My Father's Business

I was created in my father's image.

Now that I am older, I am practically a mirror image of him - same silvery platinum hair, same cold grey eyes. I am the heir to his fortune, his title, his whole fucked up dynasty of evil and corruption.

I am the Malfoy heir.

I told Harry this once, but he did not comprehend the significance of my title. He does not know about the second prophecy.

And the Son of the Lord's right hand shall rise up to challenge the One who bears the sword.

My destiny, laid out so plainly before me. So easy, to take that road, to skip down the path that leads to hell, to my ultimate destruction. For in taking Harry's life, I take my own. I know that now. Life without him is worse than death. Life without Harry makes the Dementor's kiss look like a bloody walk in the park.

Life without Harry is not a life I choose to live.

And yet, there is nothing to be done. The prophecy will be fulfilled, and I will perform my duty. I will fight, if I must. I will win, if I can. If I am very lucky, I will lose.

I am about my father's business.

My father, who dwells in a temple of his own iniquity, worshiping a false god, a priest of sin and vice.

I am about his business.

I knew this day was coming - knew the time when I would be called upon to take my place as the sacrificial lamb was drawing near. In truth, I welcome its coming. I look forward to the day I will be able to lay my life down at the feet of the one who truly deserves to take it.

Of course, nothing is ever that easy. If my mere death meant that Harry would live, I would throw myself from the highest tower in Malfoy Manor this minute. But my father and his master have made sure it is not that simple. There is a curse. I suspect my father know more than he lets on. Smart really, to ensure I don't just end it myself. The terms of the curse are as such: If I die before the battle takes place, if I perish without a fight, Harry will die too.

And so I will try to kill him. I will try to kill him so that he may live.

I am about my father's business.

My father's business indeed. An industry of evil, a partnership of greed and deceit. I sit at his side, drowning in my own complacency, ashamed yet compelled to do his bidding.

He comes to me, in the night. We speak in hushed tones - talk of war and glory, blood and power. I wonder if he hears the pain in my voice. I wonder if he knows that his actions will surely kill his only son. And I wonder if that is why I was created - to die for his sins.

If I am to die, it will be for Harry. My blood will wash away the years of pain and bitterness. My blood will set him free.

My mother brings me tea in the afternoon. Such a ridiculous routine, when all around us the world is crumbling, falling in on itself until there will surely be nothing left.

She smooths my hair, passing a soft hand across my forehead. The first motherly gesture I've had from her in years. I am instantly suspicious.

"My darling Draco," she whispers in that falsely sweet, simpering voice. "I've brought you a present."

She holds out a small parcel, and I take it warily. At her encouraging nod, I begin to unwrap it. Inside is a drawing pad and four charcoal pencils. Damn the woman.

"I thought you might like to keep up with your drawing," she says, a disgusting smile plastered on her made-up face. "Be a good boy, and draw Mummy a pretty picture."

"And what shall I draw, Mummy?" I say through clenched teeth.

"Oh, I don't know, dear. Whatever's inside."

I almost laugh at this. I'll certainly draw her a picture of what's inside me, but it sure as hell won't be pretty.

I feel the familiar itch as soon as my fingers wrap around the slim pencils, the desire to draw him, to give him immortality the only way I know how. But my mother eyes me shrewdly, and so I draw myself instead, eyes wide and vacant, blood dripping from my aristocratic Malfoy mouth.

My mother purses her lips, but wisely remains silent. After all, I only gave her what she asked for. She heaves a very put-upon sigh, and rises from the bed, brushing invisible lint from her skirt and looking at anything in the room besides her son. I roll my eyes and, remembering something Harry said ages ago, in what seems like another world, suppress a grin.

"You really do," I say, grinning so hard it feels like my face will shatter.

"Do what, dear?" She's still avoiding my eyes, now examining her ridiculously perfect manicure.

"You really do look like you've got dung under your nose."

She may have married into this family, but she is a Malfoy through and through. Her eyes harden and her lips grown thin, but she otherwise does not react. She walks stiffly out the door, not bothering to shut it.

I breathe an enormous sigh of relief, and realize the itch has returned, worse than ever, creeping up my arm, past my elbow and into my shoulder. I make a quick sketch of Harry, but something isn't right, and the itch is still there. I try again, but am again disappointed. I realize what is missing and begin frantically searching my room.

