Prodigal for the H/D Worldcup '08
Title: Prodigal
Author: Aoife Malfoy aoifene
Team: Fanon for hd_worldcup '08
Prompt: The Fool
Word count: 13,326
Rating: NC-17 for graphic violence and language
Warnings: AU. First Person POV. Draco-centric. Set after HBP. Not DH Compliant.
Summary: One year after Dumbledore's death, the tide turns in Voldemort's favour and with Harry Potter locked in the Malfoy dungeons, the fate of the Wizarding World seems bleak. Who'll save the saviour when he's in need of saving?
Author’s Note: Many thanks to my A.C.E. betas and Team Fanon! Based on the literal and figurative meaning of the card, centred on the themes of blind faith, innocence and beginnings.
The sun is high in the sky on this lazy afternoon. The birds are chirping and the wind is gentle. There is nothing that marks this day as different from the next.
But I know better.
I wipe my hands on my robes, uncaring of how uncouth the gesture seems. I am too busy trying to hide the jolt of anxiety threatening to make its way up my chest and I resist the urge to crane my head to see past the muddy window for the twentieth time. It should be happening any minute now.
Just a couple more seconds.
I am nothing if not efficiently organized.
Soon enough explosions are heard overhead and as the cloaked figures around me galvanize into action, I find myself caught in a catalyst moment.
My eyes close against Providence even as they burn with unshed tears.
Who would have thought it would come to this?
o-O-o
Five months ago the tide turned in Voldemort’s favour. With the mental breakdown of Scrimgeour, the forces of light were in shambles. They had no clear direction or leader. Too many middle managers and not enough true leadership, probably. Scrimgeour’s breakdown occurred a year to the very day of Dumbledore’s death. Slightly ironic that I was the cause of both.
The night before the change I had planned and led an attack on Azkaban to free any remaining Death Eaters and a few known sympathizers. My only goal at the time had been to free Father. But then, it seems that everything I do is for him. Sods law then that I should retrieve him broken beyond all repair.
With Voldemort’s troops replenished and hell bent on bringing down the ministry that had put them away, the war finally turned in His favour. Little by little, the Dark Lord began to take control of the Wizarding world. Mudbloods and those who supported them were killed, of course. Along with anyone who dared oppose Him, regardless of blood status.
Diagon Alley is virtually empty. Aurors stationed there are picked off one by one, taken prisoner or killed, depending on the whim of the passing Death Eater. I find it odd that the Dark Lord takes prisoners. Surely it would be so much more efficient to just kill them. Yet at every gathering there seems to be at least one.
Regardless of status; social, blood, monetary or rank; I've seen officials, Muggles, purebloods, mudbloods, whores, the rich and famous, all killed. It doesn't matter. The Dark Lord takes them all. Join or die. Sometimes he doesn't even offer that.
Still, it's somewhat a surprise to arrive at the Dark Lord’s current abode - a converted Godric's Hollow, the Dark Lord, it seems, likes irony - and find Potter.
The sight of my boyhood nemesis, clad only in torn and blood-soaked jeans, slumped on the floor at the Dark Lord’s feet, should, stir some emotion. Anything - hatred, glee, satisfaction. Maybe even pity for the pain that the welts - whip marks, burns and cuts - must be causing.
I can't see his face but I imagine it's colourful-- black, blue and red. The Dark Lord’s three favourites.
It's over then. Is all I can think, feeling neither joyful nor disappointed. It’s just…an observation. It's not unusual. I've not felt more than half alive since I rescued retrieved my father.
I look over to him. As expected, he's waiting patiently. Looking at Potter. Looking through Potter almost, just so long as he's looking where the Dark Lord wants us all to focus. He won't turn away, I know, not until I want him to.
I tear my eyes away to see who else has been Called. Even in full regalia I can tell them apart. Aunt Bella's on the Dark Lord’s left, she twitches constantly. The little tic of muscles in her wand arm, and beneath her left eye are visible even through the mask.
Snape's on the other side of Him. Completely still and clad in robes even darker than ours. That’s either an illusion or my own preconception. I'm not entirely sure.
Father and I stand next to Snape, then the Notts - father and son - then Grahamson and Cole. Both only a couple of years older than myself. Too young to have been a Death Eater during Our Lord’s first uprising, but eager and bloodthirsty enough to be in His inner circle now. Which this is. Only a small gathering of the most trusted.
Although not trusted enough to watch the torture.
I wonder if the upstarts were? Could that be their handiwork on Potter's back?
Bella's not capable of that level of brutality. Too coarse and too Muggle to dirty her pureblood hands with. Not that this ever stops her from watching, though.
Snape? I'm not sure exactly what he's capable of. I can't see him being so callous and ham-handed with a whip though. If Snape whipped someone, it would be precise - straight lines and right angles, not a mess of crossing lines.
My eyes flick back to Potter. No, definitely not Snape's work.
After the usual greetings, my thoughts drift, only listening with half an ear. I've seen and performed enough daring captures that Potter's abduction from outside the Order’s safe house seems positively dreary in comparison. Three fellow Death Eaters killed or captured? Oh dear - such a shame! Who would have thought the Order would dare fight to keep their saviour?
If I were being objective, I would say that it's only through sheer dumb luck that Grahamson and Cole managed to escape, apparently with Potter in tow.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the two of them and Nott junior shake their heads in disgust. If I had the energy or the inclination, I'd quite like to knock some sense into them. This is a war after all. We're fighting for our lives, not playacting.
But in the end, as long as it's not Father or me, I just don't care. Well, as long as it's not Father. I hardly think I'd care if I died. What with me being dead and all, not much time to worry about the specifics, I'd imagine.
There is a small applause, which I quite rightly join in.
It crosses my mind to wonder if the cream teas will be served before or after the raffle. It's so very civilised here after all. Except for the prone, whipped body of course. But no doubt the Witches Institution will catch on to that fad too.
What can I say? Sometimes all I have is humour.
"So, my loyal Death Eaters, you see my quandary…" The Dark Lord trails off, looking around the small circle, almost looking through us, into our very souls, if we have such things any more.
"I can't kill Potter, that would be foolish. Those who have so far remained neutral may turn against us and those loyal to Potter would mount an attack against us, the likes of which we've not seen before." A pause, dramatic and a more cynical person might say, staged.
