and blessings to the faithful and forgiving the sinners, the way the men in the makeshift barracks acted when
Lucius Malfoy walked through the gates. Had it been anyone less than Lucius, there would have been an
explosion, men clapping, hollering, congratulating for whatever monumental task had been achieved. A
momentary reprieve from the tension and grudginess of this ‘beautiful, glorious’ life of darkness. But this
was Lucius Malfoy, and he might as well have been Jesus Christ for what he did. He didnt make a corpse
walk again, he finally buried one that had been walking for seventeen years.
He was the man who had managed to kill Harry Potter.
So there was no explosion, no clapping, no congratulations. There was silence, dead silence, the silence that
comes from reverence. No one said anything because no one could say anything *enough* to encompass the
honor that Lucius’ very name now brought to scenes. He would be the Dark Lords new right hand man,
there was no doubt about that, he would soon rule over them all. But amazingly, there was no resentment,
no hatred. It was like the Greeks being told that Julius Ceasar would lead them into battle. But there would
be no March 15th this time around... at least not in this decade. But almost certainly in the next one. Rivals
were not made, they were born, after all.
He walked through the stone hall with robes sweeping, not looking to either side despite the fact that
everybody was looking at *him*. It was the perfect act of regality. He approached a towering doorway, the
entrance into the main hall of the building, a hall that was only to be accessed by the Dark Lord’s head
liteunants, with badges and passwords ready. The two guards standing there stepped aside without
hesitation, allowing him to pass. It would not do to hinder the Messiah on his quest to meet his Father. It
would not do at all. They might lose a finger for letting him through unquestioned. The *would* lose a hand
if they did not.
The Hall itself was all the real guarding any place on the planet would ever need. A narrow golden path
(follow the yellow brick road, Lucius thought to himself, remembering reading the Muggle book once. He’d
also heard they made a movie out of it, once.) went straight ahead, flanked on either side by a crusade of
Dementors. At least a dozen on each side, more than enough power to bring the strongest man to his knees
as the worst memories of his life pounded through him. But Lucius didn’t flinch. He was already living that
memory, and it was soaked through his system, playing behind his eyelids every time he blinked. It talked to
him, in the back of his head, chanting over and over again. “Please... please... please...” it was saying, but
Lucius didnt know what it was pleading for. His success? His failure? His death? Time would tell.
Seemingly sensing something was wrong, one of the Dementors glided forwards towards him, reaching a
twisted and mangled hand out towards his throat. Lucius heard something begin to swirl around him, the
faintest rustling of wind, and he realized the Dementor was trying something, not the kiss, not the memories,
but something foreign, something he was not prepared for.
“STOP.”
The voice was not loud, but it was absolute. What else would the Dark Lords voice be in his own home? It
was finality incarnate, and the Dementor did exactly what it said, and Lucius though that even its robe
stopped sweeping as it froze in the exact position it had been in. The swirling swept away like the wind it
was, leaving the hall suddenly silent.
“Lucius is our honored guest,” the voice said, “our very, very honored guest.”
For a moment, it seemed like the very air shimmered. Something rippled, and then faded away, and from
blank air produced solid form, solid object, solid man. A dark throne, carved from jet, curled up around its
occupant like a hand with long, spidery fingers. The occupant himself was as dark as the jet, not so much in
color as in presence, and he placed down an impossibly long scroll to look at Lucius in away that would
seem affectionate if not so twisted with a perverse glee. “We’ve been waiting your arrival,” he said, and it
was obvious he meant the others. Lucius had no doubt that the Dark Lord didn’t care if he ever saw him
again, but the disciples... they needed him, needed him to be set up as a hero. So Voldemort was playing the
correct role in this situation, even though in his mind Lucius was sure that he himself had played the only
role he had ever been useful for.
“My liege,” he murmured, and fell to one knee, sweeping his robes back around himself.
“Rise, Lucius,” the voice came, and it was amazing how something so cold could sound soft. “After the
recent events, all I wish from you is allegiance, and not submittance. You performed beyond expectations in
destroying a very powerful enemy of ours.”
Lucius did not rise. “My liege, I’m not sure I understand.” He said. “My father was not so powerful.”
For a moment, Voldemort seemed to freeze. And then he rose from his throne, slowly, perching on the seat
and looming high above Lucius. “So it is you,” he hissed, “you’ve come to me.”
