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The Malfoys are not your most devoted followers. That honour goes to the Lestranges, who live and breathe under your direction. But the Malfoys are loyal and steadfast, and for this you do reward them.
“I require a gift from you, Lucius.”
“A gift, my Lord?” He serves as your crooked politician, as your financial advisor. Soon he will serve as sire to a most precious gift indeed.
“An honour,” you say softly, “that no other in the history of magic has been offered before. Do this for me, Lucius, and your loyalty will never be in doubt.”
Lucius prostrates himself before you. “My Lord, anything you desire, anything I may provide for you… it is yours. Consider it done.”
And so when the Lestranges finally bring you Dumbledore, you ask for Lucius Malfoy to bring you his son.
Draco Malfoy’s eyes are wide as they dart around the large ceremonial room. His mother stands behind her young son, her fear buried deep as she pleads for him to cease his unending onslaught of questions.
You do not stop her; you do not tell her child to be silent. The little boy’s innocence provides an interesting prelude to your planned ritual.
Albus Dumbledore lies motionless before you, bound by both rope and magic. His withered, blackened hand explains his capture; such a crippling injury—delivered by your own Horcrux, no less—has brought him to your feet. He is humbled by your victory.
Crumpled on your stone floor, without his ostentatious robes to cover his frail, aging form, he is nothing but a mortal man.
“Who is he?” Draco asks the room, a demanding edge to his voice. He does not like the dark that fills the room. But this fear lends him bravado, and that is admirable in one so young.
Therefore, your answer to his question is succinct. “I am going to kill him.”
Narcissa grips her son’s arm, alarmed by his possible reaction, but Draco is not disturbed by your cruel declaration. He moves closer, shrugging off his mother’s hand.
“And I get to watch?” His eyes are eager.
You say, “Yes,” and you beckon for him to approach.
Draco presents himself to you with a cautious smile, and so you reward him with an elusive smile of your own. Rarely do you converse with children—what you recall of your youth is so very distant. But the Malfoy child is to be yours, and so he must be treated with care.
With Narcissa’s stunned gaze as witness, you slowly lower yourself to kneel before him. Your hand rises to the boy’s head, your pale fingers tangling with the soft, fine hairs dangling over his brow. The blonde colour several shades lighter than Lucius’.
“You are going to help me,” you tell him. His hair feels like silk against your fingertips.
Draco nods with affected solemnity. His eyes return to Dumbledore. “Was he a bad man?” he asks. “Is that why he’s being punished?”
“Something like that.” You rise to your feet and offer him your open palm. “Come.”
To Narcissa, you say, “Leave.”
After the deed is done, Narcissa’s trembling fingers trace the shape of othala on her son’s forehead, a mark of tradition and heritage that outranks the winding serpent on her arm.
Your soul has made Draco’s youthful exuberance docile; he submits to her fussing without comment. Lucius stands stiffly besides them both, determined to play the role of proud patriarch.
“He shall stay with me,” you tell them, and they do not dare deny you.
Your Horcrux child is spoiled beyond repair, yet he reminds you a little of yourself, at that age. Unrepentantly arrogant, fascinated by power, and keenly aware of the emotions of those around him.
Lucius and Narcissa are unhappy with Draco’s place of honour at your side. They would rather have their son than the Dark Lord’s favour. But Draco adores you; he looks to you for everything—for sustenance, for comfort, for thoughts to fill his pretty little head.
He is pretty, even for a child. Malfoys have always worn their looks well, fine blonde hair like a royal crown upon their heads—the birthright of the Malfoy line passed through generations under your watchful eye.
Abraxas bore his title with dignity, Lucius with vanity. Draco, treasured vessel of your soul, wears his own like a cloak. His very nature is warm, protective. He would do anything to please you, anything for your attention.
At your side, his pale hands cling to the hem of your robes, one soft cheek pressed to your clothed leg. He listens attentively to your rulings, and he gazes, wide-eyed, when you bestow punishments upon unworthy servants.
Your clean brutality intimidates and excites him in equal measure, and eventually you come to understand the thread of his thoughts: safety comes from power comes from fear.
With you as his protector, your macabre machinations do not frighten him as they should; his insecurities are lessened, bolstered by the deference you allow. You have no doubt that, given time, he will be a worthy extension of your reign.
Draco reads the books you provide. He walks with you in the gardens, and he dines by your side at your request. The world around him changes, the seasons slipping by like seconds, and Draco transforms in his own way, an emerging blossom of beauty.
You are pleased by his sweet-tempered nature, by the blush of his abashment. Though his manner before others is haughty, when you are alone, you glimpse threads of doubt in his pretty silver eyes. He is unaware of his own elegance, unsure of his charms; doubtful, even, of the value he holds in your court.
When the time comes, you instruct him to distribute punishments in your stead. He does not take well to this task—he lacks his father’s predisposition to brutality, his grandfather’s commitment to duty. Three generations of Malfoys you have known, and he is the first unable to kill at your command.
