Chapter 12
Draco tilted the wine glass in his hand, the deep red of the wine gleaming like blood under the light of the floating wizard's lantern. He leaned back in his chair, legs crossed gracefully, but his cold gaze revealed no sign of relaxation.
Opposite him, Blaise Zabini gave a faint smile, raising his glass to clink with Pansy Parkinson’s. The sound of the toast echoed softly in the tense air. Theo Nott, sitting next to them, remained silent, but his narrowed eyes held an unreadable intent.
"So, I suppose no one got thrown out of a window by a Disapparating charm today?" Blaise spoke, breaking the silence. "A rare peaceful day in our world, it seems."
Theo Nott raised an eyebrow, sneering. "Peaceful? Do you know that my father came home yesterday looking like he'd been attacked by a flock of Snidgets? The Death Eaters outside sure know how to highlight their own misery."
Draco said nothing. He gently swirled the wine in his glass, his eyes skimming the heavy atmosphere like a sharp blade. It seemed he wasn’t interested in the surrounding chatter. In fact, he didn’t understand the frustration his father had caused. Such matters, even if family affairs, were no different from pieces on a political chessboard. He could feel the weariness spreading through every cell of his body, but he couldn’t let go, couldn’t retreat. Theo’s light mockery didn’t bother him. He was far too accustomed to these games.
"I’m not sure they’ll have enough time to feel ashamed," Theo said, his voice low and soft, almost like a whisper of a secret. "With the way things are going, I think my father will soon become the next 'hero' thrown into Azkaban."
Pansy raised an eyebrow. "Oh, well, I suppose he should prepare a speech. 'I was just following orders,' sound familiar?"
Draco exhaled, setting his glass down on the table. "My father never needs to give a speech." His voice was cold but firm, as if cutting through the mocking atmosphere. "He’ll do whatever it takes, and he knows that."
He couldn’t help but feel a mix of pride and bitterness in those words. His father, despite being entangled in Death Eater meetings, maintained his power through ruthlessness and strong alliances. But Draco knew all too well that such ruthlessness would never be enough to protect them from the downfall they were facing. He was merely an observer, but the price for his indifference would be steep.
Blaise shook his head, raising his glass as though toasting. "Honestly, sometimes I think those Death Eater meetings out there are just one big family gathering. What’s different than them trying to see who can flatter the Dark Lord best?"
"Don’t forget the crying and begging performance," Theo added, smirking. "My father said that last week a guy was hit with Crucio just because he didn’t smile wide enough when the Dark Lord told a joke. Truly a masterpiece of theatre."
His words only thickened the oppressive atmosphere. Draco’s friends knew full well the meaning behind those remarks, but none dared ask further.
Draco scoffed, his gray eyes flashing with derision. "Maybe I should invite them to Hogwarts. I heard Potter and his friends could really use some acting lessons. At least they could learn how to pretend to be intelligent."
Blaise burst out laughing, almost spilling his wine. "Potter? Are you joking, Draco? If he tried acting, I’d bet the entire audience would Disapparate to escape the performance."
Theo eyed Draco with curiosity. "What about you, Draco? What will you do when all this nonsense ends? Become the leader, or continue being the sharp observer you are?"
Draco didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back, his eyes fixed on the wine in his hand. His friends’ comments were nothing but empty jabs, but they didn’t make him feel anything. He was used to their scorn. "I’ll do what I do best," he said, his voice low and filled with meaning. "Stand back and watch them destroy themselves. And when everything falls apart, I’ll be the only one left standing."
Blaise lifted his glass, his voice soft but just as mocking. "Sounds like a perfect plan, Draco. Just make sure your perfect hair doesn’t get any blood on it."
Draco glanced at Blaise, his lips curling into a smirk. He didn’t need to prove anything. He would simply stand still and observe, waiting. "Don’t worry, Blaise. If I get blood on me, it’ll definitely be someone else’s, not mine."
–––––––––
A chill swept over Draco. He couldn’t tell what was real and what was illusion. His eyes opened, but he couldn’t see anything but the thick darkness. He felt every breath he took, each heartbeat pounding in his head, rapid and heavy. The feeling was familiar, as if he had been here, in this space, for a long time.
Every time he closed his eyes, Draco couldn’t escape the memory of the day he was marked—the day his life took a turn that could never be undone. Those memories were not distant or faded. They were sharp, intense, and painful, like a deep cut into his soul.