"With Potter alive, they still have hope. Taking hope from anyone will drive them to desperation. And our position is still too fragile to deal with that eventuality. Rescuing Potter should also keep them busy," A flick of his hand, as if our enemies are nothing but five-year-olds needing to be entertained.
We all wait patiently. I'm confused. I have an inkling of where this might go, but still it would seem…illogical.
"And so, Potter must be kept alive and safe," he says, with a curl of the lip.
I know wherever Potter goes, it won't be 'safe', not for him anyway. But then, I guess it depends on your definition of safe.
"Severus has suggested a solution."
The slight hiss in his voice is more noticeable with the unplanned alliteration and I feel a smile tugging at my lips. But this is neither the time nor the place. This is happening more and more frequently. Occasionally, I think I must be going as mad as my father. Except he doesn't laugh…
"Potter cannot, unfortunately, stay with me. It would be…"
The worried pause makes me wonder if he's thinking of the prophecy. I've not heard it in its entirety but there are enough rumours to make me believe there may be truth to Potter being the 'Chosen One'.
"…an ill conceived plan. Severus has kindly agreed to give our honoured guest..." He pauses again to make a mocking bow in Potter's direction, followed by a foot under his shoulder which pushes him onto his marred back.
Potter seems unable to do more than whimper at the pain. Huh, I guess he's awake.
"...quarters to call his own."
No shock there. Snape has been a favourite ever since Dumbledore fell.
"However, I can think of somewhere infinitely better warded." Another pause, completely for effect.
"Lucius," the Dark Lord calls softly.
I grip my hidden wand tightly. I've taken to carrying it in my sleeve for just this type of situation.
Father looks straight at the Dark Lord. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he almost looks eager.
"Malfoy Manor has been warded by Salazar Slytherin, is that true?"
Shit.
Luckily, Father always takes his time before answering the Dark Lord. I point the wand in Father’s direction and cast a non-verbal Imperio. My will slides over his mind easily.
"So it has been said and recorded, my Lord. However, I must regretfully admit to being unable to enlighten you about the precise nature of these wards."
My words come out in Father’s perfect tones. He even inclines his head in the expected manner. I'm thankful I knew him well enough before Azkaban to be able to predict his reactions to a situation.
"Of course," the Dark Lord hisses, seemingly satisfied. There's a gleam in his eyes, an ominous glint that suggests he knows exactly what's going on. I'm not overly concerned at the present. He protects those loyal to him. So long as I can keep up the pretence, fool the others.
He snaps into movement, whipping around Potter’s body to grasp Cole's arm. "Now don't tell anyone where he's hidden," he threatens, and presses a long spindly finger to the mark on the boy’s arm.
Almost instantly the room is filled with more Death Eaters. My own brand burns in sympathy, the sensation dulled slightly since I am already where I should be.
The meeting progresses. Potter is more than conscious now, awakened by the renewed pain as they torture and gloat over him.
I pretend to take an interest. I half-heartedly join in the catcalls and heckling, but my mind is on other matters. Predominantly - where on earth am I going to put him?
o-O-o
The room is empty again before I know it. The Dark Lord is talking softly in Father’s ear, giving him instructions, no doubt. I'll find out later. Father is good with instructions.
He leaves in a flurry of robes, taking Aunt Bella and Snape with him. The latter shoots me a glare over his shoulder. I'd forgotten that this was his plan. No doubt he wanted Potter for his own nefarious purposes.
Father is watching me, waiting for his next move, I suppose. He always does this when we’re alone. It’s likely why I’m hardly ever in his presence.
I bite back the useless sigh that almost slips past my lips and merely take his arm to Apparate us both. The ever-present taste of regret sits like ash in my mouth but I swallow it down anyway.
o-O-o
Screams tear through the night and into my subconscious as I am snapped rudely awake. Fuck! Surely the Dark Lord could’ve waited until morning?
Even as this question formulates in my sleepy mind, my steps are echoing against stone and I’m already calling myself ten kinds of stupid. Of course he would’ve wanted Potter installed in the Manor as soon as possible. And to be tortured within an inch of his life as soon as they’re able to strap him onto the nearest available surface. I should’ve asked Father to tell me of his instructions instead of buggering off to my room.
The screams are louder now and filled with more anguish. The pitch getting higher as the garbled sounds stretch throughout the stillness of the night. I halt as the dungeon door looms before me. My hand rests on the ancient handle.
What to do?
The torture is most assuredly coming from the highest order since Father wouldn’t couldn’t make that decision on his own. There’s nothing else for it then. Like most things that fill my hours, it needs to be done.
Soon- soon I will have to step in. The torture might’ve been going on for hours for all I know but Father is faltering now. I can feel it. He can only go for so long on his own until he needed me. My eyes close on their own accord. I rest my head against the oak wood as another volley of shrieks penetrates it. Oh how I wish these walls were impenetrable and I could cast a Silencio! But what good is a dungeon if it can’t amplify screams?
A few more silent minutes tick by. I wish I could fool myself into thinking Father received instructions for a reprieve, but I know better.
It is time.
With teeth clenched, hands shaking but my eyes dry and staring straight forward, I whisper the spell I know so well.
“Imperio.”
o-O-o
It seems like ages before I can end it and as soon as I do, my fingers grasp the edge of cool glass. Not even bothering to measure it, I fix myself a drink and down it quickly, welcoming the golden fire that burns down my throat. I close my eyes wearily; the memory of each spell Father had to cast is still fresh and the dark shroud that always settles around me when I use Dark magic grows a bit heavier. Amidst the silent air, Potter’s screams have yet to fade. His body is probably still twitching under the remembrance of the prolonged torture.
Cursing, I get up quickly or rather as quickly as I can with about half a bottle of Firewhisky in me. Trust Potter to be so cumbersome as to die within his first night! I sigh as I roll my eyes. To my infinite gratitude, the grating shrieks of pain stop before I am faced once again with Potter’s door. Resolving to get this shite over with, I quickly open it, unsure of what I’ll find.
I stiffen as soon as enough light offers me a view of what’s inside. Of all the things I’d ever expected, this- this never crossed my mind.
The fates must really hate me.
Or they’re truly hurting for a good laugh.
Potter is standing with his back to the door, his hands clutching either side of the dirty sink, his bloodied head bowed. His thin body is shaking and he rakes unsteady fingers over his pale face. Tears are streaming steadily into the grimy basin. Defeat and pain mark every line of his posture. The moment is so very much the same and yet so very different.