I finally find a box of colored pencils buried in the back of a drawer. Drawing out the green one and thinking it could never come close to the color of Harry's eyes, I begin to sketch again.

A while later I lounge on my bed, sipping cold tea and examining my drawing. A pair of bright green eyes stare out from the center of the page, surrounded by violent slashes of red. At the bottom of the page there are several streaks of charcoal, almost as though Harry was trying to claw his way out, off the page and into my arms.

When my father comes in several hours later, his eyes go immediately to the drawing. He smiles, and I know he is pleased. He thinks I am drawing my last battle with Harry, predicting his death. He doesn't know I've always thought red was the color of my feelings for Harry - passionate, a bit unstable, and more intense than any other emotion I've ever felt.

To my father, red is blood.

I look at him blankly, and a part of me wonders if he knows I've never loved him. A part of me wonders if he'd even care. And a part of me is surprised that I care.

"Draco," he says, and there is a trembling excitement in his voice. "It is time, son."

I feel as though I've been drenched with ice water. It can't be time for me to fight Harry. There wasn't enough time, not enough time for me to come to terms with what I have to do.

With a sinking feeling, I realize there will never be enough time.

I shake myself mentally and straighten my shoulders; I am determined not to let my father see my turmoil.

"Where must I go?" I say, and am rather proud that my voice does not crack.

"We will Apparate to Lord Voldemort's quarters."

I am confused. "Is that where I am to fight him, then?" I had imagined it would take place on the battle field, not in the lavishly ornate palace Voldemort calls his home.

My father looks at me strangely. "You are not to fight him yet," he says, his steely eyes narrowing. "You are not yet prepared."

Prepared? My stomach churns and roils, and I wonder briefly if my father will see vomiting as a weakness.

"You must receive the Mark."

Ah, the Mark. I have to admit, I have not even thought about taking the Mark. Of course, seventeen is the age at which all dark wizards committed to Voldemort receive the Dark Mark, but my mind has been occupied with other things. Namely, the fact that I am expected to murder my boyfriend so that the most evil wizard ever to walk the earth may continue his reign of endless terror.

No big deal, really.

Right.

I feel myself panicking, but I know I must not let my father see. Instead, I give him a brilliant smile. My voice, when I speak, is too loud, but sounds otherwise normal.

"Will you give me a moment, father? So that I may ready myself?" He gives me an appraising glance, and with a final nod, he makes for the door.

"Be downstairs in twenty minutes," he says, and leaves no room for argument. I nod, but he does not see.

When I am sure he is out of range, I let out my breath in a long, shaky sigh. "Shit," I hiss, and begin pacing the length of my room. I glimpse the drawing out of the corner of my eye, and I think of what it represents - to me, to my father - and suddenly I am consumed with anger. I grip the drawing viciously, not caring that I am crumpling it.

"Goddamn it!" I yell, and I realize I am already damned. I have been ever since I first touched Harry, first looked into his eyes and saw my own suffocating desire reflected there.

I crush the drawing in my fist and hurl it across the room, cursing my father, cursing Voldemort, even cursing Harry. Hands quivering, I walk to my bed and reach under the mattress for the flask I stashed there ages ago. Twisting off the cap and taking a long swig, I relish the burn as it travels down my throat and lands with a comforting tingle in my belly. This is no first-year contraband butterbeer - this was taken directly from Snape's personal store and is almost as potent as that swill Hagrid brews in his hut.

A few swallows later, I feel my courage return, and I go downstairs to meet my father.

In less than half an hour I find myself splayed out on a altar made of marble. It's bloody freezing, and I can feel the cold through my too-thin robe. Scores of death eaters are gathered around me, watching from behind their masks with a mixture of glee and envy. None of them got this elaborate production when they took their Marks. But then, none of them are Malfoys.

I hear the rustle of cloaks around me and I try to turn my head, forgetting for a moment that I am under a full body-bind charm to keep me from moving. Suddenly I see my father's face looming over me, his grey eyes full of fierce pride. And then Voldemort is there too, leering down at me with a reptilian grin. I thank god I am unable to grimace or cringe.

