Pursuing Darkness: Imperfection

Soft snowflakes drifted gently downwards from the sky, catching in Draco Malfoy's delicate eyelashes. Standing a careful distance away from the Whomping Willow, he took in the scenery before him as he heard the soft crunches of footsteps behind him. The wind was gentle, blowing his robes out in a swath of black, but it was icy as well, and brought a pale pink to Draco's thin cheeks, normally so colourless. He looked up and shaded his eyes against the blotted sunlight, hanging low in the sky; muffled by the clouds, it still shone brightly, and had given the illusion of a warm day.

"Do you miss the sun?" came a soft, hesitant voice from behind the blond boy. He was not startled; he had sensed the other's presence.

"No," was Draco's calm reply. There was no hint of a chill in his voice, but no warmth, either.

"Did you miss me?"

"No," was the answer, full of distance and apathy.

"Liar," was the terse retort, though behind it laid a faint and wary tone. At this, Draco turned to face his lover.

"Who are you to call me a liar, Percy Weasley?" he hissed, eyes narrowed with malice. He paused to note that Percy was not looking at him directly, and savoured the moment. Percy rarely looked at him; it gave Draco the feeling of dominance. Draco felt guilt and pride rise up inside his chest. He relished in that feeling, the wonder of pain and glory, and the elation in the deep regret.

"Then who are you to lie to me, Draco Malfoy? I missed you, and I'm not afraid to admit it." Inwardly, Draco smiled wickedly. Percy's voice was prim, as to be expected, and full of pride. He was so sweetly predictable that it made Draco want to hit him. Of course, he never did so; there were far worse things he could do, and both Draco and Percy knew this.

Carefully, Draco turned back around, facing the sun once more.

"I had barely noticed you were gone." The hurt was coming off Percy in waves; it gave Draco a deep sense of satisfaction, and an even deeper feeling of his own pain. He could feel the hesitance in Percy's movement as the redhead came to rest beside him.

Draco took Percy by the hand, which would have been an endearing gesture, but it was only cruel coming from the blond.

"What do you want for Christmas, pet?" Draco asked. Still, only more torture; Draco knew this, and he revelled in it and ached because of it.

"Christmas is months off," Percy answered curtly, but pain was audible in his voice.

"Almost a whole year," Draco added coolly. Percy's hand was like ice; the chill air left it red and raw. He was living away from his family, now, almost to the point where he had disowned his own parents: he had no extra money for mittens or scarves.

Percy winced, and Draco understood; they both knew the gesture was not meant to be sweet or caring. Once again, he was looking elsewhere, avoiding Draco's gaze. This gave Draco an immense amount of pleasure, mixed with an immense amount of pain.

"Humour me," Draco said, keeping his voice vacant and his eyes distant. He didn't want Percy to believe he cared. He didn't care. He couldn't, and he wouldn't.

"I think you already know, Draco," Percy said, still as proud as ever. There was a pause, in which Draco sniffed disapprovingly. The air was sharp and cold, hinting of a freezing night yet to come, but he could also pick out a faint smell of cinnamon and dust: Percy, of course.

"You," Percy said softly at length. Draco could sense that Percy was holding himself back; it was clear in his stiffness. "It's why I came back. You know how dangerous it is for me-"

"And I suppose it isn't dangerous for me?" Draco cut him off with a sharp tone, turning to face the redhead. Of course, he knew that this wasn't what Percy had meant, but he didn't care.

It had taken longer this time, but Percy began to splutter, like he always did when he was nervous. "Well - of course that... that isn't - I didn't m-m... It's just...." His voice failed as Draco turned away from him.

The blond boy was playing it up, and he knew just how to do it. After almost seven years of practice at Hogwarts, and a lifetime as a Malfoy, pushing Percy's buttons was an effortless task, and it gave him a deep and glorious sense of pride and satisfaction; at the same time, it left his very soul - if he had one, that is - throbbing in anguish. Deep down, Draco knew why, but he refused to admit that to himself, or to anyone else.

"But I'm the one who turned, Draco," Percy whispered, so soft that Draco could barely hear him.

The option of getting angry was quickly turned down by the blond boy. That was too easy. He turned once more to face his lover. "Yes, you did, pet," he replied, his tone almost cooing. "You did that just for me, didn't you?"

"Yes," came the reply Draco had expected; he knew the answer, and he loved it, and he loathed it. "Please, Draco-"

"What?" Draco snapped. Inwardly, he felt his heart wrench.

"Tell me you... you didn't...." Percy trailed off as tears filled his eyes. Draco faltered, but only slightly. He hadn't expected this, but he could work with it.

"You think I'm with you just for that reason?" he asked, unable to keep even the slightest amount of sympathy out of his voice. He chided himself, annoyed at his lack of control.

At last, Percy met Draco's cool gaze full on. Tears were spilling over onto his cheeks, so thin and pale. His eyes were bright and full of pain, and anger, and... fear.

Draco could hardly bear it; he wanted to embrace his lover, stroke his hair, tell him everything would be all right. But he couldn't - he mustn't. Instead, he watched as Percy pulled up his sleeve to look at the Dark Mark that now lay on the inside of his forearm, burned into his flesh.