~~~~~~~~
The day was gloomy, the thick clouds rolling past, casting shadows over the Malfoy manor. A sense of unease hung in the air, everything too silent, no one spoke, but there was a heaviness that couldn’t be described. Draco stood in the room, looking at the silhouette of his father, standing by the window, his eyes cold as if nothing could shake him.
His mother stood nearby, her hands clenched, fingers pale. Her gaze was filled with deep concern for Draco, but she didn’t speak, only remaining silent as though she knew that no words could change the situation. And Draco, though aware of his mother’s worry, couldn’t feel any comfort from her. His heart felt heavy, as though he were drowning in a cold sea.
Then, the ghostly figure appeared. Voldemort. Never before had Draco felt Voldemort’s presence so sharply as he did now. He didn’t need to say anything, only stood in the dark room, the weak light from the candles reflecting off his skin, highlighting his blood-red eyes full of death. Draco could feel the icy cold from those eyes, from Voldemort’s sharp breath, as if he was standing before an unstoppable storm.
Voldemort’s voice, cold and slow, echoed in the space. "Draco Malfoy, come here."
Just a short sentence, yet heavy as a death sentence. Draco couldn’t resist, his body seemingly hypnotized, each step feeling like it was leading him into an endless pit. He knew this wouldn’t end well.
As he neared Voldemort, Draco felt an intense pull from those red eyes, seeping into him, making it hard to breathe. The sensation of being trapped, unable to escape. Each passing second, his heart thudded in his chest, but no one could hear it.
Voldemort extended his hand, his fingers long and bony, like dry branches. "We will perform the ceremony now."
Draco stared at that hand, his eyes wide. He would be marked. The Dark Mark. There was no escaping it.
"No..." Draco whispered, but it was a faint murmur, not enough to be heard.
Then suddenly, a burning sensation overtook his body. It felt like thousands of sharp needles piercing his skin, and he felt as though he was being consumed by fire. The mark appeared on his arm, its blackness glowing, as if burning into his flesh, impossible to erase, impossible to forget.
The pain was indescribable. He wanted to scream, but his mouth was sealed, no sound could escape. Cold sweat poured from every pore, his body trembling, his limbs stiff like stone. All that was left was the agony and deep fear. He knew he was no longer himself.
Narcissa, his mother, seemed to collapse, unable to approach. Her high-pitched sobs echoed, but Draco couldn’t react. The feeling of helplessness made him want to explode. Why? Why him? Why his family?
Lucius stood there, unmoving. He just watched Draco, his eyes empty, as though he had grown too accustomed to the price that had to be paid. No words of comfort, no actions to show concern for his son. He simply stood by, holding his wife steady, frowning slightly when the snake began to appear on Draco’s arm. His brow furrowed, lips pressed tight; this was what he had to accept for failing his mission.
Voldemort ran his fingers over the Dark Mark on Draco’s arm, then turned and walked away, leaving Draco in his pain. No more words were needed. Everything was clear.
~~~~~~~~
He vividly remembered the cold sweat dripping down as the footsteps of the Death Eaters echoed through the long hallway of Malfoy Manor. The scene felt like a nightmare, and he knew it would haunt him forever.
The door to the room opened, and they stepped in, each face cold and emotionless. Among them was Bellatrix Lestrange, her eyes sharp as a hawk’s, her demeanor maddened as though she had lost all humanity. The others were Death Eaters too, the ghosts who had always been absent from Draco’s world, but now they were the ones he couldn’t avoid.
Draco stood still, watching silently from afar as the torture began. He had seen these things many times before, but this time was different. It wasn’t just observing from the outside, it was participating, even if he was only a witness.
They had brought in an innocent man, someone Draco didn’t know by name. He was bound to a wooden chair, his panicked eyes unable to see anything, but his mouth still breathed, struggling to stay awake. Draco felt a tightening in his chest, as if he had known something terrible was coming.
Bellatrix stepped forward, her hands outstretched as if preparing for some ancient ritual. Draco couldn’t take his eyes off what was about to happen. She began chanting the curse into the air, the words so sharp that they made the very atmosphere feel suffocating. Immediately, the man began convulsing, his screams echoing through the room, making it heavy and oppressive.
Draco could only stand there, his body stiffening. The feeling of helplessness surrounded him. Even if he wanted to stop it, he couldn’t do anything. Each scream, every twitch of the man’s body felt like a knife piercing Draco’s heart, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
“Do you feel the pain?” Bellatrix asked in a hoarse voice, as though relishing in her cruelty. Her fingers tightened around the man’s neck, her slender fingers curling as though she wanted to crush him.