The spells have already been cast and it’s more than just a Sectumsempra or even a Cruciatus. Just like I’m sure those aren’t the first tears Potter has shed tonight. Blood has been spilled on the floor, on the walls…in my hands.
I close the door quietly in a manner that I once wished Potter would have done that day. Resolving to hunt down yet another bottle of the cellar’s finest whisky, I make my way up the steps. The night is passed under the pleasant haze of Firewhisky and Ogden’s but even as reality blurs around the edges, I cannot forget the scene I witnessed.
Damn, Potter. Damn him to hell.
o-O-o
The next day isn’t any better. On the whole, it’s actually quite worse. I wake up from a nightmare, if one can call it that. It’s only me running through a long hall. Hardly anything to fret about, but it’s the same bloody thing that’s been haunting me since sixth year. I curse as I run my hand through my hair. If I could only get to the end of that hallway…
I shake my head. Then what? It’s just a stupid dream.
Then, comes another visit from our Lord. It was to be expected. He has come to inspect his pet’s new surroundings or he might’ve come to torture Potter a little bit more. Or perhaps he’s simply feeling bored and in need of distraction.
With the Dark Lord, one can never tell.
I keep my head respectfully bowed as he makes his way past me, my wand at the ready. He seems pleased. A good sign. Perhaps Father and I can have a respite from the raids tonight.
“I see you’ve been keeping true to your word, Lucius! I was right to send the boy here.”
A flick of the wrist and Father’s words are mine.
“I am glad you approve, my Lord.”
Voldemort merely turns to the battered form on the floor and kicks him viciously. Potter stirs with a low groan.
“Tell me, pet, do you like your new quarters?”
“Not as good as what I’m used to,” the boy stupidly bites out through clenched teeth. “But, I’m sure by your Slytherin standards a dungeon is as good as home.”
This earns him another solid kick paired with a well aimed Cruciatus- one that’s solely concentrated on his bits. Honestly, are all Gryffindors this daft?
“You might think you’re clever, Potter, but you are not,” he sneers. “You are wandless, defenceless and so far from home that you might as well be on another realm so far as all your little friends are concerned. There will be no rescue or any other sort of dashing escape this time. Soon you will come to realise all this and then-“ he lifts his face closer as he leans forward. “Then you will be broken, and there’ll be so many pieces of you that no one will ever know how to put you back together again.”
Those red eyes bore down on defiant green. In spite of being a good two feet away from his line of sight, even I am cowed by the Dark Lord’s expression. This is why I can’t even begin to comprehend what happens next.
Potter is laughing, laughing so hard he shakes with not only the after-effects of the Cruciatus but with hilarity as well.
“I-I ca-can’t believe you just threatened me with the fate of Humpty Dumpty!” he chokes out, his body doubled over both in pain and with laughter.
His eyes flash only once and the simultaneous spell that rings through the stale air silences Potter’s inane chuckles by filling his mouth with screams of pain.
It takes a long time before there is nothing in the air but silence.
o-O-o
“Draco.”
There is something distinctly disturbing about the way the Dark Lord says my name. He rolls out the ‘r’ languidly and draws out the ‘o’. My blasted imagination, of course, isn’t any help since it always conveniently supplies me with the very discomfiting image of his long snake-like tongue wrapped around the letters. Like I said, utterly disturbing.
“Yes, my Lord?” I ask with a respectful bow, careful to keep my eyes low and my tone subservient.
“You will look after your old school chum, yes? Take care that he is not too-“ he pauses and I obediently look as if I’m waiting with baited breath, “- overtaxed by your father? I do intend to keep him for quite a while.”
“Of course, my Lord.” I nod at once.
“But do be sure not to heal him either.” A menacing smile follows, one that’s mostly yellowed teeth. “A few potions and a house-elf's worth of healing magic after each session should be enough. After all, we wouldn’t want to spoil Lucius’ beautiful work.”
“That would be a travesty,” I agree readily.
A flash of red catches my eye and before I can steel myself for it, I suddenly feel as if my head is being cleaved in two. I grimace as I fight to keep my equilibrium and struggle to avoid vomiting on the Dark Lord. After a while, the pressure lessens, and I am finally able to breathe without feeling as if my brain is about to explode.
Without another word, Voldemort leaves the hall; an air of triumph lingers in his wake.
o-O-o
It would have happened eventually. I’m sure of it. I just honestly wish that it didn’t have to happen now. For whilst I’ve never backed down from a confrontation with Potter, this afternoon’s ordeal has taken a lot out of me. My temper is frayed and my body is weak from all the magical activity I’ve expelled. A nap seems just the ticket and that’s what I’d be doing now, enfolded in my comfortable duvet, if it weren’t for the Dark Lord’s orders.
Sodding blasted orders!
I haven’t even managed to open the bloody door and the maniac is already running at the mouth. How he has that kind of energy after hours under torture, I will never know.
“I knew it, Malfoy! I knew it all along!” he snarls at me from his corner, like an injured kneazle. His arms are wound carefully on his slowly healing stomach, his teeth bared and his face is a mixture of pain and rage. “I knew you were on his side!”
“Yes, Potter. I chose my family over the side with people I hate and who hate me just as much!” I sneer right back. “How utterly insensible!”
“So we both agree then that you’re a daft bastard?”
The nerve of the stupid git! I clutch my wand. All traces of sympathy or whatever the hell that insanity was last night is wiped clean by this blatant provocation. I welcome the surge of raw anger. The familiarity of it sweeps over me like an embrace from an old friend.
“What? Are you going to hex me now, Malfoy?” he sneers. “Come on then, give it your best shot.”
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” I step menacingly closer. “Because believe me, you’re on your bloody way!”
A low, mocking laugh is the only reply I get, and I grit my teeth so hard I think I might chip something.
“It seems I know something about you that you don’t.” He gives me a smirk similar to my own.
“What pray tell, would that be?” I mock him right back. “Because you are such a paragon of self-awareness yourself!” I shake my head. “Don’t make me laugh.”
He chuckles softly. “You can’t kill me because you wouldn’t dare. Your Lord would have your and your dear father’s hide for garters if you even tried. That’s the one great thing about you, Malfoy.”
“You’re a coward.”
I stiffen at the accusation so carelessly thrown at me, but before I can howl and rage in indignant fury, the next words out of his stupid mouth stop me.
