The Volunteer
Aunt Bellatrix was a psychopath.
Growing up Draco had known of his Aunt Bellatrix, beloved by his mother and respected greatly by his father. Though it was not on display where any visitors might glimpse it his mother's private sitting room proudly displayed a portrait of the two sisters. The eldest Andromeda (whose name was forbidden in this house) had long abandoned the frame, leaving behind Bellatrix and Narcissa.
Her dark hair was reminiscent of their Black family heritage, youthful features and dark eyes resembling so many of her relatives. Until recently this kind of image was all Draco really knew of his Aunt Bellatrix, the infamous Death Eater who his family had publicly distanced themselves from (a necessity to guarantee his father's freedom from serious charges).
The morning news of the Azkaban escape had broken Bellatrix's picture had been printed in the Daily Prophet, though he had genuinely not recognised her until Gregory pointed her out.
'Isn't she your aunt?' Gregory had asked excitedly over breakfast, showing him the front page of the prophet. 'This one here - Lestrange.'
Draco had looked at the picture for a long time, trying to connect the sight of the deranged prisoner with the young witch his mother spoke so fondly of. The witch in question looked positively maniacal, holding up the placard with her name and prisoner number, her face screwed up in what must have been an ear splitting screech of derangement.
'That's her,' he agreed quietly, figuring it must be. The caption beneath was not likely to be mistaken.
Gregory was not so cautious with his words. 'She's the one who got Longbottom's parents,' he said out loud, carelessly. 'Wrecked the both of them - scrambled their brains.'
The others shushed him, looking around. The instructions from their parents had been quite clear - make no public associations with Death Eaters. Maintain the cover that had been in place for more than a decade until such a time that the Dark Lord was ready to make himself known.
Draco studied the dozen or so Azkaban mugshots on the front page of the newspaper, casting his eyes about for one other in particular. Rodolphus Lestrange, his uncle and husband of Bellatrix. Were the two of them on the run together? Would they be waiting for him at Malfoy Manor when he returned home that coming summer?
He looked around for Potter, wanting to set eyes on him, to see his reaction. Certainly the breakout would make it easier to aggravate him, wind him up - and Draco was nothing if not diligent with the task set for him. But Potter was no where to be seen, though this was not unusual. Often he did not make it to meals, probably having wised up and decided to avoid the Great Hall as much as possible.
Draco had been right about the of the guests of Malfoy Manor. While Rodolphus made appearances on occasion it seemed only Bellatrix was making herself at home in Malfoy Manor, much to his displeasure. And now aunt and nephew were making up for lost time, at least that's what his mother had told him.
He had been home over a week now, his mother having pulled him out of Hogwarts before he could sit his OWL exams. To his dismay much of his time had been divided among attendance at his first Death Eater meetings, tense encounters with the Dark Lord, and time spent with his Aunt - time focused on making sure he didn't further his family's fall from grace among the Death Eaters.
This Bellatrix had lamented at great length. Drunk on wine she had given quite the spiel to Draco's mother, talking on and on about his father's short comings. That he had denied his allegiance to the Dark Lord, that he had brought the stench of disloyalty on himself long before the Department of Mysteries. The disparagement of Lucius Malfoy brought into stark relief her own fervent loyalty and dedication, the reminder that she had not once forsaken the Dark Lord. That she had gone to prison for him, had never stopped believing in his return.
Objectively speaking, her loyalty was little other than obsession.
Nevertheless it seemed Bellatrix neither regretted nor resented the years she had spent in Azkaban Prison. Perhaps that was what turned her into a sociopath, Draco wondered, watching her from the corner of his eye as they strolled together around the grounds of Malfoy Manor. The only reason Sirius Black hadn't been driven to insanity by the Dementors was that he was an animagus. Had Bellatrix's mind been addled by that place?
'Shame your mother won't let us practice on the peacocks,' Bellatrix was lamenting, an air of impatience to her voice. 'They are convenient, and they breed like rabbits anyway.'
On the other hand, perhaps she was always this way.