“P...l...ease... don’t...” The man pleaded, but Bellatrix showed no mercy. She continued to use her magic to torture him, without a hint of pity. His desperate pleas seemed to disappear into the dark space forever.
A numbness spread through Draco’s body. At this moment, he could only stand there, his eyes empty, witnessing each agonizing second the man endured. The man’s convulsions felt like a storm ripping through Draco’s soul, making his heart feel as though it was being crushed.
“You can watch,” Bellatrix continued, “but don’t expect any mercy. They are just sheep in our hands.”
A chill ran down Draco’s spine. He could barely breathe, as though the air in the room was becoming increasingly suffocating. The nightmare was not just the screams, but the realization of the brutality he was being forced to witness — a truth he could not deny.
Once the man fell unconscious, Bellatrix signaled to another Death Eater. They dragged him away, uncaring, leaving no trace of life behind. Draco couldn’t stop staring at where the man had been, his empty eyes and frail body now drained of all strength.
“This is our life, Draco,” Lucius Malfoy’s voice broke the silence, his tone calm, entirely at odds with the horrific scene. “You’ll have to learn to accept it.”
Draco felt something catch in his throat. He wanted to resist, to scream for it all to stop, but everything felt like a wave rising and quickly crashing down. Helplessness engulfed him. He couldn’t fight back, couldn’t change anything. He could only stand there, eyes downcast, feeling parts of his humanity being buried.
When the torture ended, Draco was left alone in the vast room. His hands still trembled, and a part of him knew he had been drawn into a world from which he could not escape. He was not a warrior, not someone who could change everything. He was just a child trapped in the game of the cruel.
That night, Draco couldn’t sleep. The man’s screams, his desperate eyes, kept swirling in his mind. But he couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t change anything.
–––––––––
Draco jerked awake from a terrible nightmare, his heart pounding in his chest, as though it no longer belonged to him. The pale light of dawn filtered through the window, casting its glow on the cold room, but it couldn’t chase away the darkness in his mind. The suffocating, horrifying feeling still clung to Draco. He gasped for breath, sweat soaking his forehead and body, uncontrollable tremors wracking his frame, as though he hadn’t yet escaped that nightmare.
He raised his hand, hurriedly touching his face, wanting to dispel the haunting images still lingering in his head. The man’s screams, his pale, agonized face, wouldn’t leave his thoughts. Draco tried to take a deep breath, but every time he tried to calm himself, it felt as if an invisible hand was tightening around his chest, suffocating each breath.
“No...” Draco whispered, trying to push those memories out of his mind. But the nightmare kept coming alive, drowning him in an unseen fear. The pain of the man, the desperate pleas that no one heard, all seemed to awaken memories Draco couldn’t forget.
He sat up in bed, his eyes wide but seeing nothing clearly. Everything in the room seemed blurry and distant. Reality now was no longer the salvation he sought; it was just a pale imitation of what he had just endured. Draco knew that, no matter how hard he tried, that memory would never let him go. Those images would haunt him forever.
He looked out the window, where the first light of a new day was still weak. A cold sensation swept over him as he remembered those gloomy summer days at the Malfoy Manor. His life had changed forever since the Malfoy family had been dragged into the war, since he had become a part of the bloody game that Voldemort and his cruel followers had started. Draco knew that he couldn’t escape, whether he wanted to or not. Every memory was like a scar, deeply engraved in his soul, and it would never fade.
Once again, Draco tried to breathe steadily. Last night, he had dreamt of tortures, screams, and figures he never wanted to see again. The helplessness of witnessing such brutality, knowing he couldn’t do anything to change it. The nightmare was not just a memory of the past days; it was the fear of what he could become if he stayed in this world.
He looked at his hand, clenched tightly as if to push away everything that clung to his mind. But it was futile. The coldness of the Killing Curse, the brutality of the Death Eaters, all haunted him. He had seen too much death, too much pain, and he knew too well that there was nothing he could change.
Draco lowered his head, his shoulders shaking as though he was bearing an invisible burden. Those memories were like ghosts, always following him in each step. He could run, but he could never escape them. And whether he wanted to or not, he knew he would have to continue living in this nightmare — not just in his dreams, but in reality.
He stood up, stepping away from the bed, his legs threatening to give way under the weight of his thoughts. Draco knew he couldn’t let the nightmares take over. But how could he escape when he himself was a part of them?