"I went against my beliefs for you, Draco," Percy began softly, staring down at his wrist, marred forever by the evil that just wasn't in him, wasn't a part of him. Not like Draco - Draco had to be evil, it was in his blood. He felt pain searing through his veins, fighting against his own evil, burning through it as Percy continued, "I went against my family, everything I've known, everything I could've been-" Percy's voice trembled and broke, and he sank to his knees in the cold, cold snow, shaking and sobbing with grief.

Draco didn't know what to do. He had never been placed in this situation - someone was crying over him. Not because of him, not really.... But it was Draco's fault, wasn't it? Cautiously, the blond boy knelt, level with his lover.

"Percy," he began softly, unsure. "Percy, don't cry... please don't cry."

Again, Percy lifted his eyes to meet Draco's, and the heartbreaking gaze wrenched something out of Draco. Suddenly, all his thoughts and feelings were pouring out of him.

"Percy, Percy, I'm so sorry, Percy. I don't know what I've done, and I don't know what you've done to me - I was supposed to be Lucius Malfoy's son, cruel and cold-hearted, but I can't! You're here and you're crying, please don't. Percy, please, don't cry, it hurts me too. You have no idea... no idea how much I've wanted to just hold you, and have you embrace me back, and.... I think you love me, Percy, and I've thought that for awhile, but... but I think I love you too-" Draco stopped the flow of words at this, his declaration, and his total loss of all control. Control over himself, and worse, control over Percy. This was not how it was supposed to work - he wasn't supposed to let this happen.

"You love me?" Percy asked, but his tone was not surprised, nor shocked. It was almost - mocking. Draco could not deny it; the truth was out in the open.

"Yes, Percy, I think I do," he replied softly, wishing with all his might that he didn't. He was Draco Malfoy, cruel and cunning, only out for himself, just like any proper Slytherin. Yet here he was, falling for a Gryffindor - worse yet, a Weasley.

Percy began to laugh. It was a cutting, horrid, ugly sound, and it was nothing like Percy at all. And just as Draco noticed the faint smell of cinnamon and dust was fading, something began to happen.

"Percy? What's wrong?" Draco demanded, trying to retain any chill left in his voice.

But Percy didn't answer; he was doubled over with heartless laughter. His hood had fallen over his head, concealing his body, his face... and Draco was worried. "Percy, stand up, please, let me see you-"

And Percy listened. He stood fully upright, but he had lost his towering, gangling height. His vibrant red hair had been replaced with a pale mouse-brown colour. He had lost his freckles, each one that Draco had known so well, and his cheeks were plump and full of colour.

Draco went numb.

"You didn't think it was actually him, did you?" asked Peter Pettigrew, who couldn't hide the pleasure in his voice. "You didn't think he'd give up the good side, let alone his family, did you?" he cackled. "'Oh, Percy, sweet Percy, I'm rotten, but you'll still love me, won't you?'" he mocked. His watery eyes ran over Draco's face.

"Don't be so shocked," he spat. "You think we let young people in without a test? You lot aren't good enough to be bad."

Rage was building within Draco, and this time he bit back. "Oh, I've heard of you, Pettigrew, and your antics. Or should I say... Wormtail?" he hissed, eyes narrowed to slits and shooting daggers. "And I suppose you think you're going to carry on our Lord's kingdom? I doubt that would ever happen - it's enough to make anyone's blood curdle. Not mention Harry Potter will run you through before you can say, 'Crucio!'"

While Pettigrew had been listening with dark amusement in his beady eyes, Draco had slipped out his wand. The man was now on his side, screaming wild, high-pitched screams. He clawed at his face, pulled at his hair. Tears burned their way down his face. He reached out a silver hand to Draco -

"Now who's the one begging?" Draco asked softly, voice colder than the snow that Pettigrew was writhing in. "You want me to stop, Wormtail? I always knew you were weak, unfit to serve our Lord." Draco cut off his will.

The man lay in the snow, trembling and whimpering.

"Get out of my sight, before I change my mind," Draco spat. He watched as Pettigrew struggled to his feet, and stumbled hurriedly away. He was limping severely, looking like an old and diseased beggar. Draco smiled inwardly, remembering that it was impossible to Apparate from Hogwarts. The pathetic man would have to struggle through the snow until it was possible for him to Apparate to safety.

Once the man was out of his sight, Draco collapsed into the snow, from anger and rage, exhaustion, and pain. The pain hurt the most; it dug into him and pulled outward, inward, everywhere. The snow was cold, and it numbed his skin, but it was better than the bitter heat that was waving over him. He shook and heaved and wretched, though no real tears made it to his eyes; they were too cold, too icy, and the tears would never melt. At last, he pulled himself up from the snow and took a deep breath. He pushed all the memories of Percy Weasley - of Wormtail - down and the broken pieces of what had become familiar to him aside, down, away, anywhere else, so he would no longer be reminded of them. In their place grew the familiar feelings of hate, bitterness, and cruelty. His jaw was set, his eyes cooler than they had ever been.

He had almost grasped on to what life was really like. That part of him had been torn away forever. Now, he was ready.

He was a true Death Eater.