Draco wished he could ignore her. That he could tune her out and simply nod along, pretending to listen. Or better yet that he could politely but firmly decline offers of her company. But there was too much at stake for him right now, and it was becoming increasingly clear to him that his mother was no long an ally upon who he could rely. Every waking moment he felt the pressure of being under such scrutiny, everyone watching the performance of Lucius Malfoy's only son.
Either way Draco knew they didn't care for him. Sink or swim, he got the feeling it made little difference to the Dark Lord.
There would be no reprieve from what he was facing, and certainly no one to turn to. Bellatrix spoke often of spies in their ranks, warning him to never trust anyone. It wasn't a difficult lesson to comprehend - he already didn't trust her.
By now word had spread that his father was pleading guilty to the charges against him. He wasn't fighting it, he wasn't pleading innocent or greasing the right palms - in fact there were no palms left to grease. Now everyone knew the truth of what he was, and he was despised for it. In the coming weeks there would be a formal hearing on the subject, one in which the charges would likely be read...and his father would publicly affirm it all.
Making an admission of guilt might seem like Lucius had given up, but according to Bellatrix his father had finally done something right in the eyes of the Dark Lord. He had acknowledged his true allegiance, and it would be a small step towards making up for his denial of loyalty following the Dark Lord's first defeat. But doing the right thing by the Dark Lord didn't mean it was the right thing for his family.
Eventually Lucius would be broken out of Azkaban. Draco supposed that even disgraced Death Eaters were useful to some degree. But this would happen only when advantageous to the Dark Lord, and only if Draco somehow earned it. That's what Bellatrix kept telling him, she and his mother making mention of it more than once over the last week and half.
'A Gryffindor is harder to break,' Bellatrix was telling him now as they leisurely walked the grounds of Malfoy Manor, their shoes crunching over white gravel. 'Not because they're stronger than any other witch or wizard, but because of their pride. To break a Gryffindor through torture is the height of honour among our ranks. To them it is the utmost humiliation.'
Potter had broken. And quickly too. Was it pride he lacked, or strength of body and mind? Was it neither of those things and simply that anyone, Hogwarts house irrelevant, would break under such horrific torture?
That Draco had witnessed Potter's torture in the penseive seemed to tickle Bellatrix. She kept bringing it up, she too having indulged in the penseive as she made herself at home in her brother-in-law's manor. Had laughed gleefully about it over dinner, her laugh loud and abrasive, scratching at Draco's skull from the inside.
She expected he would share her glee, he and Potter were natural enemies after all, and he had tried to pretend. All through dinner he had smiled and laughed along as she recounted the memories she witnessed. He did not tell her how the same memories made him sick all over himself. But their Occlumency lessons had not yet started, and so she saw right through him.
'It's an acquired taste,' she had said loftily, sipping at her wine and relaxing back into her chair at the dinner table. 'Some don't have it at all. You mother for example,' she suggested, looking at her sister with a strange expression that might have been amusement. 'Too much of a lady, aren't you Cissy.'
Narcissa responded, and it's clear that there was no animosity between the sisters. 'I've no qualms in admitting to my delicacies.'
'Are you delicate too, Draco?' Bellatrix asked brusquely. She continued before he could even comprehend what she had said. 'I didn't cast my first Unforgivable until I'd finished Hogwarts.'
'That's not true,' Narcissa spoke up, giving her a pointed look.
Bellatrix furrowed her brow, holding her goblet of wine aloft as she thought. 'Oh of course,' she said loudly, tipping her head back in amusement. 'The Mudblood. Merlin, I forgot about that.'
Her amusement faded, and she quickly turned her attention back to Draco. He didn't say anything. There was no winning. If he denied being too delicate she would see right through him. But he couldn't stand the embarrassment of admitting it so plainly.
'You don't have to make it your leisure as I do, but you will have to tolerate it's place in war. Maybe one day you'll get a crack at Potter yourself. That ought to change your taste.'
To his horror she had assured him she would teach the required skills - that of maiming and torture, even the art of interrogation. She would teach him many things that summer, offering the strange reassurance that he wasn't expected to navigate any of this own his own.