“It’s the only thing that makes you worth anything.”
“Do you really think you’ve the right to appraise anything of worth?” I scoff. “You’re a Gryffindor, Potter. Not only that, but you’re the poster boy for the side of light. You cherish all kinds of silly things! The beauty of a perfect day, fluffy white bunnies, pretty much all manners of living beings, big or small. ” I shake my head, already turning for the door.
“How can you value anything if you hold it equal to everything else?
o-O-o
It happens again the next night and the next and the one after that. The hexes shift and change. Our Lord demands variety, but the level of pain is still the same- excruciating. He wants the sessions to be longer each time as well and that, of course, taxes me more than I’d care to admit. Long term exposure to Imperius is surely detrimental to Father’s health but what else can I do? It is the only thing keeping us safe, and yet this line of thought comes under fire each and every time the light in Father’s eyes dims a tiny bit more.
I gulp down what has to be my eighth shot of Firewhisky and stand up slowly. Reality is once again pleasantly skewed and I thank the heavens for whichever ancestor in our pure Malfoy line had the bloody sense to develop the ability to hold their liquor. I don’t even stumble as I make my way down the stairs and if my steps are a tad too jaunty or my face a bit too flushed, no one can tell in the low light of the dungeons. I’m already thinking about the lovely warm bath that’s awaiting me after I’m done with this troublesome errand when my breath catches in my throat.
Potter is on his back and shaking violently. He's covered with the same stain that’s seeping through the stone-cobbled floors. His face is pale and drawn and his breaths come out in short raspy drags that come alarmingly slower and slower.
I blink twice and rub my eyes for good measure, but the image doesn’t abate. The parody of yet another moment on my top ten list of things to Obliviate makes me want to run screaming from the room. Instead I find myself moving forward, propelled by an unknown force. Suddenly, I am right by his side, my hands wet with his blood as I try to help him.
There’s too much fucking blood and Potter’s eyes are going all glazed and wonky. I slap his face several times, and get a weak jab in my side for my efforts. I would have shoved the little bastard if he didn’t choose that precise moment to cough wetly and shiver against me.
It had to be Aunt Bella. I grimace as I survey his wounds. There’s not enough cuts to warrant such an appalling amount of blood. Plus out of all the Death Eaters, she is always the one that gets carried away. Something about the pain, screams, and gore. She says it sings to her blood, or something equally revolting like that.
Another groan, a faint one this time. By Merlin, I think the idiot is getting heavier by the minute! Potter, you can’t bloody lose it now! The Dark Lord will have my hide for garters, and, I don’t even want to begin to contemplate what he’ll do if he ever gets a hold of Father!
Bloody hell. If only I could cast a healing charm on him! A tiny, obscenely strong one. That should be enough to tide him over until that blasted house elf came!
“Come on, Potter!” I jostle him a little harder and all I get is a slight stir. “You can’t fall asleep, okay? Got that?”
I shake him a bit more. “Bad. Things. Happen. When. You. Sleep.”
Unfortunately, I’m not getting through to the stupid sod and I can already tell he is slipping into unconsciousness once more. I need to do something. Get him angry. Get him crying. Get him laughing. Something! Just anything to get him up and about and thinking, not just lying there dying like a wilting mandrake.
"Did you know the Dark Lord doesn't wear any pants on Tuesdays?" I blurt out.
He coughs even more violently, his eyes stinging from the force of it. “You've got to be shitting me! That’s what you came here to tell me?”
"Honestly, Potter. You're so crass!” I snort to cover my sharp exhale of relief at his begrudging responsiveness. “And no I am not 'shitting you' as you say. It's the house-elves’ one notable act of resistance. They all claim that Tuesday is Undergarment Day, by long established tradition."
“You're wankered, aren't you? You've got to be. Either that or you've finally gone the same way as your dad.”
I sneer so hard I think my face is going to break. "Of course I'm bloody wankered - I'm talking to you, aren't I? And if you mean if I've finally grown up to be as great and powerful as my Father, then yes, Potter. You're correct, because really you can't mean anything else.”
"So anyway, Tuesday- No Pants Day. Watch out for it. Or better yet, don't." I wince as the horrible mental picture comes to haunt me once again. Damn it! I was drinking to get rid of unpleasant thoughts, not enhance them.
"Hey!" I slap him a little upside the head. Okay, so maybe more than a little. The irritating brat had no right to be so bloody infuriating when he’s already half dead! "I told you not to do that!"
Potter growls- actually growls at me like a sodding wet cat! “Will you just fuck off and let me die in peace, Malfoy?”
"Oh, for the love of Merlin's hanging left nut, Potter! Don't be so melodramatic. You're not dying. You haven't managed it in the past 17 years; you're not going to do so now. Especially not in this cell. We just had it cleaned."
He tries to raise his eyebrow mockingly but falls short considering he seems to have lost most feeling in his face. “Don't want me messing the place up?”
I swallow a grin and nod instead. “Exactly. Now be a good little saviour and stay conscious.”
He laughs shakily and more than just a dribble of blood accompanies the hollow sound. “Saviour? Can't believe you can throw that at me whilst I'm bleeding to death on your floor. Do I look like I've saved anything? Do I look chosen for anything but death?”
“Tsk, tsk. What did I tell you about toning down the melodrama? You'd think we were in the middle of a Greek tragedy! You'll always be the boy hero in this story, Potter. Deal with it.”
“I've just spent the last two hours under Cruciatus. I've been whipped and cut on every part on my body. I'm pretty sure that half the blood covering the walls is mine. And you still think I'm a hero?”
“Someone has to be.”
Potter stares at me in confusion. By gods, I think he’s the only man to actually become stupider on his death bed! But suddenly his gaze sharpens as he looks down pointedly at my arms, which (how the bloody fuck did that happen?) are holding him up. "Are you sure it's me?"
I growl at that. "Yes! Besides, Father said I can only keep one courageously stupid Gryffindor at a time. Certainly a lesson well learned. Why, my Uncle Maximillian almost lost half his pinky toe when he stupidly agreed to host a Hogwarts reunion in the Manor with an open buffet. All the Gryffindors in attendance created a bloody stampede trying to get to the crab cakes."
Potter’s laughter is weak and too close to my ear for my sanity, but his breaths come steadier now, and the wetness beneath my fingers has begun to dry. And to my utter and complete consternation, I find that for now, in this very brief almost nonexistent short period of time, it’s all that matters.
