Do not forget your name
Draco barely had time to collect himself before Mipsy popped into his room.
"The Dark Lord is requesting Young master Draco join him." Mipsy didn't have to clarify where the Dark Lord was, he could sense the rancid stench of his magic from anywhere on the grounds.
"Thank you, Mipsy. I'll be there shortly." He felt a pit open in his stomach, just like it had every time he was called upon, and went to fix his appearance. It wasn't a rule that one had to dress nicely for the Dark Lord, but the consequences were dire, and ones he wouldn't risk.
Creepy bastard.
The walk was short, mind spinning as he considered all the things that he could be punished for, considering new options and throwing them out in equal measure.
His connection to his fiancé? Would the Dark Lord prefer he marry another death eater's child? But the Zabini's were powerful, and it made more sense to marry outward and spread slowly, rather than crippling yourself with political inbreeding.
His non-existent conviction in blood purity? Has he not been prejudiced enough?
He thought of the muggles trapped in the basement, used as 'practice' for the more vicious members of their merry band. Several times he was forced down to the cellars by his aunt, intent on watching him use unforgivables.
'To keep you sharp, little dove.'
The first time it had happened, he had gone through each spell in turn, knowing the humiliation and horror was so much worse on the other end. He hadn't been able to pick up his wand for days, relying on wandless magic until the Dark Lord commended him on his 'commitment to practical knowledge.'
Every imperio, he was forced to sort through their thoughts, memories, and feelings. All the pain they suffered at his family's hands, mirrored into his own memory.
He tried to soothe them, whispering meaningless platitudes into their minds and concocting elaborate hallucinations to distract them. Aunt Bella had been especially pleased with him then, and she took great joy in forcing him to watch as she measured just how much pain they could endure before the illusion broke. He had cast again and again, until his aunt couldn't break them anymore.
It was worse that way. Watching them writhe in pain, smiles on their faces as they imagined a million sweet things. He had agreed with his aunt then, that the game had lost its fun.
He had gotten so angry once, that the second his aunt tried to force him down the stairs, he pushed her aside, and avada kedavra'd the whole of the cellar.
He had jabbed his wand in his aunt's face, and warned her of what other fun he would take away if she dared bother him while busy again.
She hadn't tried to play again, but the Dark Lord had joined them for dinner that night, praising him on his conviction.
The unforgivables were not usual spells. Any spell could kill, or maim, if twisted far enough, but those three specifically needed intention. A willingness to bend another soul into a place it wasn't meant to be.
He had just wanted it to end.
Now, walking to meet the Dark Lord again, he knew if he was asked, he would not be able to do it again.
Every night he was jerked awake with the fading image of Blaise at the other end of his wand, his mother, his father. On bad nights, they would try to console him, say that they understood, that he was doing the right thing. He would kill them, watch as the life bled from their eyes, and their magic left the air.
Every kind word was a mockery. A sick perversion of his own thoughts the first few times he had killed another human being.
"I was putting them out of their misery."
"I had to."
"It was me or them."
"I'm sorry."
"I didn't want to."
He stood outside the door, letting whichever house elf was there announce him before pushing the door open. We walked with practiced grace, his steps measured and even, his face blank. He bowed shallowly to the Dark Lord, before straightening and waiting for orders. He didn't speak, not till he was asked something.
The Dark lord watched him for a moment, his slitted, inhuman eyes still somehow expressing sadistic glee at seeing Draco so obedient. He gestured leisurely for Draco to sit in the chair across from him, pulled too close to be comfortable.
Everything the Dark Lord did was for show. Draco knew this for a fact. He would recognize the billowing walk and careful sneer anywhere, he used them daily. He knew more than anyone how much appearance mattered, and some small part of him felt kinship with the monster in front of him. Draco knew that the Dark Lord was a construct, some twisted version of a shakespearean villain, meant to be as unsettling and powerful as possible.
Of course, none of this knowledge made Draco's heart slow, or his fear abate.
The Dark Lord leaned back, steepling his fingers under his chin as Draco sat, back straight, ankles crossed and tucked just under the chair, the way mother taught him.
"You know, Draco, I'm told you were an insolent child." He remained silent, watching the Dark Lord. The inhuman wizard only looked more amused, continuing as if they were simply two people talking. "I'm wondering what could cause such a dramatic change. To be so . . ." The Dark Lord tilted his head, searching, "You'd almost think of you as a doll, Draco." The Dark lord stood, looming over Draco, and still, he refused to cower, or simper, or snarl. His empty expression seemed to encourage the old wizard, and he leaned over Draco now, tall and spindly, like a dead willow tree reaching dead branches out to snag at passing souls.