Still, Draco kneels dutifully at your feet whenever you call for him. He confides in you that this is where he feels most at peace. As yours, he is content. How could he not be? So you forgive him his shortcomings, his reluctance to perform the tasks you ask of him.
He is yours, utterly; that is enough.
The passage of time means little to an immortal; the most prominent threat to your rapidly expanding empire is that your sadistic delight may eclipse it. Cities fall in your wake, then entire nations. The world fears your name, as you once knew it would.
In your gluttonous haze, your brutality expands further than ever before. You fill oceans with blood. You whet your appetite on the deaths of thousands until even your most faithful fear your reckoning. They forget the man you once were and see only the god you have become.
But when your bloodlust tires, when the enclosure of your slaughterhouse becomes a prison, you return home. You take refuge in your immortality, in your Horcrux. Draco’s presence grants you respite, a modest shelter from the war of your own design.
“Come sit with me, my Lord.”
He does not entreat you to rest; perhaps he is clever enough to realise you would never agree to such a request. Instead, he calls for your time and attention. He asks you to stay, not for your sake, but for his own.
Draco leans into your embrace, his head pillowed on your arm. You remain silent, but you can feel the warmth of his body through the fabric of your robes.
He never tells you this, but during your many absences, the scar on his forehead burns.
“Come meet your brother, Draco.” Though Narcissa’s eyes are creased with exhaustion, motherhood becomes her—her cheeks are rosy and her skin glows with joy. “Say hello to Scorpius.” Narcissa tugs back the edge of the blanket to reveal the infant’s bright, bulbous face.
Draco hesitates before drawing near, shoulders tense. You watch as the back of his head dips over the bundle in Narcissa’s arms.
“He looks like you.”
“No,” Narcissa says softly. “He looks like you.” The boy coos in its sleep, his tiny first waving in the air. “Would you like to hold him? He is a very sweet boy.”
“I don’t know.” Draco turns to you, hesitation writ on his face, and you nod permission. “Yes, I suppose.”
Narcissa shows him where and how to place his hands, arranging both of her children until she is satisfied. Draco remains stiff with discomfort as his mother fusses. Life has not touched him this way in some time; not so directly, and never with such familiarity.
The tips of his fingers brush through the boy’s fine blonde hairs, their colour so like his own.
“He’s so small,” Draco says, voice barely above a whisper.
Narcissa hesitantly raises her hand to Draco’s shoulder. “You were once small, too,” she says, and though her tone is kind, there are no maternal airs left for her eldest child.
“I suppose.” Draco lifts his eyes to hers, and in that moment, you see the boy he might have been, had he been raised as a son and not as your Horcrux. Swaddled in warmth instead of war.
Scorpius chooses that moment to rouse from sleep. Faced with an unfamiliar stranger hovering over him, he begins to cry.
Narcissa anxiously retrieves her son from Draco’s motionless embrace and cradles him to her chest. “Hush now, don’t worry. Mummy’s here.”
Draco’s arms fall limply to his sides. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Narcissa says, offering him another smile.
Draco does not smile as he returns to your side.
Lucius joins his wife, resting a hand to the small of her back as she hums a lullaby. This time, he spares a glance for his eldest son before he turns to you. “Will we see you for Yule, my Lord? You are more than welcome to reside at our manor for the holidays.”
You, unlike Lucius, need not glance Draco's way to ascertain his feelings. Their joy is what could have been his. What he might have known had he not dedicated his life to you.
“We will be occupied.”
Lucius inclines his head. “Of course, my Lord.”
Draco’s irritation at your presumption prickles at the back of your mind, but he does not voice his complaint. Nor does he turn away from his estranged family, however much he might wish to.
The world they represent is unattainable to you both, but he lingers on its image all the same, and in this way, the gilded cage you provide is a kindness.
As Scorpius continues to grow, you keep yourself appraised of his progress. He acquires his first wand. He goes to Slytherin house. He will marry young, too—a pureblood witch with whom he will sire a son, as almost all Malfoys before him have done. Someday, he will take his father’s place in your political landscape.
But Scorpius is nothing like your Horcrux. He is human, fragile, weak. Yet it is a human joy which he shares with his parents, his friends, his lover. These are the relationships you despise—the family you murdered, the schoolmates you subjugated, the love you christened as weakness.
And so it slips your notice, the gloom that expands over the fields of months and years like famine. Draco is young, he is naive. His desires are secondary to your own, and his inexperience is negligible.
You find him in various rooms, staring listlessly out the windows. His eyes reflect the cool Wiltshire skies, the dull walls of your manor, the monochrome of your skin.
You find him at the edge of the woods, expensive robes soaked in rainwater. He listens to your scoldings with half an ear, he dons your cloak with a pale smile on his lips.
You find stiffness in his movements, dullness in his once-bright gaze. Silences fall between you at mealtimes, and he often requests to be excused early.