Part Two
Author: Aoife Malfoy aoifene
Team: Fanon for hd_worldcup '08
Prompt: The Fool
Word count: 13,326
Rating: NC-17 for graphic violence and language
Warnings: AU. First Person POV. Draco-centric. Set after HBP. Not DH Compliant.
Summary: One year after Dumbledore's death, the tide turns in Voldemort's favour and with Harry Potter locked in the Malfoy dungeons, the fate of the Wizarding World seems bleak. Who'll save the saviour when he's in need of saving?
Author’s Note: Many thanks to my A.C.E. betas and Team Fanon! Based on the literal and figurative meaning of the card, centred on the themes of blind faith, innocence and beginnings.
The sun is high in the sky on this lazy afternoon. The birds are chirping and the wind is gentle. There is nothing that marks this day as different from the next.
But I know better.
I wipe my hands on my robes, uncaring of how uncouth the gesture seems. I am too busy trying to hide the jolt of anxiety threatening to make its way up my chest and I resist the urge to crane my head to see past the muddy window for the twentieth time. It should be happening any minute now.
Just a couple more seconds.
I am nothing if not efficiently organized.
Soon enough explosions are heard overhead and as the cloaked figures around me galvanize into action, I find myself caught in a catalyst moment.
My eyes close against Providence even as they burn with unshed tears.
Who would have thought it would come to this?
o-O-o
Five months ago the tide turned in Voldemort’s favour. With the mental breakdown of Scrimgeour, the forces of light were in shambles. They had no clear direction or leader. Too many middle managers and not enough true leadership, probably. Scrimgeour’s breakdown occurred a year to the very day of Dumbledore’s death. Slightly ironic that I was the cause of both.
The night before the change I had planned and led an attack on Azkaban to free any remaining Death Eaters and a few known sympathizers. My only goal at the time had been to free Father. But then, it seems that everything I do is for him. Sods law then that I should retrieve him broken beyond all repair.
With Voldemort’s troops replenished and hell bent on bringing down the ministry that had put them away, the war finally turned in His favour. Little by little, the Dark Lord began to take control of the Wizarding world. Mudbloods and those who supported them were killed, of course. Along with anyone who dared oppose Him, regardless of blood status.
Diagon Alley is virtually empty. Aurors stationed there are picked off one by one, taken prisoner or killed, depending on the whim of the passing Death Eater. I find it odd that the Dark Lord takes prisoners. Surely it would be so much more efficient to just kill them. Yet at every gathering there seems to be at least one.
Regardless of status; social, blood, monetary or rank; I've seen officials, Muggles, purebloods, mudbloods, whores, the rich and famous, all killed. It doesn't matter. The Dark Lord takes them all. Join or die. Sometimes he doesn't even offer that.
Still, it's somewhat a surprise to arrive at the Dark Lord’s current abode - a converted Godric's Hollow, the Dark Lord, it seems, likes irony - and find Potter.
The sight of my boyhood nemesis, clad only in torn and blood-soaked jeans, slumped on the floor at the Dark Lord’s feet, should, stir some emotion. Anything - hatred, glee, satisfaction. Maybe even pity for the pain that the welts - whip marks, burns and cuts - must be causing.
I can't see his face but I imagine it's colourful-- black, blue and red. The Dark Lord’s three favourites.
It's over then. Is all I can think, feeling neither joyful nor disappointed. It’s just…an observation. It's not unusual. I've not felt more than half alive since I rescued retrieved my father.
I look over to him. As expected, he's waiting patiently. Looking at Potter. Looking through Potter almost, just so long as he's looking where the Dark Lord wants us all to focus. He won't turn away, I know, not until I want him to.
I tear my eyes away to see who else has been Called. Even in full regalia I can tell them apart. Aunt Bella's on the Dark Lord’s left, she twitches constantly. The little tic of muscles in her wand arm, and beneath her left eye are visible even through the mask.
Snape's on the other side of Him. Completely still and clad in robes even darker than ours. That’s either an illusion or my own preconception. I'm not entirely sure.
Father and I stand next to Snape, then the Notts - father and son - then Grahamson and Cole. Both only a couple of years older than myself. Too young to have been a Death Eater during Our Lord’s first uprising, but eager and bloodthirsty enough to be in His inner circle now. Which this is. Only a small gathering of the most trusted.
Although not trusted enough to watch the torture.
I wonder if the upstarts were? Could that be their handiwork on Potter's back?
Bella's not capable of that level of brutality. Too coarse and too Muggle to dirty her pureblood hands with. Not that this ever stops her from watching, though.
Snape? I'm not sure exactly what he's capable of. I can't see him being so callous and ham-handed with a whip though. If Snape whipped someone, it would be precise - straight lines and right angles, not a mess of crossing lines.
My eyes flick back to Potter. No, definitely not Snape's work.
After the usual greetings, my thoughts drift, only listening with half an ear. I've seen and performed enough daring captures that Potter's abduction from outside the Order’s safe house seems positively dreary in comparison. Three fellow Death Eaters killed or captured? Oh dear - such a shame! Who would have thought the Order would dare fight to keep their saviour?
If I were being objective, I would say that it's only through sheer dumb luck that Grahamson and Cole managed to escape, apparently with Potter in tow.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the two of them and Nott junior shake their heads in disgust. If I had the energy or the inclination, I'd quite like to knock some sense into them. This is a war after all. We're fighting for our lives, not playacting.
But in the end, as long as it's not Father or me, I just don't care. Well, as long as it's not Father. I hardly think I'd care if I died. What with me being dead and all, not much time to worry about the specifics, I'd imagine.
There is a small applause, which I quite rightly join in.
It crosses my mind to wonder if the cream teas will be served before or after the raffle. It's so very civilised here after all. Except for the prone, whipped body of course. But no doubt the Witches Institution will catch on to that fad too.
What can I say? Sometimes all I have is humour.
"So, my loyal Death Eaters, you see my quandary…" The Dark Lord trails off, looking around the small circle, almost looking through us, into our very souls, if we have such things any more.
"I can't kill Potter, that would be foolish. Those who have so far remained neutral may turn against us and those loyal to Potter would mount an attack against us, the likes of which we've not seen before." A pause, dramatic and a more cynical person might say, staged.
