An Ideal Death-Eater

Author's Note: This is a particularly sinister chapter. Warnings for torture and dark themes. The linked pictures I only thought necessary to avoid being peppered with questions from people who don't know what certain objects are, or what they are used for. I apologise if it seems a bit heavy-handed to some of you.

"Be still, be calm, be quiet now, my precious boy.
Don't struggle like that or I will only love you more.
For it's much too late to get away or turn on the light.
The spiderman is having you for dinner tonight."

~ The Cure - Lullaby

"Father, I don't understand why we have to do this now."

Draco Malfoy stood in the middle of his father's study, covered in chain mail with an ornate billhook in one hand. The mid-afternoon sun was bright and it bathed him in gold as he paced across the basket-weave parquet flooring.

"You must know how to defend yourself properly if the time ever comes that you can not use magic."

"But these are Muggle weapons, and ancient ones at that." Draco looked down at the pole in his hand, his brows furrowed with contempt. "It isn't very likely I'll be able to get my hands on a billhook in the middle of a fight. Besides, I hardly think it appropriate to be cowering behind metal chain like a frightened child."

"Your opinion on the subject matters little. You will do this. Now, disarm me if you can." Lucius sniffed, holding his mace slightly to the side. Full metal plate armour gleamed with fresh polish over his father's torso and Draco felt it wasn't fair that he only had a tunic of mail for protection against his father's spiked mace.

What a way to spend the holidays.

He desperately longed for one of the ‘Earl and Flicks's Menthol cigarettes - with new and improved Calming Charm!' that resided in his trouser pocket. It was the only way he had found to be even close to normal again, especially since coming home.

Draco acknowledged his father with a curt nod and darted forward, catching the mace's tipped end between the spike and hook of his weapon and wrenched it out of his father's grip just as the man was about to swing. This took his father by surprise, but it didn't show on his face. It never would.

Fluidly, Draco threw the mace behind him and with the same movement curved his hook somewhere under the side joints of Lucius' breastplate, pulling the man to the floor.

Placing one foot on his father's chest, Draco dipped a hand into the rough linen tunic under his mail and pulled out a misericorde, hovering the stiletto over Lucius' heart.

"Do you yield?" he asked the traditional words without a hint of emotion in his voice.

Lucius' eyebrows rose and he nodded, sitting up. One corner of his mouth jerked up in what, for him, would be a smile. "Maybe there is hope for you yet."

"Thank you, Father. Do I have your permission to withdraw?"

"Not just yet, there are some matters I must discuss with you." He stood from the floor and walked over to his desk, sitting behind it but making no motion for Draco to take a seat himself.

"After you leave school in June, there are two things that will happen. One is your marriage, of which you were already aware. But the second is something I've only recently been able to discuss with My Lord. He has agreed to accept you into the ranks of the Death Eaters early."

Draco's eyes widened and Lucius took this as a sign of surprise, rather than the anger it really was.

"Yes, I know. You are still very young yet. But as a favour to me, the Dark Lord has consented to my request to have you join us immediately upon finishing school."

Thoughts swirled through Draco's mind; along with emotions he didn't know he was capable of having. A Death Eater? He had always known that he was to be married immediately after graduation to a Rosier cousin whose name he didn't even know, to produce more heirs for the thinning Malfoy herd. Now this? Was he to have no freedom or would he be forced to bow to the demands of master after master his entire life? Draco made himself keep a neutral face about the matter and swallowed hard.

"I am . . . honoured, Father. However, I have no wish to join the Death Eaters at any time in the future. I'm sure that you understand."

If it wasn't possible before for someone's face to turn black, Lucius made the exception.

"Understand? You're honoured? There is no choice in this, Draco. You will be a Death Eater. You were written in as a future member of our ranks the day you were born!"

Lucius' eyebrows were beetled into a single line over his forehead and the normal pallor of his skin was blotchy and unrecognisable. Draco kept a firm reign on himself to keep from taking a step back.

"Father, I— "

"You disgust me!" Lucius stood up. "Remove your shirt and wait for me in the Chamber."

"Father, if you'll let me explain— "

"Another sound from you and it will be an extra twenty." Lucius stated more calmly than before, looking down his nose at the boy. "The Chamber, now."

