The Plan
Draco knew in good conscience that the body-bind curse did not permit your ability to breathe; he had every capability of doing so. And yet here he stood, paralyzed by a spell and unable to breathe from fear. How could he breathe? Just half an hour ago he’d been hugging Harry Potter, and now his whole world, his life, had crumbled around him in seconds. He thought, briefly, that it was a dream. That he wasn’t actually frozen stiff and he could pull the door closed, open it again, and all these people would be gone, his parents awake and talking over tea at the fire in comfortable chairs, not alone as if tossed aside on the marble floor.
He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing he had the ability to move that much at least, and opened them with these thoughts in mind, but Voldemort’s red eyes were staring at him from across the room regardless. This was real, and the truth of how alone he was now was too. He was going to die here, he was sure of it, in his own home by Voldemort’s hand, just because he dared to defy prejudice. To be different. To be good.
“Is that what you think you’ve done, Draco?”
No.
In a second, he was building up his Occlumency barriers again; those unconscious things he’d had since he was a child bully, which he’d dropped at Dumbledore’s word last year. He needed them now, more than ever, against the most powerful Legilimens in history. He can’t know his thoughts, because if he did…
Well then he’d be most surely dead.
“Oh…” Instead, Voldemort clicked his tongue, eyes widening just enough to prove to Draco that he’d done it; he blocked him out. Point, Draco. “Such skill. You no doubt inherited the same affinity for Occlumency as your aunt Bellatrix, hm? Must be a Black family trait then.” He cast an uninterested glance at Narcissa as he passed her, continuing his circling of her and her husband, before looking back up at her son. “Hm, this isn’t interesting when you can’t talk…”
With a flick of his wand Draco’s mouth jerked close, then he opened it again, moved his lips and touched the roof of his mouth with his tongue, then asked, in a shaky voice, knowing Voldemort would stay waiting for his words, “What do you want?”
“I already told you; you. I have a job for you, Draco Malfoy. A very, very, special job.” The snake had reached his ankles now, and was wrapping itself around them, and Draco, head still frozen, lost sight of it, now feeling quite cold and disgusting with its slimy skin pressed against his ankles.
“What is it?” He should be embarrassed by the cracking of his voice, and the chuckling of a couple Death Eaters, but fear does that to a person and instead he felt unfazed, eyes fixed, as paralyzed in fear as the rest of his body was by the spell, on Voldemort, who smirked, beginning to step towards him. And another. He stepped right up to the boy, dangerously close, so that Draco sucked in a quick breath in fear as he bent his head down to his ear and whispered, sickeningly sweet, “Kill Dumbledore.”
Draco’s eyes widened as much as they could in the permiteres of the curse, and, reeling in shock he gasped out, “What?” shaky and cracked, and Voldemort smiled, turning to walk away.
Crouch put my name in the Goblet as a punishment.
“But I -” His eyes flicked to his father’s floor on the ground, still and silent in sleep, unaware of the horrors his son was facing.
A punishment for Father.
“I can’t - I don’t -”
Voldemort must be punishing me now. For rescuing Harry. For being a muggleborn lover. A traitor.
“You’re punishing me, aren’t you?”
It was only a matter of time.
Voldemort turned, and Draco, the thought shooting through his brain like an arrow, for of hope, but no solid ground or reality, thought maybe he was wrong just for a second, but the foreign expression on his pale face was just curiosity, as his next words revealed, "Well, it appears you are more intelligent than I first gave you credit for, Draco, for I am."
Draco managed to swallow through the body-bind, but it couldn’t quite be passed as a gulp. Thankfully, actually, as he found repulsed by the idea of giving Voldemort the satisfaction of knowing how terrified that fact made him. “You have been quite a disgrace the past year to all your pureblood people. Befriending muggleborns, traversing with blood-traitors, and even befriending Harry Potter himself… In fact, if my sources are correct you have just come back from spending the Holidays with the Weasleys.”
Every Death Eater in the room started chortling at that, but Draco felt as if he had straightened with pride, though that was physically impossible at the moment. “That’s right! And I’m proud of it!”