"With Potter alive, they still have hope. Taking hope from anyone will drive them to desperation. And our position is still too fragile to deal with that eventuality. Rescuing Potter should also keep them busy," A flick of his hand, as if our enemies are nothing but five-year-olds needing to be entertained.
We all wait patiently. I'm confused. I have an inkling of where this might go, but still it would seem…illogical.
"And so, Potter must be kept alive and safe," he says, with a curl of the lip.
I know wherever Potter goes, it won't be 'safe', not for him anyway. But then, I guess it depends on your definition of safe.
"Severus has suggested a solution."
The slight hiss in his voice is more noticeable with the unplanned alliteration and I feel a smile tugging at my lips. But this is neither the time nor the place. This is happening more and more frequently. Occasionally, I think I must be going as mad as my father. Except he doesn't laugh…
"Potter cannot, unfortunately, stay with me. It would be…"
The worried pause makes me wonder if he's thinking of the prophecy. I've not heard it in its entirety but there are enough rumours to make me believe there may be truth to Potter being the 'Chosen One'.
"…an ill conceived plan. Severus has kindly agreed to give our honoured guest..." He pauses again to make a mocking bow in Potter's direction, followed by a foot under his shoulder which pushes him onto his marred back.
Potter seems unable to do more than whimper at the pain. Huh, I guess he's awake.
"...quarters to call his own."
No shock there. Snape has been a favourite ever since Dumbledore fell.
"However, I can think of somewhere infinitely better warded." Another pause, completely for effect.
"Lucius," the Dark Lord calls softly.
I grip my hidden wand tightly. I've taken to carrying it in my sleeve for just this type of situation.
Father looks straight at the Dark Lord. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he almost looks eager.
"Malfoy Manor has been warded by Salazar Slytherin, is that true?"
Shit.
Luckily, Father always takes his time before answering the Dark Lord. I point the wand in Father’s direction and cast a non-verbal Imperio. My will slides over his mind easily.
"So it has been said and recorded, my Lord. However, I must regretfully admit to being unable to enlighten you about the precise nature of these wards."
My words come out in Father’s perfect tones. He even inclines his head in the expected manner. I'm thankful I knew him well enough before Azkaban to be able to predict his reactions to a situation.
"Of course," the Dark Lord hisses, seemingly satisfied. There's a gleam in his eyes, an ominous glint that suggests he knows exactly what's going on. I'm not overly concerned at the present. He protects those loyal to him. So long as I can keep up the pretence, fool the others.
He snaps into movement, whipping around Potter’s body to grasp Cole's arm. "Now don't tell anyone where he's hidden," he threatens, and presses a long spindly finger to the mark on the boy’s arm.
Almost instantly the room is filled with more Death Eaters. My own brand burns in sympathy, the sensation dulled slightly since I am already where I should be.
The meeting progresses. Potter is more than conscious now, awakened by the renewed pain as they torture and gloat over him.
I pretend to take an interest. I half-heartedly join in the catcalls and heckling, but my mind is on other matters. Predominantly - where on earth am I going to put him?
o-O-o
The room is empty again before I know it. The Dark Lord is talking softly in Father’s ear, giving him instructions, no doubt. I'll find out later. Father is good with instructions.
He leaves in a flurry of robes, taking Aunt Bella and Snape with him. The latter shoots me a glare over his shoulder. I'd forgotten that this was his plan. No doubt he wanted Potter for his own nefarious purposes.
Father is watching me, waiting for his next move, I suppose. He always does this when we’re alone. It’s likely why I’m hardly ever in his presence.
I bite back the useless sigh that almost slips past my lips and merely take his arm to Apparate us both. The ever-present taste of regret sits like ash in my mouth but I swallow it down anyway.
o-O-o
Screams tear through the night and into my subconscious as I am snapped rudely awake. Fuck! Surely the Dark Lord could’ve waited until morning?
Even as this question formulates in my sleepy mind, my steps are echoing against stone and I’m already calling myself ten kinds of stupid. Of course he would’ve wanted Potter installed in the Manor as soon as possible. And to be tortured within an inch of his life as soon as they’re able to strap him onto the nearest available surface. I should’ve asked Father to tell me of his instructions instead of buggering off to my room.
The screams are louder now and filled with more anguish. The pitch getting higher as the garbled sounds stretch throughout the stillness of the night. I halt as the dungeon door looms before me. My hand rests on the ancient handle.
What to do?
The torture is most assuredly coming from the highest order since Father wouldn’t couldn’t make that decision on his own. There’s nothing else for it then. Like most things that fill my hours, it needs to be done.
Soon- soon I will have to step in. The torture might’ve been going on for hours for all I know but Father is faltering now. I can feel it. He can only go for so long on his own until he needed me. My eyes close on their own accord. I rest my head against the oak wood as another volley of shrieks penetrates it. Oh how I wish these walls were impenetrable and I could cast a Silencio! But what good is a dungeon if it can’t amplify screams?
A few more silent minutes tick by. I wish I could fool myself into thinking Father received instructions for a reprieve, but I know better.
It is time.
With teeth clenched, hands shaking but my eyes dry and staring straight forward, I whisper the spell I know so well.
“Imperio.”
o-O-o
It seems like ages before I can end it and as soon as I do, my fingers grasp the edge of cool glass. Not even bothering to measure it, I fix myself a drink and down it quickly, welcoming the golden fire that burns down my throat. I close my eyes wearily; the memory of each spell Father had to cast is still fresh and the dark shroud that always settles around me when I use Dark magic grows a bit heavier. Amidst the silent air, Potter’s screams have yet to fade. His body is probably still twitching under the remembrance of the prolonged torture.
Cursing, I get up quickly or rather as quickly as I can with about half a bottle of Firewhisky in me. Trust Potter to be so cumbersome as to die within his first night! I sigh as I roll my eyes. To my infinite gratitude, the grating shrieks of pain stop before I am faced once again with Potter’s door. Resolving to get this shite over with, I quickly open it, unsure of what I’ll find.
I stiffen as soon as enough light offers me a view of what’s inside. Of all the things I’d ever expected, this- this never crossed my mind.
The fates must really hate me.
Or they’re truly hurting for a good laugh.
Potter is standing with his back to the door, his hands clutching either side of the dirty sink, his bloodied head bowed. His thin body is shaking and he rakes unsteady fingers over his pale face. Tears are streaming steadily into the grimy basin. Defeat and pain mark every line of his posture. The moment is so very much the same and yet so very different.