“What do you need?” you ask him, one hand smoothing his fine blonde hair, the other trailing down the line of his back. “What can I give you?”
“Just hold me, my Lord,” he says quietly. “It feels better when you’re here.”
He is your Horcrux. He should be happy. It had never occurred to you that one day you might return and not find him here at all.
At your request, his mother comes to visit. You sit, the three of you, in your grand parlour. Her hair has thinned, and the pale lines on her face are darker than usual. Still, you pay compliment to her beauty, the timelessness with which she carries herself.
Narcissa has never directly involved herself in your affairs, but you respect her dedication to the station of wife and mother. Her maternal intuition is convenient in this case. Without need for your direction or prompting, Narcissa focuses her attention on caring for Draco.
Though her fussing coaxes a small smile from his lips, it does not dissipate the melancholy that clouds his mind.
“Mother, please,” he reassures her, “I am quite alright.”
He does a better job of lying when it is not you he lies to.
That evening, you find him in your chambers. His silhouette is thin and trembling in the moonlight. No doors in your manor are locked to him, yet he has never dared trespass here before. You find yourself uncharacteristically concerned.
“Draco?”
When he turns to you, his eyes are distant—they remind you oddly of your own, and this thought sits poorly in the pit of your stomach for unfathomable reasons. You approach him, now wary, and watch as he slips to his knees, gripping your robes and kissing the hem of them.
“Please,” he whispers, “my Lord—” He clutches himself to you like the child he once was.
As a child, he looked to you for everything. Now he looks for a life you cannot provide. You rest your hand upon his head and ponder what to do.
You had once offered him war—absolute command of a dozen Inferi armies, and powerful magic that would devastate your enemies before they even thought to raise a wand against you. He had refused.
So it was safer, you had reasoned, to keep him close and shelter him from the violence he had no capacity for. But in concealing him from death, you have executed violence of another kind, withholding from him the life he so desperately desires.
“I am here,” you tell him, and watch his shoulders relax in return.
You place him in your bed and watch over him until his breathing slows. While he sleeps, you trace the silhouette of his profile with the tip of your finger. He is beautiful, like his father and grandfather before him. It was this beauty that had drawn you to him, to choose him.
That night, he dreams of red oceans and wordless cries. His mother’s body, dead at his feet. His father’s body, strung from high ceilings.
He never dreams of you. You can only wonder what that means.
The grounds are expanded at your command. With their ancient magic, your house elves cultivate gorgeous meadows of flowers and intricate gardens full of trees, shrubs, and colourful plants. A great lake is shaped, fed by a nearby stream, while winding paths and dense woods provide pleasant places to explore.
When you are satisfied with your domain, you arrange for horses to be brought to the manor. Abraxas had always been fond of his creatures, and you expect this appreciation of wildlife to be present in his grandson.
Your intuition is correct. Draco sits with the horses and brushes their coats, speaking to them in hushed, gentle tones, and gradually trains them to respond to a variety of simple commands. They are far removed from the horror he has known through your eyes, and this brings him peace.
At his invitation, you join him on his early morning rides, when dawn is pale across the sky and fog clings to the horizon. The rhythmic gait of your steeds provides a steady backdrop of sound as you pass through several picturesque landscapes.
“Do you enjoy these rides?”
“I do, my Lord.” Draco pauses, his gaze fixed on the path ahead that stretches far into the distance. “Thank you.”
You cannot provide a life unlived, but you can provide this.
Time turns on; the earth is no longer a battlefield or a butchery, but a graveyard. Mundane deaths occur by the thousands every day, insignificant ants marching toward the same, inevitable end.
Your Horcrux returns to your chambers every night. He rests in your bed, his dreams occasionally drenched in violent tableaus where you play no role. Yet you feel the weight of these scenes as though they, too, were your eternal creations.
In those quiet hours before dawn, after he wakes from dreams without you in them, you take turns watching each other.
“Do you miss it?” he asks you. “Being human.”
Humanity was your chrysalis, something to be forgotten and cast away. And yet, in the darkness, you find traces of it in his eyes, a thousand silver threads wound into a single, perfect strand.
“No,” you answer. “But I remember it.” The feelings of fear you once despised are now distant, a discarded remnant of a forgotten childhood. You think, perhaps, your rage has begun to fade much in the same way.
Draco sways forward an inch, his eyes locked on yours. “And what about me?” he asks at last. “Am I human?”
Of course not, you nearly say. He is your invention, your Horcrux.
But your wars rage on in his mind, their blackened echoes stitched into his patchwork soul. He is a part of your past as much as he is a part of you—a part of your future.
“Yes.”
He was human before he was ever yours.
Draco observes your lack of reaction with a hesitant expression. “You have not left in a while,” he adds softly.
You admit, “There is little to leave for, these days.”
He smiles at that. You hear his heart begin to settle, and you think you feel the lightness of it reflected in your own.
END.