Chapter 19
"Harry Potter," Voldemort announces to the world, "is DEAD!"
Above the Death-Eaters, the disfigured corpse of Harry Potter is hung. Like a pinata, they continue to strike the corpse with hexes and curses as they dance around it with wild shrieks and cackles of celebration and joy. The body grows increasingly unrecognisable.
At Voldemort's side, Severus, Rodolphus and Draco stand.
In front of them are gathered Harry Potter's people, frozen with grief and horror permeating suffocatingly across the space, rage slow-building.
"If you would do the honours," Voldemort says to Draco.
"My pleasure."
With that, Draco Malfoy raises one hand high for all to see. All eyes are fixed on it, the entire space now silent and still.
The snap of his fingers echo loudly across the distances.
And a second later, the corpse high above behind them explodes up into flames.
All hell breaks loose.
***
"His purpose has been served," Rodolphus says, "Shall I kill him?"
Voldemort stands with his back, staring out the large window; the country that is his now.
"No," he answers finally, "If he shows even the slightest sign of treachery, I'll kill him myself. Until then, he is of much value."
He turns to look at Rodolphus.
"You have trained him well."
"Thank you, my Lord."
There is a pause, contemplative.
"Is it permanent? The mind manipulation?"
"As can be, yes, my lord. It is built on truth, after all. He will remain loyal to you, I assure you. He will kill himself if you ask him to, and you will not even have to give him a reason why."
***
Draco's murder of Dumbledore and capture of Harry Potter brought him rapid ascension in the ranks as well as in Voldemort's favour. Along with his achievements, his intelligence, strategy, political prowess and among other talents made him one of the best of Voldemort's Death-Eaters. Much of his magical and combatant mastery, he knew, was owed to his uncle's training, which further made him a powerful asset among the Death-Eaters.
Still, there were many people that did not like to be bested or under the command of a twenty-one year old man. Boy, they called him. They said, why, it was only because Harry Potter was weak for him, given the rumours of their history. Perhaps he still had feelings for Draco and this made him a spectacularly easier target.
But there was evidence and viable word from Rodolphus Lestrange that Potter had obliviated himself to erase Draco's memory in his mind, therefore this wasn't true.
And no one dared to undermine him after the incident--
A gloved hand slams Rowle down to the ground by the throat, squeezing until he is choking. Draco, unbothered and without exertion, picks a lint off his shoulder as he thrashes frantically beneath his grip, Rowle's hand hitting against his hand weakly as the lack of oxygen steals his strength. The rest of the Death-Eaters all watch, still as a held breath.
"Did you know that you can concentrate the Cruciatus Curse on a certain body part? I certainly didn't. These are the things you learn from the great Rodolphus Lestrange.
Rowle's eyes blow wide, gasping and trying to scream without avail, and begins to tremble violently, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Few seconds of the Cruciatus onto his throat is enough to guarantee he won't be able to speak for several months now.
Fair, Draco thinks. Two minutes ago, he was blabbing a bit too much.
Am I really expected to be led around by a little boy?
A little boy that cried in his mummy's arms for hours when she --
"Fuck," someone mutters.
With a squeaky, near soundless gasp from damaged vocal cords, the curse is released. The grip around Rowle's throat is not.
"Do not cross me again. There are worse parts of your body for me to do this to."
Draco knows every single one. Firsthand experience is, after all, the best teacher.
He releases his hand, straightening to his feet.
Addressing the room, "a message to all."
Message received.
***
It took Draco a long time to understand why he couldn't stop thinking about Potter.
For a long time, it felt as if his purpose was only to capture him.
The cat and mouse chase was exciting and gave him something to strive for, something thrilling that he looked forward to.
Now that it's over, everything feels empty. Hollow.
Boring.
Draco has it all; status, power, a big Manor all to himself. He has all but secured a good future for himself. But none of these things made him happy.
But now that the purpose of capturing Potter has been fulfilled, he finds that he is aimless, left with nothing to do.
He wanders through the world now, no longer sure of the reason for his existence.
One day, he ends up in front of a gravestone.
It's an empty grave. There was no body left to bury, after all. Draco made sure of it.
"I hate you," he says to it.
There is a framed picture of Potter, by the bed of the soil. He burns it to ashes. Whoever visits next is in for a surprise.
But it's unlikely that anyone should be visiting this grave. After Potter's death, all his people scattered and ran. Some were captured and placed in 'rehabilitation' programs. They fought, but without a leader there is no unison. Everyone divided and fell apart; losing hope, running for their lives.
Foolish of them, isn't it? To make a savior of of an idiot child like Potter, to think he had any chance against the darkest wizard of all time.
It's a strange thing, to somehow end up here in front of this grave every week or other. He doesn't know why he comes. He doesn't know what he comes to do, except to cuss Potter out, to express his loathing and rage towards him.
This hatred had driven him for so many years that it's jarring now, the absence of the object of his loathing. It has left him off-kilter to not have someone to chase, to orchestrate plans to perfection around this purpose.
He has nothing left to feel.
And the void inside of him hungers to feel.
"I hope you're rotting in hell," he says as he stands to his feet, dusting the front of his suit off. "Later, Potter."