'The Death Eaters are like your family,' she had said simply, her tone turning serious. 'We will teach you everything you need to thrive in our ranks and take the place of your father.'
And today, she was teaching him something horrific. Something he hoped to never actually use but that he knew he inevitably would - the Cruciatus. She taught him the incantation, the sharp jab of the wand. She taught him that the desire that had to come from within, that he needed to want the object of his ire to suffer...better yet, that he enjoy it.
At first she had him practice the curse on plants. Though they could not shriek or feel pain in the way a living being could they began to die. The leaves of numerous flowers and shrubs shrivelled up and turned back, stems wilting or snapping clean off, petals flittering to the ground like confetti.
Their walk had lasted more than an hour, touring the gardens and destroying numerous plants as he reluctantly learned this particular method of torture, and when they finally returned to the Manor he was relieved. He'd be able to make excuses now. Mother had at least been helpful in getting him out of things after a certain amount of time, claiming that he was supposed to be enjoying at least some of his free time. But today this was not the case, and her lack of support became quickly apparent.
'I've had quite enough,' he said shortly, moving towards the stairs. 'There are oth-'
'First you'll join your mother and I in the Drawing Room,' Bellatrix instructed, her tone not allowing room for argument. 'We're not quite finished with today's lesson.'
Draco grit his teeth, but there was no refusing. Nor was a Malfoy was childish enough to complain. He returned to Bellatrix's side and together they entered the Drawing Room where his mother was waiting.
How fitting, he thought to himself. The room where they cornered Potter and he defended himself with wandless magic. Where after he surrendered his father had tortured him again, punishment for humiliating him. He hadn't seen this in father's penseive, of course not - Father would never show him a memory that didn't fit the right image. Instead Draco had learned this in the Quibbler, having scoured every single word of Potter's story, taking it all in. He needed to know because despite his public display of outrage and his shouts of slander, he knew it was all true. He believed Potter's story - even the parts his father would deny.
In the Drawing Room his mother welcomed him with a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring. Comforting even. But he'd never felt more distant from her. She was helping him in her own way, convinced the best was to secure his safety was to teach him to be strong, to build his alliances among the Death Eaters even though they were the ones who would likely kill him when he inevitably failed whatever task was required of him.
'We will continue,' Bellatrix instructed. 'The Elf has bravely volunteered.'
Draco looked around in confusion, following the direction in which Bellatrix had so blithely gestured, and then his heart sank into the pit of his stomach. Quivering by the empty fireplace was one of the House Elves, and there was nothing brave or voluntary about her. Already cottoning on to what was expected of him Draco thought for a fleeting moment of another House Elf whose name he couldn't quite recall. Even on the worst days his father's ill treatment of the ratty old Elf never amounted to outright torture...
'Not the Elf,' he said shortly. 'We need her.'
'It won't die,' Bellatrix dismissed his concern. 'Your curse certainly wouldn't kill it.'
'The Dark Lord is coming tonight, is he not?' Draco challenged. 'We need the Elf to help the others.'
Bellatrix looked at him, holding his gaze. 'The Dark Lord is indeed coming tonight, and will surely enquire as to your efforts. It is up to you the nature of what I report to him.'
There came an uncomfortable pause now. He stared at her, foolishly wondering if he could resist, if he could get out of this. But it was no use, he knew that. Bellatrix could see right through him.
'Draco, you must learn the Cruciatus,' she said, and now there was a bite of impatience in her tone. 'And to learn, you must practice. Elves don't feel pain like people do,' she added. 'They're lesser beings. It won't be so bad.'
This he knows is not true. He could still hear the yelps of pain the other Elf would sometimes make, the way he would wince in discomfort as he worked with bandaged hands. Dobby was his name, if his memory served him correctly.
Draco looked to his mother, and his silent gaze was all she needed to understand what he was demanding. 'Go to the village,' she suggested, her voice light and uncaring. 'Fetch a stray dog.'
'No,' said Bellatrix. She stared at Draco, determined. 'The Elf will suffice.'