The spells have already been cast and it’s more than just a Sectumsempra or even a Cruciatus. Just like I’m sure those aren’t the first tears Potter has shed tonight. Blood has been spilled on the floor, on the walls…in my hands.
I close the door quietly in a manner that I once wished Potter would have done that day. Resolving to hunt down yet another bottle of the cellar’s finest whisky, I make my way up the steps. The night is passed under the pleasant haze of Firewhisky and Ogden’s but even as reality blurs around the edges, I cannot forget the scene I witnessed.
Damn, Potter. Damn him to hell.
o-O-o
The next day isn’t any better. On the whole, it’s actually quite worse. I wake up from a nightmare, if one can call it that. It’s only me running through a long hall. Hardly anything to fret about, but it’s the same bloody thing that’s been haunting me since sixth year. I curse as I run my hand through my hair. If I could only get to the end of that hallway…
I shake my head. Then what? It’s just a stupid dream.
Then, comes another visit from our Lord. It was to be expected. He has come to inspect his pet’s new surroundings or he might’ve come to torture Potter a little bit more. Or perhaps he’s simply feeling bored and in need of distraction.
With the Dark Lord, one can never tell.
I keep my head respectfully bowed as he makes his way past me, my wand at the ready. He seems pleased. A good sign. Perhaps Father and I can have a respite from the raids tonight.
“I see you’ve been keeping true to your word, Lucius! I was right to send the boy here.”
A flick of the wrist and Father’s words are mine.
“I am glad you approve, my Lord.”
Voldemort merely turns to the battered form on the floor and kicks him viciously. Potter stirs with a low groan.
“Tell me, pet, do you like your new quarters?”
“Not as good as what I’m used to,” the boy stupidly bites out through clenched teeth. “But, I’m sure by your Slytherin standards a dungeon is as good as home.”
This earns him another solid kick paired with a well aimed Cruciatus- one that’s solely concentrated on his bits. Honestly, are all Gryffindors this daft?
“You might think you’re clever, Potter, but you are not,” he sneers. “You are wandless, defenceless and so far from home that you might as well be on another realm so far as all your little friends are concerned. There will be no rescue or any other sort of dashing escape this time. Soon you will come to realise all this and then-“ he lifts his face closer as he leans forward. “Then you will be broken, and there’ll be so many pieces of you that no one will ever know how to put you back together again.”
Those red eyes bore down on defiant green. In spite of being a good two feet away from his line of sight, even I am cowed by the Dark Lord’s expression. This is why I can’t even begin to comprehend what happens next.
Potter is laughing, laughing so hard he shakes with not only the after-effects of the Cruciatus but with hilarity as well.
“I-I ca-can’t believe you just threatened me with the fate of Humpty Dumpty!” he chokes out, his body doubled over both in pain and with laughter.
His eyes flash only once and the simultaneous spell that rings through the stale air silences Potter’s inane chuckles by filling his mouth with screams of pain.
It takes a long time before there is nothing in the air but silence.
o-O-o
“Draco.”
There is something distinctly disturbing about the way the Dark Lord says my name. He rolls out the ‘r’ languidly and draws out the ‘o’. My blasted imagination, of course, isn’t any help since it always conveniently supplies me with the very discomfiting image of his long snake-like tongue wrapped around the letters. Like I said, utterly disturbing.
“Yes, my Lord?” I ask with a respectful bow, careful to keep my eyes low and my tone subservient.
“You will look after your old school chum, yes? Take care that he is not too-“ he pauses and I obediently look as if I’m waiting with baited breath, “- overtaxed by your father? I do intend to keep him for quite a while.”
“Of course, my Lord.” I nod at once.
“But do be sure not to heal him either.” A menacing smile follows, one that’s mostly yellowed teeth. “A few potions and a house-elf's worth of healing magic after each session should be enough. After all, we wouldn’t want to spoil Lucius’ beautiful work.”
“That would be a travesty,” I agree readily.
A flash of red catches my eye and before I can steel myself for it, I suddenly feel as if my head is being cleaved in two. I grimace as I fight to keep my equilibrium and struggle to avoid vomiting on the Dark Lord. After a while, the pressure lessens, and I am finally able to breathe without feeling as if my brain is about to explode.
Without another word, Voldemort leaves the hall; an air of triumph lingers in his wake.
o-O-o
It would have happened eventually. I’m sure of it. I just honestly wish that it didn’t have to happen now. For whilst I’ve never backed down from a confrontation with Potter, this afternoon’s ordeal has taken a lot out of me. My temper is frayed and my body is weak from all the magical activity I’ve expelled. A nap seems just the ticket and that’s what I’d be doing now, enfolded in my comfortable duvet, if it weren’t for the Dark Lord’s orders.
Sodding blasted orders!
I haven’t even managed to open the bloody door and the maniac is already running at the mouth. How he has that kind of energy after hours under torture, I will never know.
“I knew it, Malfoy! I knew it all along!” he snarls at me from his corner, like an injured kneazle. His arms are wound carefully on his slowly healing stomach, his teeth bared and his face is a mixture of pain and rage. “I knew you were on his side!”
“Yes, Potter. I chose my family over the side with people I hate and who hate me just as much!” I sneer right back. “How utterly insensible!”
“So we both agree then that you’re a daft bastard?”
The nerve of the stupid git! I clutch my wand. All traces of sympathy or whatever the hell that insanity was last night is wiped clean by this blatant provocation. I welcome the surge of raw anger. The familiarity of it sweeps over me like an embrace from an old friend.
“What? Are you going to hex me now, Malfoy?” he sneers. “Come on then, give it your best shot.”
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” I step menacingly closer. “Because believe me, you’re on your bloody way!”
A low, mocking laugh is the only reply I get, and I grit my teeth so hard I think I might chip something.
“It seems I know something about you that you don’t.” He gives me a smirk similar to my own.
“What pray tell, would that be?” I mock him right back. “Because you are such a paragon of self-awareness yourself!” I shake my head. “Don’t make me laugh.”
He chuckles softly. “You can’t kill me because you wouldn’t dare. Your Lord would have your and your dear father’s hide for garters if you even tried. That’s the one great thing about you, Malfoy.”
“You’re a coward.”
I stiffen at the accusation so carelessly thrown at me, but before I can howl and rage in indignant fury, the next words out of his stupid mouth stop me.
“It’s the only thing that makes you worth anything.”