Draco didn't dare say anything further, but walked with steady, deliberate steps out of the room and down the hall into the Chamber.

Long ago, when Malfoy Manor was built, one of the very first rooms completed was a torture chamber leant out to priests during the Inquisition.

Although it started in Spain, the movement spread rapidly through Europe and across the Channel into the British Isles. The first Malfoys of the area had brought their beloved customs with them from France, as they were priests whose loyalties had lain with those who were persecuting their own people. Malfoys always had been ones to save their own skins first and those of others later if at all. Wizards and witches by the score were brought into the Manor to be stretched, burned, shorn, and often buried in unmarked graves on the land if they didn't confess their ‘sins'.

Now the youngest master of this house looked around him at the various implements of torture and wondered which his father would use this time. It had been almost six months since he had displeased his father so badly. The spider incident, as Draco lovingly referred to it, was the first and last time he'd set foot in this room.

Draco quickly took off the heavy chain mail and the linen tunic underneath, which left him to face the chill in only a pair of trousers. Perhaps that was part of the torment. Lucius strode through the door just as Draco was placing his shoes and dagger on a stray chair.

"Which is it to be tonight, boy?"

Draco didn't allow his shoulders to fall, but raised his head firmly and walked around the room. It seemed that he was to pick out his own method of punishment tonight.

He walked by the Catherine Wheel and tongue stretchers; thumbscrews weren't painful enough, and Father would punish him more severely if he took the coward's way out. Water torture: that would suffice. He pointed at the contraption and Lucius shook his head.

"You could be drowned. How would I explain that to the Dark Lord?"

Draco frowned and continued to walk along the narrow pathways past various instruments of pain. Punishments seemed even more unbearable when he had to deliberate like this instead of getting it over with. But Lucius enjoyed the ritual of it all; it comforted him as mulled wine on a cold night heartened most.

"The Hot Seat?" Draco asked.

"Don't be daft, I want heirs from you someday."

Torture could be a very tricky process. Too much pressure one way or another and the victim was either dead or horribly mutilated. Lucius had no use for a crippled son, and too many uses for a dead one. Charms to cover scars and to seal wounds came in useful at the Malfoy ‘home'. Then again, some of the marks he made couldn't be concealed.

Lucius sighed in exasperation and picked up a pair of thumbscrews. "These will have to do; I don't have all night to be about this. I'll just hang you by your fingers for a few hours and that should make up for it."

Draco's fingers were shoved between the spiked, metal plates and Lucius twisted the screws on each side until Draco's bones started to crunch and the pads turned purple. He bit back a gasp.

"Hmmn, on second thought, what would I do if you had no fingers? I'd best suspend you by the wrists instead."

The thumbscrews were released and Draco didn't dare rub his hands to bring back the feeling. A thick rope was tied around his wrists, the other end thrown over a rafter, and the ground was no longer under his feet as he was pulled up to hover over the floor by a few inches.

Lucius regarded him critically. "Twenty lashes. Then you may come down when you apologise and agree to fulfil your family obligations."

Draco rolled his eyes and held a tight rein on his vocal cords. His father seemed to enjoy flapping his lips; that was the real torture. Maybe if he bit his own lip it would keep the sarcasm in check and this would be over with soon.

The whip cracked and there was the even, fiery sting across his back that he remembered and loathed, yet craved at the same time. He had been content without it before, but now Draco realised that it was the only form of love he would ever receive from his father.

That was one . . .

*~*~*~*~*

"Mrs Weasley please, I can't eat another bite."

Molly sighed and put down her serving spoon. "If you say so, Harry. But you're terribly thin and I worry about you."

"Muuum! Harry'll throw up if you make him eat anymore. He's always been a skinny little bloke."

Harry sat up straighter and glared at Ron. "I may be a skinny bloke, but I'm hardly little, am I?"

"Well," Ron admitted. "I suppose not, seeing as how you're almost an inch taller than I am."

"More than an inch, I'm an inch and three-quarters over six." Harry smirked at Ron, very satisfied with himself and pleased by the fact that he could still act like a five year-old without cares on occasion.

"You are not!" Ron shouted, spewing kippers everywhere. "I'll kill Fred and George if you are."