The chuckling stopped right there, and Voldemrot’s lips pulled into a tight frown, red eyes narrowed to slits once more. For a moment, he wondered how he could see, then he was gasping as if by magic Voldemrot traveled across the floor in a second, a blur of black, to stand before him, sneering. He held his breath when the maniac lifted his wand, and bent low to his ear, whispering, “And that, Draco, is where your punishment must come in.” He tensed, waiting for it, but no Crucio came. Instead, Voldemort merely grinned, so close Draco could count each of his pointed teeth, then whispered once more, “You will kill Dumbledore, because if you fail, I shall show you the price of disloyalty to your pureblood kind.”
He turned and made a gesture with a long pale hand, and Draco slowly shifted his eyes to his parents, watching in terror as Crabbe and Goyle’s parents stood behind them, raising wands to their heads, looking ready to cast the killing curse at any given order, and his parents would never know, soundly asleep, so much so any passerby wouldn’t think twice; not even a muggle.
“I thought -” Again Draco swallowed as his voice cracked, but he couldn’t force his eyes to slide back onto Voldemort, as they remained transfixed onto his parents, as if by some other magical spell he had been entranced to watch them. “I thought you wanted to kill Dumbledore…” Another swallow, and he managed to say, though it tasted as vile as Weasley’s real name, and ten times worse on his tongue, “My Lord?”
Voldemort was nothing if not arrogant, grinning immediately at his use of the title before continuing to speak, “Again, how intelligent of you. Truly a good contribution to the Slytherin House. But no, I cannot kill Dumbledore, for the simplest of reasons of that being exactly what he would have expected me to do. And surely, won’t it prove to be so simple for a student to infiltrate his precious school and kill him when he least expects it? Surely, you’re intelligent enough to realize that?” He turned and began to walk in a circle around Draco’s parents' bodies once more, but Draco didn’t dare remove his gaze from them for a second. “The foolish Minister hasn’t believed in my return yet, but Dumbledore no doubt is pressuring him to reveal it to the world soon. When he does, it’ll become oh so much harder to gain followers… But,” He could feel Voldemort’s eyes resting on him again, like a dark shadow pressuring him into the ground, “With you killing him for me, Fudge will be left defenseless. The Ministry will be ours for the taking.”
Finally, Draco’s eyes shifted from his parents to rest on Voldemort, and using all his strength in Occlumency, he cleared any single thought from his mind, leaving it a clear void, empty and perfect for him to declare, “I’ll do it, my Lord.” without arising a single suspicion in the Lord.
“Of course you will, after all,” The curse dropped, and in an instant, Draco’s jelly legs crumbled and he was on his knees before Voldemort, as if bowing to his master. But then again, maybe that’s all he was now; a servant to a master, just like all the other much older, much more capable men around him. Slowly, he lifted his head to look in the eyes of his master, and saw the tip of his long wand glowing green and knew, even before he grabbed him by the left arm and raised it, exactly what was coming. Even before the next words left the awful monster's lips. “You are a Death Eater now, Draco. You do my bidding, like a good and faithful servant.”
Draco lowered his head again, squeezing his eyes shut tight, but nothing could stop the pain, which was so great, his mind couldn’t maintain even the weakest of Occlumency barriers.
-*-*-*-
The Dark Mark burned. Like fire licking at his skin, like a knife piercing through his forearm, and like an eternal Cruciatus Curse, wrapped around his arm. He should know, that’s exactly what he got for screaming while being granted the great honor of the branding of the Dark Mark on his left forearm. An honor and a curse. For it would never leave him, Draco realized, as he ran his fingers down dark, sickening skull and snake, it was there permanently, a reminder of not himself, but his heritage. Of the people he was meant to become.
Pureblood.
He was alone now, or maybe not. Voldemort had had control over his Manor all summer and fall, seemingly, so who knows what other creatures lurk in the shadows of the cellar; the makeshift dungeon that was to serve as his home until he was permitted to go back to school to serve one purpose, and one purpose only; kill Dumbledore.