The Elf in question was starting at her bare feet. Nimry, he reminded himself. Nimry, an Elf who had served them for years. She stood there obediently, waiting for what was to come. A House Elf would cut off its own hand if it was ordered to.
'Draco,' Bellatrix began sharply, starting towards him. 'Your father is gone, and your mother does not have the respect he once did. And my reputation, unblemished as it may be, cannot carry such dead weight for much longer.'
Breathing slowly Draco tried to think through his options, but he knew it was a waste of time. He knew where all of this was going, and he knew what was at stake. Death Eaters were only useful to the Dark Lord if they had something to contribute...a non-participant could linger, there was strength in numbers after all, but once you were called upon there was no avoiding duty. You could only fly by on your name for so long.
'You must to earn your place, Draco. You must to earn the respect of your peers, and you must demand the respect that befits your family name. Else it becomes meaningless.' She paused, raising her voice when he didn't respond. 'You will be nothing if you fail to meet the Dark Lord's expectations. Your family will be nothing! And if you fail I will not carry you.'
Yes, this he understood. Their family name was dirt now. Malfoys were already meaningless in society, cast aside by people who had once sought out their company and favour. And the Death Eaters were the only ones who wanted them...the only ones who wanted him.
Clearly the Dark Lord had expectations for him, and surely if he failed he would be left with nothing. More specifically he would have no one, his mother was making that clear to him. In a moment of desperation he had woken her in the middle of the night, had pleaded with her that the two of them leave. But she had refused, and warned him against such thinking. She was adamant of her loyalty to the Dark Lord, insistent that everything would be okay if he just showed faith. Her feeble effort to substitute a stray dog for the Elf was as far as her support would go.
She had already turned away, pouring herself a drink at the bar cart. She wasn't even looking at him.
Bellatrix had come closer, the suddenness of her proximity startling him.
'Are you going to do this?' she whispered softly, her breath on the side of his neck. 'Or should I kill you now to spare your mother the shame of watching you fail?'
Kill me now. It was the first thought that popped into his head, but it quickly passed. He did not want to die. Why one earth should he be the one to lose his life? He had done nothing wrong, nothing.
For that matter, why on earth should he risk his life to serve someone he never chose to serve?
Yet now was not the time to make a stand.
A small nod was all he could muster, and thankfully it seemed to be enough. A proud squeeze on his shoulder was followed by a kiss on the side of his head, contact he was forced to tolerate.
Bellatrix was pressing him again, telling him to do it, still insisting that the Elf didn't feel pain the way a witch or wizard did. And he listened to her even though he knew it was rubbish. Even though he knew it wouldn't stop at the Elf - it would be an animal next. Then a Muggle, and then...he took a deep breath.
'Crucio.'
It was as awful as he knew it would be. The Elf crumbled to the floor, wildly thrashing about shrieking. In the one of the Elves' secret passages he could hear another whimpering in distress, listening to the fate of their fellow. The Elf thrashed around, her tiny little body twisting and contorting grotesquely. After a few moments he released the curse and lowered his wand. He found himself shaking as much as the Elf. His eyes were burning, and he felt a searing shame welling up inside of himself.
Bellatrix was circling him, a hand resting on his shoulder. Quiet reassurances were made, and then encouragement. 'Again,' she said softly. 'Do it again, Draco.'
Making a silent apology he obeyed, and as the curse struck again the Elf resumed her shrieking. She was clutching the pillowcase she wore, tearing at it while she clawed at her own skin...just like he had seen Potter do.
Potter was barely standing, trembling and covered in sweat, his face utterly white. And when he spoke it sounded like he was dead. 'You don't have to do this,' Potter whispered hoarsely, glancing at the other Death Eater as if he might help. 'Please. You don't have to.'
He stopped the curse quickly. Too quickly.
'Do it again!'
The hand resting on his shoulder gripped harder, shoving him when he didn't immediately obey. He could hear her shout a second time, but her voice felt distant, like she was calling out to him across a crowded ball room. He stared at the poor Elf who was staggering back to her feet, legs trembling so hard he didn't think they could hold her up. With a shaky deep breath she managed it, and when she looked up her eyes were brimming with tears.