My mind wanders for a moment, and I wonder how the Mark is given. Voldemort holds up a wicked-looking iron brand, answering my question, much to my dismay.

He looks at my father who nods and clears his throat expectantly.

"Do you, Lucius Malfoy, dedicate your son, Draco Malfoy, in mind, spirit, and body to the efforts of the death efforts and into my service?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And do you pledge his loyalty to me until the end of his days, whenever that shall come?"

"I do, my lord."

"And do you bind him to fulfill the prophecy for which he is promised?"

"I do."

Voldemort once again leans over me, his crimson eyes gleaming like fire. "Then, Draco Malfoy, I bind you to my side and into my service. By accepting this Mark, you pledge your life to me and all I stand for."

I wish I could laugh at this, but my attention is drawn to the brand, which Voldemort is holding above his head. He begins chanting in a language I don't recognize, and slowly the end of the brand begins to glow like an ember. I can make out the skull and snake clearly as Voldemort grasps my arm in his slimy hand and lowers the brand.

Though my rational mind is anticipating the pain, my body is unprepared to deal with it. As soon as the brand hits my arm, searing spikes of pain shoot throughout my body, and I buck up off the table, in spite of the body bind. Voldemort makes no move to remove the brand, and my mind shifts into auto-pilot.

I begin to think of Harry, think of our last time together. I wish I could see him again before our final battle. I wish I could feel his lips on my throat, his hands on my back, his body pressed firmly against mine as we strive once again to become one person.

The pain doesn't seem so bad when I think Harry, and so I continueI imagine the things I would say to him if I could be with him right now - how I would say the words I could never say before, because I was too afraid or just too stupid. I imagine how I would touch him, how I would let him take me over and over until I forget my own name, forget who I am.

I am unable to hide my obvious arousal, and Voldemort, still pressing the brand into my flesh until I am sure it will burn clear through my arm, smirks down at me.

"So you enjoy pain, young Malfoy," he hisses, misinterpreting the bulge beneath my robe. His face twists into a parody of a lewd expression."You will serve us well."

I am sickened by his insinuation, but I am powerless to do anything about it. Finally, my brain registers relief, though it feels miles away, and he removes the brand from my throbbing arm. He stares down at me for a moment, and touches the Mark. I can feel blood there, and I wonder vaguely how long it will take to heal. His hands roam back up to my throat, where they linger for a minute, before he runs them down my chest and over my groin, where they linger even longer. There is a promise in his glowing scarlet eyes, and I want more than anything to look away, but I cannot.

Endless moments later, he removes the body-bind, and I sit up hesitantly, immediately cradling my arm, which pulses with dizzying pain. He says a few more words in the same unidentifiable language, and then my father takes me by the shoulder and guides me off the table. My legs are shaky, but I keep my footing and step down from the altar without looking at anyone or anything. The death eaters have begun talking amongst themselves, and I assume the ordeal is over.

I am actually looking forward to getting back to Malfoy Manor, and can think of nothing but falling into my bed and finishing off that flask. My father, apparently, has other plans.

"I am proud of you, Draco."

"Thank you, father," I say wearily.

"I am especially proud that you pleased our master," he adds, referring to my untimely reaction to my thoughts of Harry.

"Yes, father," I say, knowing there is no point in contradicting him. "All I want now is sleep."

"Yes well, I'm sure Lord Voldemort will make sure you get some tonight."

"What?" He couldn't possibly mean...

"You will remain here tonight Draco."

"No!" I say, and it is out of my mouth before I can stop it. He looks at me aghast, and pulls me aside so that no one will hear.

"Draco! You have found favor in the master's eyes. You will not jeopardize your position."

"But father..."

"No buts, Draco. You wanted this, and you will live with the consequences."

I open my mouth to tell him that I didn't have much choice in the matter, but I think better of it. He guides me to a doorway where Voldemort waits. With a sinking feeling, I realize that it leads to his personal rooms. He smiles lasciviously at me, and my skin crawls. I feel a firm shove from my father, and I stumble forward, bowing my head. Voldemort takes my hand, caressing the Mark with something akin to tenderness, and tugs me through the doorway.

I look back one final time and meet my father's eyes. For the first time in my life, I have made him truly proud. I swallow the ache in my throat and turn away, following my new master to his bed.

I am about my father's business.