Draco is hopelessly lost between what he is supposed to do, and what he wants to do. As the pressure from his father to follow in Lucius' footsteps grows heavier, and Draco's feelings for Harry grow stronger, Draco finds himself at a fork in the road.
Chapter 18
Chapter Summary:
Everyone deserves to be loved, even Draco Malfoy. But can he choose between what is right and what is expected of him?
Posted:
07/12/2003
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Author's Note:
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“You are sugar
you are spice
you are growing up so nice…
but you deserve to be loved
you deserve something real…
”
--Curtis Stigers “To Be Loved”
Draco returned from his skirmish with Blaise with bright cheeks whipped by cold and a body heavy with exhaustion. They went into the Great Hall, leaving wet tracks, and both slumped on to the table. Draco could see Harry, who was playing Wizard’s Chess with a Hufflepuff at the end of the table, out of the corner of his eye, and he smiled a little, but he was so tired it was all he could manage.
With a moan, he dropped his head to the table and teetered between consciousness and sleep until someone rapped him sharply on the shoulder.
“Mr. Malfoy, I need to speak with you,” McGonagall said shrilly. Draco moaned again and lifted his head.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Follow me,” she said sternly, but her face betrayed her confusion. Sighing, Draco pulled away from the table, and as they walked away, Harry watched them leave. When they had reached the corridor, McGonagall went straight for a fireplace that was enclosed and used to heat the foyer. Draco could now she that she carried something in her hands. “This is most unusual, but Professor Dumbledore received an urgent letter from a previously unknown relation. Have you ever heard of an Aunt Rinaldi?”
“Uh…I may have…” Draco lied, and McGonagall stopped in front of the fireplace.
“Well, this aunt requests your presence at your manor. I have been instructed to allow you to go.” She held out the jar she clasped in her hand, and Draco now saw that it was full of Floo Powder. Draco dipped his fingers in, stepped to the grate, threw them in, and stepped into the dancing flames.
“Malfoy Manor!” he shouted, and suddenly he was being whipped past wizarding fire after fire. There was barely enough time to wonder who this relation was before he was stumbling out of the lit fire in his expansive living room. Besides the now orange-red glow of the fire flickering warmly behind him, the entire manor was doused with darkness.
“Hello?” Draco called into the foyer, rubbing his arms. The manor was, as usual, incredibly cold and silent, void of people and feelings. It made him nauseous to think that his mother had died here. In the silence, he could almost hear echoing screams.
“Is anyone here?” he yelled, turning towards the bowels of the house. There was a noise behind him, and he whirled to face it, but saw nothing but shadows. Something similar to what he had felt when he had walked into the Great Hall the day he was told his mother died slammed into him, and for no reason but his instincts, Draco broke into a run, pelting for the door.
Hands reached out from the shadows and grabbed him, while a hand went to his mouth to stifle his yell of fear. He felt himself being picked up off the ground, and he began to fight furiously. One foot shot out and connected with someone, who let out a curse and dropped him.
With a sick thud, Draco’s head hit the marble of the front hall, and stars exploded in front of his eyes. For a moment, he lay stunned, the room swimming, and the sounds of someone cursing roared and whispered all at once.
When he tried to struggle to his feet, his head throbbed viciously and someone pushed him back down. This time, when his head hit the floor, his was out.
The scent of pine reached Draco’s nose when he awoke, his head feeling as if a war was going on inside it. He was being dragged by two people, whose faces were masked.
“What the bloody hell are you and where the bloody hell are you taking me?” Draco yelled, and then with a sudden dawning, he realized at least what the men were. “Death Eaters? Where is my father?” he yelled, but the men took no notice of his yells, instead dragging him deeper into the forest. A quick glance around told Draco it was the same forest he used to play hide and seek with his mother when he was younger. The fond memory made his eyes water.
But there would be no more time for nostalgia as Draco was practically thrown to the ground when they reached a clearing. The sudden movements made the soldiers in his head brandish their rusty swords.
“Ah, Mr. Malfoy,” a quiet voice said above him. The very sound sent shivers up Draco’s aching back. Against his better judgment, he looked up at the man now standing over him.
The stark white skin, red eyes and snake-like nose of Voldemort were directly over him, and he swallowed his yell of fear. The Death Eaters standing in the tight circle seemed to be watching him, and Voldemort chuckled.
“I’m sure you are surprised to join our little get-together. But you happen to be our guest of honor.” He turned towards a spot in the circle. “Lucius?”
Draco’s father, fully cloaked and carrying a box, stepped from his place in the circle until he was in front of Draco. He reached down with a free hand and seized Draco’s wrist, yanking him to his feet.
Anger overpowered Draco’s fear and he dove at Lucius. “Where were you? Mother is dead, and I sincerely doubt you had nothing to do with it!” Lucius was caught off-guard and fell back, tripping over the ridiculous robes and allowing his hood to fall back. A stone cold set of eyes watched as Draco was grabbed back by Death Eaters Voldemort had commanded to help.
“Ah, yes, Narcissa,” Voldemort chimed. Draco turned to him, his hair sticking out oddly and his face red with anger. “She became a bit of a problem, but it has since been rectified.”
“You bastard,” Draco hissed, still held back by the Death Eaters.
“You don’t mean that, do you, Draco?” Voldemort whined, sounding like a child. “Because today you get your Christmas present!” He nodded at Lucius, as if this was a cue, and Lucius opened the box.
Lying on dark velvet was a dagger in a sheath, bejeweled with the Malfoy insignia, a frosted black glass bottle, and a soft cloth. It took a few moments for what the contents meant to dawn on Draco as the box was passed from Lucius to Voldemort.