He wasted no time dwelling on why Voldemort couldn’t just kill him for those thoughts would get him nowhere. He knew why, and Voldemort had confirmed it himself. What he did find his mind wondering, though it left him with a weird churning in his gut that made him want to puke whenever he thought on it too much, was how to do it. If he’d even have the strength to do it. If, when faced with the option between killing the leader of the rebellion against Voldemrot, and saving himself and his parents, what would he choose?
His parents…
They lay in this cellar with him now, endlessly sleeping, a constant reminder of what would happen if he failed. After many minutes of thinking over his options, and how well the Order of the Phoenix (the name had been passed around his ears so many times now, yet he still couldn’t comprehend what it exactly meant) would survive without Albus Dumbledore leading it, Draco crawled across the floor over to their bodies, raising an arm to brush aside hair that had fallen into his mother’s flawless face, fair even in this bewitched state. As he did so he caught sight of his father’s Mark, peeking out of his robes, and suddenly felt sick to his stomach.
Not just because now he had a Mark to match, meaning he was following in his father’s footsteps, exactly what he had desired since he was a baby, but also because now it hit him, with a force of ten Crucio’s that the last time he had seen his father, he had been dragged off by Ministry officials. The last conversation they had ended in shouting and Lucius slamming the door in Draco’s face.
And now he may never get to say another word to his father again.
“Hello?”
He jerked to the side, falling back onto his arse on the floor from shock at the sudden noise and voice, and casting his gaze around wildly for the source.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” The voice repeated, and this time, louder, but no more recognizable. It was muffled, and obscured, as if covered by something, and that didn’t change when it called out again, this time stronger, and defensive, “I’m not afraid of you.”
“You don’t have to be,” Draco finally said back, still searching the darkness for any sign of the person, though he saw none.
“Are you a prisoner too?” Draco paused to think about that for a moment, but settled on saying, after crawling a little further into the darkness, “Yes.” “Good, I need company. I think I’m starting to go… crazy down here. Can you believe that? Yeah, I think my heads going a little over the edge.” Draco frowned, because no, those words were not a good sign, and he didn't want his possible only company for the next week to be a crazy man.
“Who are you?” A long, long pause followed that question, so long Draco was prepared to believe he’d never answer, and then, “I can’t tell you.” Draco had waited too long to be upset or surprised by that. “That’s okay... Do you know who I am?” “No.” Draco shrugged his shoulders, though he knew for a fact that he probably couldn’t see, so it wouldn’t even matter. “Then I won’t tell you who I am.”
The man fell permanently silent after that, so Draco laid back against the wall behind him, shutting his eyes and thinking that, if anything, he should probably at least try to sleep away his purgatory. It would do him much better than letting himself be alone in the dark with his thoughts. Even the thought made him shiver, and he didn’t blame the mysterious man for going crazy one bit.
-*-*-*-
He dreamt a memory, and a good one too. He was maybe seven, or eight, having just received his first real racing broom, a Cleansweeep Seven, which had just been released that year. And his parents were so proud of him, cheering him on as he swooped over their heads and zoomed through the sky over his mother’s gardens, a natural Seeker just like Narcissa. Not that his racing was exactly like hers though, but the talent obviously had come from her. She had been in tears that day, and his father had been so proud.
That’s why it was so jarring to open his eyes and meeting their cold, still faces, brought crashing back down to reality and the realization that he’d never get 1987 back.
“Bad dream? You sound scared.” He must have yelped when awoken, because that had been quite the opposite of a bad dream. He didn’t have the energy, really, to explain any of that, however, instead saying, “Yes, it was a nightmare.” and listening to the man rant about how those came and went, but were often more desirable than staying awake, with only shadows (like him) for company.
That’s when Draco decided he’d name him The Shadow. His voice was too muffled for that to be his name, but he did move a lot, so that Draco could see his form cutting through the dark, like a shadow on a wall. He told him that, and The Shadow again asked for his name. “Call me Altais.” He needed some reminder of his cat, whose fur he longed to pet, and cries as she no doubt mewled for him to come back far upstairs haunted his ears.
