow better than him -- it should have become clear to me then that you'd try to sabotage any standing I had with him.”

Draco's eyes widened as the point of his father's wand met with his forehead.

“I will not tolerate insolence and disobedience from you, boy.”

“F-Father?” Draco gasped, his voice strangled by a mixture of confusion, fear, and alarm.

“Avada Kedavra,” hissed Lucius.

A bright green light poured from the wand tip and nearly blinded Draco with its immensity. He could feel his heart stop and didn't know whether it was because he was dying or if he was just that afraid.

Then, suddenly, Draco saw his father stumble back a few paces, fear evident by his features. Confused, Draco blinked at him. Shouldn't he be dead by now?

Several things seemed to happen at once: Lucius grabbing for his wand again, muttering the Killing Curse repeatedly, green lights shooting out of his wand over and over again; Draco grabbing for his own wand and shouting, “Stupefy!” and seeing his father fall in a heap of black robes; and then running for all his worth as far away from that place as possible.

“Don't you dare speak with such a tongue to me ever again, boy!” cried Uncle Vernon, his face as purple as ever.

“Then don't say shit about my mum and dad! You know nothing about them!” screamed Harry back at him, his hand reflexively going for his wand.

It wasn't the first time that summer Uncle Vernon had made an off-hand, rather nasty, comment about his parents in front of Harry, and the Boy-Who-Lived had had enough. He had exploded, shouting out exactly what he thought of those comments and exactly where Uncle Vernon should shove them.

“I'll mind you to keep your tongue in check!” Harry could see his uncle's veins beginning to protrude. Pretty soon, he imagined, things would turn rather ugly -- and he had the feeling that his portly cousin would most likely delight in helping his uncle pound him.

“I don't need this,” Harry growled, and with that, he was out the door before he could hear what his Uncle had thought of it.

It was a really sticky, humid, hot summer's day but that didn't slow Harry down any. He was running on pure adrenaline and not even the scorching heat could stop him. Pretty soon, however, he began to feel just how hot it was. He slowed his pace and took a moment to take in his surroundings. He was in the park, and was one of the only people suicidal enough to be out in this heat.

Harry drew a long breath and exhaled slowly. Good. He was alone. He spotted the water fountain and walked to it, taking a long drink from the cool water. Then he slid down onto his knees, resting his head against the fountain, and closed his eyes. It really was very hot, and his anger had far from subsided.

He didn't know how long he sat there, but when he heard hesitant footsteps and felt a shadow looming over him, he didn't feel like moving. “If you want to use the fountain, you're going to have to wait until I can move my legs,” he mumbled. If the person were any farther away, he or she would not have heard him.

“That's a Muggle fountain, Potter. I have no intention of using it.”

Harry's eyes snapped open. That voice. Could it be…? He looked up to meet the owner of the shadow and instantly regretted it as the sun blared into his eyes. He made a disgruntled noise and looked away. As he stood up, he began to rub his eyes fervently. It took a moment, but when his vision cleared, he found he wasn't all that relieved to be able to see. “Malfoy?” Really, Fate was trying a bit too hard to get him riled up today. “What the bloody hell are you doing here? This is a Muggle town remember? Or were you lost and couldn't find your way?”

Malfoy bristled. “As a matter of fact, I do know this is a Muggle town…and I wasn't lost.”

“Oh? Then what are you doing here?”

Malfoy's face went blank. “Actually….” What was he doing here? All he could remember was high tailing it away from the Manor. He remembered thinking he had to go somewhere, but not to any of his friends' houses because of their…erm…connections. And at that moment, Draco remembered realising he had practically received an invitation to visit Potter.

“Well?”

“Um, well, I decided to take you up on your offer,” Malfoy replied decidedly.

“My…offer? Malfoy, what are you on about?”

Malfoy crossed his arms impatiently. “Remember? Before we left for the summer? You told me that if I ever needed anything, I shouldn't hesitate to ask?”

For a moment, Harry didn't realise what he was talking about. After pondering, the memory came back at him full force….

Harry had run up to Malfoy at the end of the year out of the blue, just before they were to set off to King's Cross Station, and told him, in no uncertain terms, that if Malfoy ever needed anything, he could always count on Harry.

Malfoy had looked perplexed, very suspicious, and had rather impolitely declined the offer, telling him that he'd never be so desperate.