He was being initiated. ‘Mother!’ he silently screamed as Voldemort lifted up the bottle.
“This might burn just a little,” he said, with a wry smile, and Lucius reached out and gripped Draco’s arm. In one swift movement, he’d ripped open Draco’s sleeve, exposing the snow white skin to the cold December air. He held the forearm up, and Voldemort covered it in the potion.
It felt as if hell had come in that bottle and it was now seeping into every pore on Draco’s arm. He gasped, his throat too tightly seized for a scream, and tried to twist it away, but Lucius held firm. Voldemort drew out his wand, knowing the pain Draco was in and taking his dear, sweet time, and pointed it at the arm. He whispered a few words and suddenly the skin began to twist and dance and darken as Draco desperately tried to yank his arm back. The Death Eaters around him also began to grab at their forearms, as if they were in pain, too.
When Voldemort finally pulled his wand away, there was a dark tattoo standing out vibrantly from Draco’s glistening skin. Lucius again poured more of whatever was in that bottle onto the fresh tattoo. Then he released his son’s arm.
Finally, Draco could fall back and clutch his arm. But Voldemort was far from finished. “Stand and greet your new brothers!” he commanded. For a split second, Draco considered pulling out his wand and cursing everyone present, but calm settled over him. This is exactly what Dumbledore wanted, was it not? He was now in the thick of it all.
Slowly, he got to his feet. Then he turned to Voldemort and bowed, murmuring, “Forgive me for my impertinence.” Voldemort allowed him to stay in the position while he addressed the surrounding Death Eaters.
“The times of triumph draw near. As we have more and more wizards and witches join our ranks, our army becomes stronger than Dumbledore’s and the Ministry’s. Soon we shall defeat those who dare oppose us.”
This must’ve been a signal the meeting was over, because the clearing was suddenly filled with the sounds of wizards dissaperating. Voldemort exited, and soon Draco and Lucius stood in the clearing.
“I made a vow to kill all those who oppose the Dark Lord. She didn’t want you involved. I see now that you do want to join. Sometimes, you must kill those who you love for the greater good of the cause. She lost the way, Draco. I can’t change that.” He reached into the box and drew out the dagger. “This is yours now. It has been passed from Malfoy to Malfoy, and now it is up to you to carry on the family name.”
The dagger rested heavily in Draco’s palms, and he slipped it into his robe pocket. “I will see to it that I do. Now I must return. Dumbledore is bound to be suspicious soon.” Lucius nodded curtly and with a faint ‘pop’ he was gone. Draco turned and pulled out his wand, and whispered, “Point me!”
He spent the night in the manor, lying on the couch his mother used to sit with him when he was a child, and read him stories about adventuring wizards and witches. In the morning, he found his mother’s broom, and flew down to the Owl Post office, and sent a letter off to Dumbledore, telling him he’d be back later that day. Upon returning to the manor, he made himself breakfast and began to rummage through his mother’s things.
Finally, he found what he was looking for. Buried under the mountains of clothes that she would never wear again was a leather notebook. Draco slowly undid the single cord of leather that bound it and opened it.
His mother’s journal. She had been keeping it since she was a girl, and now it was incredibly thick and heavy and full of the information Draco craved to know. He skipped past her childhood to his birth date. In beautiful script, she relived the labor, and had attached a small picture of him, now yellowing. Every moment I can, I get up to look at my beautiful baby boy. He still has his innocence, and is not yet tainted with the coldness I feel more and more from Lucius every day. Were it in my power, I would shelter this child from all the wrongs that will befall him someday. These times are too rough for something so precious and small. Draco ran his fingers over the words, feeling tears prick his eyes.
But he was done with crying. He walked to the fireplace and lit a fresh fire, praying that once he left, it would whip through the house and level it so he would never have to come here again. Clutching the journal in one hand, he threw in a pinch of Floo Powder and stepped into the warm flames. “Hogwarts!”
Seconds later, he stumbled from the fireplace in the Great Hall. He had arrived right in the middle of lunch, and every head swiveled towards him. Discreetly hiding the torn sleeve from prying eyes, he glanced at Harry, who was watching him.
All of a sudden, Draco hated him. He hated the fact that he knew Harry was reading him like an open book and knew that those eyes were asking him to spill everything. But Draco held up his hand, signaling he wanted to talk to no one. Harry jolted, and made to stand and follow Draco, but Draco scowled and raced from the Great Hall.
He wanted, more than anything, to crawl into the bathroom, curl up on the floor, and cry. He threw the journal onto his bed and fell into the bathroom, magically sealing it from anyone who tried to enter.
When he went to curl up, something hit him sharply in his side. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the dagger. Slowly, he unsheathed it, staring in wonder at the sharp, unforgiving blade. In a sudden burst of insanity—or was it Draco finally being sane?—he lifted his robe up to reveal his stomach. The unmarred skin gleamed up at him, and he touched the tip of the blade to just above his navel.
Something deep inside Draco pulled his arm to the side, dragging the tip across the skin. Draco marveled at how the skin depressed and tore under the point, and how the blood swelled and chased the tip. It hurt like hell, but it was welcome. It was a signal that Draco was alive and still had nerve endings that hadn’t died this year.
Late into the night, Draco carved into his skin, until he finally dropped the dagger in disgust. He conjured bandages and wrapped them tightly around his stomach. He crawled into his bed, his stomach aching, and fell into a troubled sleep.
He took comfort in knowing the pains he had inflicted upon himself that night would, unlike the wounds in his soul, soon heal.