The Shadow liked the name, and so it began that the two kept each other company in the dark, becoming something that could, in some alternate reality where they weren’t stuck in a cellar acting as a prison, be considered friends.
-*-*-*-
On the second night…
“Shadow, why are you here?”
“I don’t know. I was taken from my home and… they put something there instead.”
“An imposter?”
“...”
“How old are you?”
“Not old. I’m of age, though.”
“I’m fifteen.”
“Did you go to Hogwarts?”
“Yeah.”
“We could know each other!”
“Maybe…”
-*-*-*-
On the third night…
“At Hogwarts I used to have a girlfriend.”
“I had a boyfriend.”
“We played this game; two truths and a lie. You tell me two truths and one lie, and I have to guess the lie.”
“Er - My best subject is Potions, I once transfigured into a different animal, and I’m in Ravenclaw House.”
“Oh, definitely the transfiguring one. That’s too crazy. And dangerous.”
“...I'm actually a Slytherin.”
“Really? But you’re so smart!”
“I’ve heard both houses get called the ‘smart house.’”
“Fair. Okay, my turn. Uh… my parents are divorced, I’m garbage at Wizard’s Chess, and my favorite color is black.”
“Er… Your parents are divorced?.”
“You got it! Dad is like my hype-man, always there for me, so a bunch of my friends just assume I don’t have a mom, but I do!”
Draco didn't have the strength just yet to admit to Shadow how much he loved his dad, but when he fell asleep that night, he was plagued by dreams of his own ‘hype-man.’
-*-*-*-
On the fourth night…
“Is it Christmas?”
“Christmas was a few days ago.”
“Oh. It’s been getting colder, and snow came in through the bars of the windows a couple of times… Did you have a good Christmas?”
“It… started out okay, but then it turned out not so nice.”
“Oh.”
“Merry Christmas, Shadow.”
“Merry Christmas, Altais.”
-*-*-*-
On the fifth night…
“I miss my family. And my girlfriend. I wish I could ask if you know her…”
“Why can’t you?”
“...”
“Tell me about her.”
“Oh! Okay! Well, she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met at Hogwarts, that’s for sure, but she’s more than just a pretty face, not that anyone recognizes that. She’s smart, and her best subject is Charms, like mine, so we talk about that a lot. She loves it when I take her out to Hogsmeade, and I have to admit the places she chooses are quite cute. She was so happy when I agreed… She’s so stunning when she’s happy… I miss her. But I bet you miss your date too, right?”
And the sad thing was, Draco couldn’t say the same for Anthony, realizing he hadn’t spared him a thought since thinking how his feelings for him compared to his feelings for Harry, and for some reason, though his mind wanted him to lie, his tongue formed the words “I like someone else.” and for once, it felt so natural.
-*-*-*-
On the sixth night…
Peter Pettigrew opened the heavy door sealing them in and tied a bag over Draco’s head, then he heard the footsteps of two other Death Eaters stepping inside, movement that sounded like moving a body, and the declaring of different curses. The Shadow didn’t scream unless hit with Crucio, but just having to sit there and listen to his suffering made Draco want to vomit all the same. It could’ve been minutes, or it could’ve been hours, but eventually Pettigrew ripped off the bag and the Death Eater’s left the two boys alone in the dark once more, though, with a pang in his already sick feeling gut, Draco had to remember he was a Death Eater too.
“Are you alright?” No response. He didn’t have a wand, and he’d already checked his parents bodies for their wands, so instead Draco crawled on his hands and knees, feeling for a wall that he heard The Shadow get pressed up against and grabbing cloth, some sort of jacket, judging by the feel of the metallic zipper, a stark contrast to the cloth around it. He couldn’t see a head, though, so moved his hand to what should have been the head and felt a burlap sack. That would explain the muffled talking.