They had parted on that note, hating each other as usual. It wasn't until Malfoy showed up and mentioned it that Harry even remembered making such a promise.

“I didn't think you'd ever be so desperate,” said Harry, adopting Malfoy's haughty tone from that day.

Malfoy sneered at the memory. “Neither did I.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, but said nothing, just stared at the blonde, his eyes questioning.

There was a silence, and then, “So do you live in the park, or is there somewhere that is out of this blistering sauna?”

Part of Harry told himself that letting Malfoy into his home was a big mistake, and that he should just leave the prat there to deal with whatever had happened to bring him here. However, it wasn't a very large part and Harry's polite side won out. “Come on,” he muttered and began walking.

Malfoy followed silently.

They seemed to trudge on for hours. “Merlin, Potter, do you even live in England?”

Harry scowled. “Of course I do. I just…I guess I didn't realise how far I ran,” he said almost distantly.

“How far you ran?”

Harry shrugged. “I…had a bit of a row with my uncle. It's nothing unusual.”

Malfoy's eyebrow quirked, “Oh? So you do this everyday? Run out in the middle of a heat wave to a place a thousand miles between you and your house?”

“Shut it, Malfoy. I don't have the patience to deal with you prattling on about something you know nothing about,” Harry snapped irritably.

“Ooh, is the heat making ickle Potter cranky?”

“Malfoy…” Harry warned.

“Aw, does wittle Pawter need a nap?”

Harry stopped abruptly and whirled to face Malfoy, his eyes sparkling angrily. “If you don't shut it, I will have absolutely no problem leaving you here, exposed to the elements. That pretty-boy hair of yours is already frizzing up in this humidity -- imagine what it'll be like in a couple of hours!”

Harry was happy to see Malfoy run a hand through his hair and shut up immediately. He nodded, and they continued to walk in blessed silence for another few moments before Harry reached Number Four Privet Drive.

“This is it?” Malfoy asked as Harry reached for the doorknob.

Harry sighed. “Yes. You were expecting a palace?”

Malfoy shrugged. “I wasn't really expecting anything, actually.” He followed Harry over the threshold. “It's just…not quite what you'd call 'homey', is it?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I'm sorry there aren't any fire-breathing dragons ready and willing to chomp off any visitor's head at your choosing, but you're going to have to deal with it.”

Harry was surprised to see Malfoy smirk. “Don't be silly, Potter. Janus hasn't 'chomped off' anyone's head since the 1600s.”

Harry's eyes widened and he blinked, staring at Malfoy incredulously.

Malfoy adopted a rather affronted look. “What? He felt threatened -- the wizard nearly killed him on the spot. It was pure self-defence,” he defended, obviously thinking Harry's shocked look came from his dragon killing someone, not from the fact that he actually had a dragon.

“Potter, what is going on here?” cried the gruff voice of Uncle Vernon from the dining table.

Harry blinked, glancing at the clock on the wall and seeing that it was, indeed, dinnertime. “Oh, um, this is Draco, Draco Malfoy. He's from…school.” Harry knew it was probably a bad idea to tell them Malfoy was from his school, but he was a bit too angry with them to care much.

“From that crackpot school? How dare you bring him into this house!” protested Uncle Vernon, who was now advancing on them, a menacing gleam in his eyes.

Malfoy took a few steps back (the man was practically half-giant!), but saw that Harry didn't even budge. He just stood there, shoulders squared, eyes daring and sparkling with a challenge.

“Get him out of this house, Potter,” Uncle Vernon warned.

Harry drew his wand and held it to Uncle Vernon's throat. “Get out of my face before I hex you into oblivion, Uncle Vernon,” he hissed dangerously.

Uncle Vernon looked shifty but said anyway, “You're still in school. You aren't allowed to do magic.”

Harry chuckled darkly and smirked viciously. Malfoy blinked and felt just a little afraid to see the darkness crossing the features of his archrival. It was one thing to see it in a blinded rage, but another thing entirely to witness it as a bystander. “I turned seventeen just yesterday. I can do whatever magic I want.”

Before Harry could catch Uncle Vernon's reaction, he turned on his heel and headed for the stairs. Malfoy followed dubiously.

When the door shut, Malfoy could do nothing but stare at the black-haired youth. “If you're seventeen, why don't you move out?” Malfoy asked as Harry went about taking off his shoes and falling onto his springy mattress.