“Do you really think you’ve the right to appraise anything of worth?” I scoff. “You’re a Gryffindor, Potter. Not only that, but you’re the poster boy for the side of light. You cherish all kinds of silly things! The beauty of a perfect day, fluffy white bunnies, pretty much all manners of living beings, big or small. ” I shake my head, already turning for the door.
“How can you value anything if you hold it equal to everything else?
o-O-o
It happens again the next night and the next and the one after that. The hexes shift and change. Our Lord demands variety, but the level of pain is still the same- excruciating. He wants the sessions to be longer each time as well and that, of course, taxes me more than I’d care to admit. Long term exposure to Imperius is surely detrimental to Father’s health but what else can I do? It is the only thing keeping us safe, and yet this line of thought comes under fire each and every time the light in Father’s eyes dims a tiny bit more.
I gulp down what has to be my eighth shot of Firewhisky and stand up slowly. Reality is once again pleasantly skewed and I thank the heavens for whichever ancestor in our pure Malfoy line had the bloody sense to develop the ability to hold their liquor. I don’t even stumble as I make my way down the stairs and if my steps are a tad too jaunty or my face a bit too flushed, no one can tell in the low light of the dungeons. I’m already thinking about the lovely warm bath that’s awaiting me after I’m done with this troublesome errand when my breath catches in my throat.
Potter is on his back and shaking violently. He's covered with the same stain that’s seeping through the stone-cobbled floors. His face is pale and drawn and his breaths come out in short raspy drags that come alarmingly slower and slower.
I blink twice and rub my eyes for good measure, but the image doesn’t abate. The parody of yet another moment on my top ten list of things to Obliviate makes me want to run screaming from the room. Instead I find myself moving forward, propelled by an unknown force. Suddenly, I am right by his side, my hands wet with his blood as I try to help him.
There’s too much fucking blood and Potter’s eyes are going all glazed and wonky. I slap his face several times, and get a weak jab in my side for my efforts. I would have shoved the little bastard if he didn’t choose that precise moment to cough wetly and shiver against me.
It had to be Aunt Bella. I grimace as I survey his wounds. There’s not enough cuts to warrant such an appalling amount of blood. Plus out of all the Death Eaters, she is always the one that gets carried away. Something about the pain, screams, and gore. She says it sings to her blood, or something equally revolting like that.
Another groan, a faint one this time. By Merlin, I think the idiot is getting heavier by the minute! Potter, you can’t bloody lose it now! The Dark Lord will have my hide for garters, and, I don’t even want to begin to contemplate what he’ll do if he ever gets a hold of Father!
Bloody hell. If only I could cast a healing charm on him! A tiny, obscenely strong one. That should be enough to tide him over until that blasted house elf came!
“Come on, Potter!” I jostle him a little harder and all I get is a slight stir. “You can’t fall asleep, okay? Got that?”
I shake him a bit more. “Bad. Things. Happen. When. You. Sleep.”
Unfortunately, I’m not getting through to the stupid sod and I can already tell he is slipping into unconsciousness once more. I need to do something. Get him angry. Get him crying. Get him laughing. Something! Just anything to get him up and about and thinking, not just lying there dying like a wilting mandrake.
"Did you know the Dark Lord doesn't wear any pants on Tuesdays?" I blurt out.
He coughs even more violently, his eyes stinging from the force of it. “You've got to be shitting me! That’s what you came here to tell me?”
"Honestly, Potter. You're so crass!” I snort to cover my sharp exhale of relief at his begrudging responsiveness. “And no I am not 'shitting you' as you say. It's the house-elves’ one notable act of resistance. They all claim that Tuesday is Undergarment Day, by long established tradition."
“You're wankered, aren't you? You've got to be. Either that or you've finally gone the same way as your dad.”
I sneer so hard I think my face is going to break. "Of course I'm bloody wankered - I'm talking to you, aren't I? And if you mean if I've finally grown up to be as great and powerful as my Father, then yes, Potter. You're correct, because really you can't mean anything else.”
"So anyway, Tuesday- No Pants Day. Watch out for it. Or better yet, don't." I wince as the horrible mental picture comes to haunt me once again. Damn it! I was drinking to get rid of unpleasant thoughts, not enhance them.
"Hey!" I slap him a little upside the head. Okay, so maybe more than a little. The irritating brat had no right to be so bloody infuriating when he’s already half dead! "I told you not to do that!"
Potter growls- actually growls at me like a sodding wet cat! “Will you just fuck off and let me die in peace, Malfoy?”
"Oh, for the love of Merlin's hanging left nut, Potter! Don't be so melodramatic. You're not dying. You haven't managed it in the past 17 years; you're not going to do so now. Especially not in this cell. We just had it cleaned."
He tries to raise his eyebrow mockingly but falls short considering he seems to have lost most feeling in his face. “Don't want me messing the place up?”
I swallow a grin and nod instead. “Exactly. Now be a good little saviour and stay conscious.”
He laughs shakily and more than just a dribble of blood accompanies the hollow sound. “Saviour? Can't believe you can throw that at me whilst I'm bleeding to death on your floor. Do I look like I've saved anything? Do I look chosen for anything but death?”
“Tsk, tsk. What did I tell you about toning down the melodrama? You'd think we were in the middle of a Greek tragedy! You'll always be the boy hero in this story, Potter. Deal with it.”
“I've just spent the last two hours under Cruciatus. I've been whipped and cut on every part on my body. I'm pretty sure that half the blood covering the walls is mine. And you still think I'm a hero?”
“Someone has to be.”
Potter stares at me in confusion. By gods, I think he’s the only man to actually become stupider on his death bed! But suddenly his gaze sharpens as he looks down pointedly at my arms, which (how the bloody fuck did that happen?) are holding him up. "Are you sure it's me?"
I growl at that. "Yes! Besides, Father said I can only keep one courageously stupid Gryffindor at a time. Certainly a lesson well learned. Why, my Uncle Maximillian almost lost half his pinky toe when he stupidly agreed to host a Hogwarts reunion in the Manor with an open buffet. All the Gryffindors in attendance created a bloody stampede trying to get to the crab cakes."
Potter’s laughter is weak and too close to my ear for my sanity, but his breaths come steadier now, and the wetness beneath my fingers has begun to dry. And to my utter and complete consternation, I find that for now, in this very brief almost nonexistent short period of time, it’s all that matters.
Part Two