"Yep, measured myself just last week." Harry crossed his arms smugly and lifted one corner of his mouth.

Ron looked at him witheringly. "I wasn't talking about your— "

"Ron!" Ginny gasped.

"What? I was going to say his shoe size."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Sure you were." She turned to their mother. "Speaking of, when are the twins going to be here, Mum?"

"Merlin only knows; they're still in America looking over new ideas for the shop, so they may not be here until Christmas Eve."

"Oh," Ginny clasped her hands together in an earnest way. "I hope they bring me something keen, you know they'll do their Christmas shopping there."

"Oh, I hope they'll bring me something keen!" Ron mocked in a high-pitched voice.

"Quiet you," Ginny swatted her older brother on the head. "Or I'll tell Charlie to keep the present he bought you for Christmas."

Ron's eyes lit up. "What is it? Tell me, tell me, tell me!"

Ginny crossed her arms and winked at Harry. "Harry knows, but I'm not saying a word about it. You'll have to wait until Christmas."

"Come on, Harry, tell me what it is."

Mrs Weasley smacked her son over the head with a wooden serving spoon. "Leave them alone. You'll find out on Christmas and not before." She stood up and smoothed down her wrinkled calico apron. "Now Charlie is Portkeying in tonight and I want you to leave him alone about your present. He‘s still recovering from that dreadful splinching incident a few days ago."

"Yes, Mum," Ron agreed, rubbing his head where the spoon had hit. "When are Dad and Perce going to be home today? I have this Muggle thing I picked up from one of our Muggle Studies trips to Snowdon last week and I want to show him."

Molly's face fell. "Percy won't be home today, and not for Christmas either. He's on an important business trip for the Ministry and won't be able to come."

Ginny sighed, "You mean we'll be missing two brothers this year?" Mrs Weasley nodded and Ron put his head over a fist.

"Rotten. I never thought I'd say this, but it won't seem the same without Percy here to bore everyone to death with his reports on cauldron thickness. And without Bill here, it‘s bound to be no fun."

Harry and Ginny murmured their agreement. Since Harry had spent his last two winter holidays with the Weasley clan, he had come to expect certain things: Fred and George to tease the girls, Charlie to talk about dragons and teach him some Quidditch moves, while Bill always managed to convince his parents to let everyone open presents early, and Percy— Well, it was always loads of fun to tease the poor boy about his unflagging devotion to the Ministry.

This Christmas was going to be terribly different.

*~*~*~*~*

"Are you ready to apologise, Draco?"

Lucius Malfoy stood beneath him, waiting expectantly for a reply. Draco carefully drew in a breath; if he hung here much longer, he would suffocate from his own body weight and the need to breathe would no longer exist.

"Sir, I apologise for my actions earlier. However, I still do not wish to become a Death Eater." What had possessed him to say that? He could have easily lied and found another way to get out of it later.

"Still the same." Lucius shook his head. "You are a stubborn boy, and I will break you eventually. Why don't I give you another hour or two to think about it?" He picked up the whip that had been discarded earlier. "And here is a little motivation to speed things along."

*~*~*~*~*

It had been six hours and Draco was still dangling over the intricately detailed stone floor. He had had much time to study the pattern and knew the way each piece fit into the next by heart. He looked up when Lucius came thundering into the room.

"Well?"

Draco tried to inhale in order to speak, but his breath was shallow at best, making his speech thin and strained. "Sir, I apologise for my actions— "

Lucius waved this away. "Save it, I've heard enough tonight. I'll be by in the morning to see if you have changed your mind."

Draco watched as his father walked away. There were many thoughts racing through his brain, but only one kept repeating itself.

He wouldn't be alive come morning.

The weight of his body was too much for his lungs to take and already it was agony to breathe enough to speak those words to his father. The bindings had worn away a good deal of his flesh and the blood that flowed caked his arms with long, brownish streaks.

It was time to make a decision.

With new-found strength, Draco started to swing his body backwards and forwards. If he could only reach the misericorde he had left on top of his tunic. The chair with his clothes was only just out of reach, the dagger glinting softly through the folds of cloth.

One mighty swing and Draco managed to hook his feet around the chair, arching his body to bring it closer. It dragged along the floor and he winced at the noise it made. Hopefully his father was already in bed and wouldn't hear.