Harry rested his head on his hands. “I'm not supposed to move out until I'm out of Hogwarts or I defeat Voldemort -- whichever comes first,” he replied lazily.

Malfoy, being used to the Potter boy taking on such a bored tone when mentioning the Dark Lord, wasn't fazed by the general lack of feeling behind that statement. He seated himself in the chair behind the desk. “And why not?”

Harry shrugged, not taking his eyes off of the ceiling. “Something about a charm,” he murmured, seemingly on the verge of in-depth thought.

“So this is your room?” Malfoy asked disinterestedly.

“Yes, Malfoy, this is my room.”

“It's rather cramped in here, isn't it?”

“Malfoy.”

“I mean you don't even have your own bathroom.”

“Malfoy, what are you doing here?”

Malfoy sighed and leaned back into the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “It's none of your business, Potter.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Considering your current location, I'd say I have every right to know why you're here.”

“I don't want to talk about it,” Malfoy growled.

“What else is new?” Harry commented before hoisting himself up into a sitting position. “I don't care if you want to talk about it or not. At least give me a vague reason not to throw you out of here right now.”

Malfoy shrugged. “I…had a bad day.”

Harry laughed in amazement. “You…you had a bad day? A bad day, Malfoy? If I went to my hated enemy's house every time I had a bad day, well, let's just say you, your father, and Voldemort wouldn't need an excuse to lure me into a trap to face my death. Why didn't you just go to Pansy? Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, even Zabini?”

“Because…I didn't want to.” He wasn't really lying -- just not telling the whole truth. Besides, where did Potter get off telling him where he could and could not go?

“Malfoy, you hate me. I hate you. I thought this was clear. Why did you come to me?”

Malfoy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I wouldn't say I hate you.”

“Yes, you would.”

Pause. “All right, so I would. But that doesn't mean I have to go about explaining myself to you.”

Harry threw himself back onto the bed, his arms spread at his sides, eyes closed. “Whatever, Malfoy.”

There was a short silence, “Potter, where am I going to sleep?”

“I don't care.”

Harry heard Malfoy getting off of the chair and moving around a bit. He jumped when he heard Malfoy speaking very close to him. “Well, get up then.”

Harry opened one eye and saw Malfoy standing over him, arms folded over his chest again. “You're kidding me.”

“Me? Kid with you?”

“Malfoy, this is my bed!” Harry cried, outraged.

“So? I'm your guest.”

“Guest? Guest? You're no guest, Malfoy. You're an annoyance -- an irritation.”

“Well, you don't expect me to sleep on the floor, do you?”

As a response, Harry took one of his pillows and several layers of his sheets and threw them in a pile at Malfoy's feet.

“Potter.”

“What?”

“I'm not sleeping on the floor.”

“Then I hope you know a good conjuring charm and a way to get around the Ministry magic-detection spells, because otherwise the floor is your new bed.”

“You're despicable, Potter.”

“And you're annoying, but hey, we all have things that we have no choice but to deal with.”

Harry heard a scuffling and assumed Malfoy was arranging the bed sheets in such a manner as to lie on them. He made a startled gasp when he suddenly felt two arms grab him and deposit him haphazardly on the floor. He straightened his glasses and looked at where he had been laying, and saw Malfoy making himself comfortable on the mattress.

Harry stood up. “I'm not sleeping on the floor, Malfoy,” he spat indignantly.

“Of course you are. You're Harry Potter. You would sacrifice anything to keep the wizarding world and Muggle world alike comfortable,” Malfoy drawled, his eyes already closed.

“I refuse to give up my bed.”

“Oh? What are you going to do about it?”

Malfoy never got a vocal response. Instead, his eyes shot open when he felt someone sink into the other side of the twin-size mattress. “You've got to be kidding me, Potter.”

“Me? Kid with you?” Harry asked, throwing Malfoy's own words back at him.

“This mattress isn't large enough for both of us.”

“Well, I'm not in the mood to sacrifice the well-being of my back for a prissy little rich boy, so you can just get back on that floor and sleep there. Otherwise, try not to move too much -- I tend to move a lot in my sleep. Something to do with nightmares,” Harry mumbled, his voice getting softer as he spoke.

In seconds, Malfoy could hear the Boy-Who-Lived snoring very lightly. With a growl of frustration, he turned onto his side and attempted sleep as well.

At that moment, he wondered why he ever thought coming here was a good idea.