'Again, Draco!'
He looked to his mother who had seated herself on the settee, cradling the drink in her lap and looking towards to the family portrait above the fireplace. Lucius wasn't present, he was no doubt still hiding in another portrait elsewhere in the house. Only Narcissa and Draco remained, the two of them shirking at the edges of the frame avoiding one another.
Bellatrix seized him by the shoulders and spun him around, shaking him hard and growling right into his face. 'Again! Do it again or on Merlin's name I wil-'
'Get your hands off me!'
In disgust he shoved her away. In that split second he felt feral with rage, sick and tired of being told what to do, of being forced to play along with the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters. All year he'd been doing his duty, but he hadn't seen it culminating in what he faced now, and he was furious with himself too.
The Elf stood to attention, waiting in terror for the next curse that was to come.
Draco turned back to Bellatrix, braced and ready for the argument that would ensue, for the punishment that might be inflicted - he wouldn't put it past her to torture him in retaliation. There had after all been talk of endurance training for the Cruciatus.
Inexplicable Bellatrix was grinning like a mad woman, her teeth bared and eyes crinkled in wild exhilaration. 'Me,' she breathed rabidly, taking a step towards him and lifting her chin. 'Try it on me, Draco.'
'Bella,' his mother said sharply, finally turning back to them. She got to her feet, tentatively approaching the way she might a Hippogriff. 'I think that's quite enough for today.'
'You've got to get the taste for it,' Bellatrix smiled, coming closer again. 'So go on, Draco. Try it. Go on, I'm telling you to.'
She was mad, there was no other explanation. Fourteen years in Azkaban had rotted her brain after all...but Draco couldn't deny the sordid temptation that was erupting within him. Maybe she was right. She had been the one to tell him that needed to enjoy your victim's pain to truly make them suffer. And she would deserve it, wouldn't she?
The humiliation of his father's arrest. The sheer hopelessness of the future he was facing. The shame of knowing what happened here in this house, and those memories of Potter, the ones he couldn't get out of his head no matter how hard he tried. Right in front of him was the opportunity to strike back. To inflict some kind of punishment on another.
After all, she was quite literally telling him to do it.
He raised his wand to her. 'Crucio!'
Bellatrix's face brightened in delight and then contorted into a grimace. Stumbling backwards she then bent over double, chest heaving as she let out a pained whine. For a few moments it seemed like she was going to be alright, that she might even fight it off somehow, and then Draco focused, paying attention to what he was doing. To who he was doing it to...the deranged witch who was presently upheaving his entire life.
Finally a deep, guttural scream emanated from her, one that almost made him stop, but moments later she was laughing. She had fallen to her knees now, her arms clutching her chest as she heaved for breath, laughing joyously amidst what seemed like genuine pain. It was utter madness to witness.
Draco's mother had looked away again, downing the rest of her drink. She couldn't bring herself to watch.
And nor could Draco. He lowered his wand and released the curse, and though the curse itself had been holding her up Bellatrix sagged down to the cold marble floor. She became still, her ragged breathing the only sign of life before she started moving again. Panting for breath she shakily propped herself up and then raised her head, and in that moment Draco felt a surge of actual fright. Her eyes were shining not with tears or despair, but with exhilaration.
'Well done, Draco.'
She practically leapt to her feet and flew to him. Her arms wound around his shoulders to pull him close, her forehead pressing against his. It was awkward and uncomfortable, her face and heavy breathing barely an inch from his. He stood there stiffly, her arms pawing all over him in a strange sort of embrace.
'How did it feel?' she asked, still panting for breath. 'I think you liked it, yes? For maybe just a moment...when I screamed?'
Yes. For just a moment he had liked it. Was it so terrible that even for just a split second he might have enjoyed her pain?
'You've got more in you.'