"Are you a doll, dear Draco?"
Draco looked up, tilting his head to the side, face still and empty as possible. "No, my lord. I am not."
The Dark Lord grinned, as if Draco had passed a test he wasn't aware of. He reached bony, thin fingers up to grip Draco's chin with surprising force, jerking his head up farther, to look him in the slitted red pupils, "Then why, do you act like one?"
Draco couldn't help the flinch he gave at the bruising grip on his face as the Dark Lord openly laughed at him. "There you are, Draco." Draco's chest began to heave, his breath leaving in strangled puffs as panic began to constrict in his lungs.
"I have invaded your home, forced you to commit to a life you didn't choose. I have singled you out for an impossible task, and I will kill your family if you do not succeed. I have pushed and pushed but yet . . ." The Dark Lord pushed further into his space, keeping his grip so Draco is forced to look straight up, smothered in the soured wrong smell of the Dark Lord's magic.
"You deny me." The Dark Lord released his face, moving backwards suddenly. He resettles in his chair, a small small smile on his face. "So, Draco. Have you made any progress?"
—-----------------
On the way to the train station, his parents are both quiet. They stare at him strangely, but he can't find it in himself to care. The wonderful guests in his home had taken it upon themselves to give him a proper send off, intent on making up for the time they would lose while he was in school. His fingers still twitched with the aftershocks of Aunt Bella's gift in particular, and random stabbing pains would occasionally spike through him in intervals. He had potions to help mask the symptoms, but he was waiting to take them until the last second so they would last.
If someone saw him using potions, especially before and after the train ride, he could kiss what little dignity he had goodbye. His father's poor decisions had left them morally destitute in the eyes of British society, and though the Malfoy name held too much weight to throw out entirely, school children did not care that his father practically owned half the Wizengemont. He cringed at the ghost of his former self, so convinced of his father's protection that he would shriek it as a threat.
How nice it would be if his only worries were apologies to Blaise and Pansy for being such a whiny brat. How they didn't toss him on his arse long ago baffled him. He briefly considered the fact of his money, but quickly dismissed it. Blasie was almost richer than he was, and his family far more extensive. The Parkinson family basically ran society in Britain, and no amount of money could buy good connections. Truth be told, the Malfoy family was rather small, as far as the sacred twenty eight went, but the exclusivity was where they thrived. Their worth was their name. The restrictive guest lists and narrow family tree meant that there was more money to any singular Malfoy than two or three others from another prominent wizarding family, but if Pansy and Blaise decided that he was annoying and dumped him, their combined efforts would make his worth obsolete.
It was actually a comfort, to think he wasn't worth much to them at all. If he didn't succeed in thwarting himself, they would be fine on their own. Sure, they might not like it, but their wealth and safety was not completely on his shoulders.
The carriage jerked to a stop, shaking him from his thoughts. He took the potion vials from his pocket, downing them hurriedly, already moving to exit. His mother's mouth twisted into a small frown, visible only to him and his father, making him pause.
"Mother, Father," He tilted his head, trying to find the most neutral words for their situation, "I'll write to you soon." His father's face shuttered for a moment, before he reached out and grabbed Draco's hand.
Ok. Draco thought, My father has finally gone 'round the bend. His father was not an affectionate man, at least not with Draco. Aside from the expected motions with his mother, Draco couldn't entirely recall having seen his father initiate touch. Ever.
He looked to his mother, hoping for an explanation, but she simply smiled, a small, sad thing that could barely be counted.
He looked between his parents with rising suspicion and worry. He needed to find a way out now if his parents were going nutty.
"Are you alright? Do you need a mediwizard?" Draco barely restrained the urge to cast a diagnostic spell, hand twitching to his sleeve.
His father's mouth quirked, "No, Draco, I do not." His father released his hand just as the carriage door swung open. Hesitating for a moment, he looked between his parents, watching for any hesitation.
If they needed him, he would not leave. He would drop out of Hogwarts and become a kept man, swanning around the house and arguing about curtains with Blaise, or whatever it was people did when not living with a homicidal dark lord. He sees nothing however, and has one foot out of the carriage when his father calls for him.
"Draco," His father calls, "do not forget your name."