It was there, just under his dangling legs and Draco stepped on the cushion, which supported him enough so that he was finally able to take a real breath. He stood there a moment, regaining strength, before he picked through the cloth with his feet and found the dagger.

Another moment went by as Draco thought of how he would manage to reach it with his hands and not use his fingers. He wrapped the dagger with his feet as best he could and kicked back on the chair, toppling it over and leaving him free to sway. The ropes bit into his wrists again and fresh blood flowed over the old.

He built momentum, bringing his feet a little closer each time until he was finally able to touch the blade with fingers blissfully numb from circulation loss. He knew that all his Seeker flexibility would come in handy one day. Draco wriggled his hands until he felt that the edge of the dagger was against the rope and moved his fingers carefully up and down.

A misericorde is long and thin, meant only to stab, so its edge is dull. But Draco kept working, and after what seemed an eternity, the final thread snapped and he was free.

The force of impact stunned him for a moment, and Draco found himself wondering if he would be able to stand, much less walk to his room. Arms, which had been above his head for hours, refused to come down and it took almost ten minutes just to keep his limbs from floating in the air when he relaxed them.

If he were found somewhere other than this room there would be hell to pay. But if he wasn't found at all . . . It was at this moment that Draco decided he had had enough. He wouldn't be a Death Eater, and he wouldn't be a pawn in his father's games any longer. Even being dead was preferable to that, however Draco had a very strong urge to live.

When he was able to put on the shirt, he did so and crept quietly out of the Chamber toward his room. His wand was lying where he had left it on the desk and he carefully pocketed it. The contents of his moneybag were emptied out on top of the bed and Draco frowned; fifty Galleons and a few Sickles wouldn't get him very far.

Draco ignored the money for the time being and proceeded to stuff a few items in a bag. He would buy food when he was gone; the house-elves would tell his father if they saw him in the kitchens. Wand, clothes, money . . . He needed more money.

Grabbing his Cloudstriker IV from the closet, Draco tiptoed his way through the narrow hallways to his father's study. The door was locked of course, but he knew the incantation and things proceeded without incident.

He knew that his father kept some money in his desk to give the elves when they went to market. The drawer was locked as well, but here Draco had a problem. He could always smash the top of the desk but that would be noisy and could take too much time. It was probably protected by a password, but what was it? Draco set down his broom and sat at the desk.

Knowing his father's turn of mind, he whispered several things before the phrase ‘Dark Mark' allowed him entry into the little stash. Draco's lips twisted wryly: how typical.

Draco stuffed several small leather bags into his pockets and was about to close the drawer before his eyes rested on a book: his father's journal. It was too good to pass up without taking a peek.

He read through a few boring passages, flipping the pages before he caught sight of his own name and started to shake as he scanned lines which had been penned only hours before.

Draco is becoming more difficult to control. I've been assured by My Lord that the Tir nOg curse does not wear off and can only be broken by phoenix tears. How likely is he to have crossed paths with a phoenix?

The boy is irritating beyond measure, and if My Lord were not in such need of him I would have drowned the brat years ago; I could always make more heirs. But My Lord has invested much time and effort in making sure that our line was bred to be the cream of humanity and thus I respect his decisions. Draco is the culmination of his dreams, and it honours me beyond measure that the Dark Lord has chosen my son to be his physical vessel for the new world about to be created.

I must remember to write back to that little poof from the Ministry. He becomes ‘desperate without my company'. What a sentimental idiot.

For a moment, Draco couldn't move. But then a noise from the hallway made him jump and he realised that his father was walking to the Chamber to check on him. Father had lied when he said that he wouldn't be back until morning just to scare him! But Draco didn't care that he had fallen for the bait and was even more determined than ever to get away.

He ripped the last page from the journal and stuffed it in a pocket to study later. The book itself went back to the drawer and he closed it carefully. Draco stood up, loaded down with his bag and gold, and opened the window. He mounted the broom and flew out into the cold night air. It was only when the wind started biting his toes that Draco remembered he hadn't put any shoes on.

Shoes could be procured, Draco thought and he turned the broom toward London.

Reviewing is good for your soul and mine, too! Don't you just feel the need to unburden yourself? I know you do.