Finally she seemed satisfied, but she did not yet release him from her embrace. She had closed her eyes as if saying a prayer of exaltation to their success, but Draco did not do the same...he was not taking his eyes off her, not for a moment. He couldn't tell how long they stood there, her arms around him still shaking from the pain of the curse, her breathing slowly settling.
'Perhaps you will consider...on your birthday.'
His birthday? It was Saturday. He'd be turning sixteen. 'Consider what?'
Bellatrix's eyes flew open, and with a joyful smile she pressed her forehead against his even harder. 'The Dark Lord has spoken of it already,' she whispered excitedly. She put her hand on the back of his head, clenching her fingers into his hair. 'You could take the Dark Mark. You could truly stand among us in your father's place.'
With a sharp breath Draco wrenched himself away from her. He stared at her wide eyed, his heart thundering in his chest again. She was serious too...of course he had heard the chatter among the Death Eaters, the subtle comments from others who attended the various meetings that had been held in the last few weeks. At sixteen he wouldn't even be the youngest to take the Dark Mark, Regulus Black still held that record. But though he was doing his duty and playing along with what they wanted from him actually taking the Dark Mark felt extreme.
He looked to his mother, yet another plea for her to stop this, to do something. But she merely held his gaze, and then she cleared her throat before speaking. 'Doing so will offer you status. And with status comes protection.'
'Respect,' Bellatrix whispered softly, seemingly not offended that he had pulled away from her.
His mother nodded in agreement. 'It's no small matter that you will earn the respect of your fellow Death Eaters. And certain privileges would be afforded to you.'
He knew what would be motivating her. The newest prisoners of Azkaban would eventually be freed by the Dark Lord, but only when advantageous to him, and more importantly only when it had been earned by others. And certainly offering their only son as a loyal Death Eater was sure to see Lucius freed and their name restored.
'Power, Draco,' Bellatrix was whispering gleefully. 'You cannot imagine the power and influence that would be afforded to you should you take the Dark Mark and complete the Dark Lord's mission.'
'What mission?' he asked sharply.
'The Dark Lord has hinted at it already,' she reminded him. 'Albus Dumbledore. Perhaps even Potter, if he permits it. Your involvement would be critical.'
Draco's mind was whirling. Whatever the Dark Lord had hinted at he had clearly missed - he recalled nothing of a mission involving Dumbledore and Potter, and certainly nothing that would suggest his involvement. It suddenly felt quite a bit harder to breathe, like someone was pressing hard on his stomach. His eyes darted back to his mother once again, once again pleading with her to do something. Anything!
'What do you say, Draco?'
It felt like an age that this question lingered with him. He stood there in silence, paralysed with indecision, for what was he to do? He glanced at the House Elf who despite being twice tortured still stood at attention ready to serve them. Ready to be tortured again if she was ordered to.
In that moment he felt not all that different to the Elf. Just like her he could refuse the order...but doing so would mean unbearable consequences.
'Draco?'
No was not actually an option. Not if he wanted to live. Understanding this Draco knew he had to respond, and he gave odd jerk of the head that would have to suffice for agreement.
With what might have been a wince of pain his mother nodded in response, her mouth twisting before she turned away. Bellatrix on the other hand was manic with joy, and she gleefully embraced him all over again.
'Oh, Draco,' she whispered happily, holding him tightly. 'Well done, Draco. Your father will be so proud.'
Any other time those words would have elated him - pleasing his father and gaining his pride was a difficult task at the best of times. But today it didn't matter. He didn't care to have his father's pride.
Bellatrix released him, but her hand slid down his wand arm before taking his wrist and lifting it up, directing his wand back towards the House Elf.
'Again,' she said encouragingly. 'Practice makes perfect.'
The Elf is trembling again, and he told himself he must do this only once more. Enough to satisfy Bellatrix, enough to show his commitment. But he knew even as he drew breath, this would not be the last terrible thing he was tasked with. So he took a moment for himself, compartmentalising his mind just the way Bellatrix had started teaching him to.
He closed himself off inside, putting his true self away and freeing another version. A side of him who wasn't real. Who wasn't him.
'Crucio.'