“Don’t take it off!” The Shadow’s hands flew up, and it was then Draco saw blood, which he had already felt between his fingers on the robes. “They’ll kill you for it, please… It’s better you don’t know…”
They were silent the rest of the night, but not stationary. Draco lifted his robes over his head, painfully reminded of how good his Christmas had started by the feel of the wool Weasley sweater, but quickly got back to business by ripping the sleeves off the robes, so that he could make a makeshift gauze for the heavy amounts of blood he was feeling coming from the man’s legs. Once he’d wiped off excess and tied it off, he then asked where the barred windows were, and took the second torn sleeve to soak up all the melted snow, and use it to clean the wound. After tearing off a final piece of cloth at the hem of his robes before pulling them on again, Draco tied it around the wound, and looked at the burlap sack, despite not being able to see The Shadow’s face.
“Better?”
“Thank you.”
It would have to do.
-*-*-*-
One the seventh night…
A firework went off. And then another, and another. Draco was in the middle of changing The Shadow’s bandages when he heard them, and could hear just the slightest whisper from The Shadow, the first words since his little thank you, “What's that sound?”
“Fireworks. It’s a Muggle invention, sort of like the sparks we can create from our wands,”
“I know. Why?”
Short little sentences were fine; he was probably in pain, Draco reasoned with himself. “It’s New Year’s Eve.”
“Wow.”
The next firework went off and lit them all up so he could see just how bloody The Shadow was, dried or otherwise, caking his jeans and jacket, all muggle clothes. Curious, that he was wearing such muggle clothes. “Why are you dressed like this? Are you a muggleborn -”
“I’m pureblood.”
“Okay.”
The final firework went off, lighting up the still working watch on Draco’s wrist, which he could only see due to having to roll up the sleeve of his jumper to nurse The Shadow’s wounds. It ticked 12:00 a.m on the dot, and despite all the darkness and pain, Draco found himself grinning.
“Happy New Year.” He said, and at the same time swore he heard The Shadow whisper it.
The rest of the night was filled with screams of terror, as the Death Eater’s spared no thought of mercy on the muggles who had dared to party too close to a sacred pureblooded home. So it was that The Shadow and Altais sat in silence in the dark, with only the screams to comfort their loud and all alone minds.
-*-*-*-
On the eighth night, Draco said goodbye, and in the morning, his friend said he missed him, but there was no one to hear it but the Death Eater’s coming to crowd him, ready to deliver their newest package of torture, with no one to stop the bleeding in any part of his body anymore.
-*-*-*-
Somewhere, miles and miles away from Wiltshire, while Draco was befriending shadows, Harry Potter shot up out of bed, clutching his scar, panting and sweating, having felt only feelings of sick, twisted glee in his dreams. Heard only one name echoing in his ears.
“What is it?” Ron asked him, wide awake and leaning against his bedpost, certainly having given up sleep for his best friend's own sake. Maybe Hermione’s anxiety attacks were changing him for the better.
“Draco.” The name came to him as if spoken by Voldemrot as it had been in his dreams, and when he locked eyes with Ron, they were a mirror of his own horror. “Something’s happening with Draco. A plan.”
“We gotta tell everybody!” Ron naturally exclaimed, though Harry shook his head, slowing his breathing and lying back down, but never lowering his hand from rubbing his scar. “Not now… in the morning… At breakfast…”
But naturally any thought to a plan involving Draco was thrown out the window when they came down to the kitchens the next morning to find the Daily Prophet spread across the table instead of food, with fifteen faces blinking at them all from the front page.
MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN
DEMENTOR REMOVAL TO BLAME?
BLACK BACK?
OR CROUCH AIDING ESCAPE?
Harry and Ron exchanged a tense glance as they watched various Order of the Phoenix members bustling around the table, pointing out various Death Eaters and saying something or other about how they were in the first war, though it all slipped in and out of the boys ears; they understood none of it except that no, they would most certainly wouldn’t be telling the Order about Draco and Voldemort’s possible plan for him any time soon. It seemed they’d all have their hands full for quite some time.