Draco stood up almost awkwardly. His father was strong, but bulky, not wiry like him, and the movements
were different. He was not so accustomed to this body, not yet, even being under the influence of Polyjuice
potion for several hours. Even pulling out his wand felt uncomfortable. For a brief moment he wondered if
simply fighting his way into the Apparation guarded halls would have been better than polyjuice potion,
especially after he’d had to go back to his fathers stiffening form and pluck hairs from his head. Hermione
had been absolutely insistent on that part.
Voldemort stared at him with the horrible red gashes he called eyes, and spoke so quietly it could not be
heard. “You foolish child...” he said, “you foolish, impetuous, impotent and confused child. We would have
let you go, you know. You were of no matter to us. You should not be here”
Draco smiled at him, the cool, mirthless smile of the damned. “Well I am now.” He said. “Even if it is just to
take a moment of your time. Draw your wand, you pale son of a bitch, and end this for me.” He was
successfully doing what no other man had been able to do. He was standing, unflinching, before the Dark
lord.
For a moment, it seemed like Voldemort was going to comply. But his thoughts were obviously on this very
unchararistic lack of fear, seeming even more unsettling from someone wearing the body of a sniveling
worm such as Lucius was. Or had been. . It was nothing physical, just a shifting feeling of energy, that told
Draco that Voldemort had no intention of going for his wand. Instead, he waved his hand, towards the
Dementors.
“Get rid off him,” he said softly.
They swarmed in like bats, even as Draco snapped the wand he was holding in two over his knee. It was like
trying to break steel, but Draco was running on borrowed power that far surpassed his own. The jagged tip
from either end of the shattered tool glowed red hot as they were exposed to the air, shooting sparks onto
Draco’s arms, which signed hair and burnt skin, which he simply ignored. “Phoenix feather,” he growled
plunging the tip of one of the ends into the nearest advancing Dementor, “burns hotter than the sun when
broken.” The Dementor burst into flame in an instant, and Draco shoved it backwards as it flailed, spreading
its fire to another of its kind. He heard Voldemort hiss in displeasure, but there was no fear in the voice.
They’re were more than enough Dementors to suffice.
Draco ducked a reaching claw and simply threw one of the two pieces of his wand into the grip of the
reaching hand. It burst into flame like paper, and it became apparent that the Dementors themselves burnt
better than their robes did. Draco swept his remaining half like a sword, catching the tail of one of the
demons robes. It lit up, but another fell upon him, grabbing his arm with its claw like hands and sinking
sharp yellow nails into his skin. The wand slipped from his fingers and clattered against the ground, and
almost gracefully the Dementor slid up his chest, gripping his shoulders and locking its teeth directly onto
Draco’s lips. He would have screamed as a set of teeth ripped through the fragile flesh of his face, but his
jaws were clamped shut as the Dementor began to inhale, beginning what was the end for all of the others
who were subjected to it But something was different. It was not a soul that was being pulled away, but a
face. Skin, hair, bone, blood. It all went down the endless gullet of the Dementor, stripped away from a man
who was no longer a man, but a boy. And when it was done, Draco Malfoy stood unscathed, in his true
form. Blood flecked his face, but it was fallen blood from another form.
Then the Dementor collapsed, and didn’t rise again.
Draco turned towards the Dark Lord, who had not moved from his spot, but was simply watching. If
nothing else, he actually seemed interested now. But Draco did not want the Dark Lord interested, he
wanted him angry. “I think your bodyguards are getting fresh,” he snarled, and pointed at the markings
around his eyes, “good thing I came prepared.”
Without warning he seized hold of one of the Dementors, who hadn’t expected the sudden turn of defense.
He pulled it close and laid his lips against whatever ungodly face lurked below it. His kiss was fast, but did
the job, and when he pulled away the Dementor was already folding to the ground. The others fell back as if
from an explosion, but Draco had no more interest in them. He simply looked back at Voldemort. “Do you
have anything else for me,” he asked in a growl, “or are you ready to do this job yourself?”
“You fool. Your wand has been broken by your own hand. You are worthless.” Once again, it seemed like
the Dark Lord was going to do it, but instead he called out in his encompassing voice again, so that it rang
through the entire building. “TO ME, MY DEATH EATERS! THERE IS A TRAITOR AMONG US! TO
ME!” It was quite the spectacle to see, the Dark Lord calling for help, but it was not something Draco was
looking forward too.
Draco spun to face the door that led into the hall, expecting a rumbling stampede of Dark Wizards rushing
to cut him down, and realized that this hadn’t been the greatest idea after all- of course, he’d always thought
that, but at least this would be proof. But there was nothing. If anything, the backward buzz of life behind
the doors died down. The building was silent. And realization dawned on both of them at the same time, but
Draco said it anyway. “You trained them too well,” he said with dawning glee, “you trained them to let you
handle the traitors! And this... they think this is a test.”
“Shut up!” The Dark Lord commanded.
“They think its a test!” Draco repeated, almost laughing now. “And you can’t do anything about it!
Voldemort stared at his in a seething hatred that did not even closely match the hatred that lurked behind
Draco’s own eyes. There was nothing he could say to his men outside of this room. Any persuasion he tried
would simply convince them more in their conviction that this was a trial, as would any threat. He knew
then, that he would have to give this little maggot the satisfaction of being felled by his own hand. A small
defeat, but a defeat nonetheless. So he was going to make this as painful as he possibly could. His wand
came up into the air under its own power- the Dark Lord had long since lost the need of simple charms such
as Wingardium Leviosa- , into his waiting hand, and he pointed it easily at Draco. “Cruciate!”
But Draco had one more wand in his arsenal, one final wand. Harrys wand. He raised it up like a shield, and
the bellowing waves of the torturous spell struck across it, and instead of seeing Draco writhing in pain on
the floor, a far too familiar scene began to play in front of Voldemort’s eyes. It was like a rocket launched
backward from Draco’s wand, a reflection from the spell, and struck against Voldemorts, locking the two
together. In the center of that rocket stream was a glowing bead, and Voldemort remembered seeing that
bead inching towards his own wand, the imminent force that snatched Harry Potter from his grasp. Golden
strands lanced out from the two wands, connecting with each other, forming an orb that was laced with the
faintest tones of Phoenix Song. His wand began to shake viciously in his hands but he kept an iron grip on it,
watching Draco with the eyes of a predator. And Draco was looking right back at him.
They’re was a power struggle over the bead of light. Voldemort pushed against it, and Draco pushed back.
For a moment it maintained itself in the middle, but then began to push towards the Dark Lord, and then
back again. All the while the golden strands were growing brighter, and wider in their arcs. From the corner
of his eye Draco saw one of the threads lace through a Dementor, cutting through it like a hot knife through
butter. Two ends of robes fluttered separately to the ground, and the severed Dementor collapsed.
And then Draco’s attention was back. He reached into himself, into a special pouch he had created. Not of
his own power, but of someone elses. He could literally taste it vibrating against his rip cage, and it taste
primal, it tasted like a wild animal, a dog, a wolf. “Avada,” he said, taking a deep breath, focusing all of that
pouch into his next words, watching as the golden bead drew so close to his wand it was almost touching
“Kedavra.”
The golden bead went suddenly bright, brilliantly green, and there was no more semblance of struggle. It
launched with the force of a cannon *away* from Draco, in the only other direction it could go. Right
towards Lord Voldemort. There was a sudden moment as Voldemort realized was about to happen and
went to let go of his wand, to break the connection, but it was too late. Both wands, overwhelmed with
stress and energy, exploded in red heat that was instantly overwhelmed with green light so bright it almost
seemed white to the two men inside the room. The Dementors fell back like broken kindling, collapsing
against the cold stones of the floor, literally melting inside their robes as the green light encompassed the
entire room, blinding everyone inside, and then died out as quickly as quickly as it had came.
Voldemort did not melt, but he was shrinking nonetheless. Pasty green flesh faded away, fingers shortened,
eyes widened and faded to a muddy brown. A sloping skull faded into brown hair, and slitted nostrils broke
into a small, crooked nose. And it was not Voldemort, but Tom Riddle, who collapsed to the stones, finally
put to rest..
And somewhere a voice was screaming, chanting, now unheard to the one man it had been meant for.
“No... no... god, Draco, please no...”
Because Draco was not listening anymore. Draco had felt the hands on his shoulders, felt the life saving
embrace behind him.
“Please, Draco...”
And he’d pulled away from it.
“No.”