Watch and learn, young Malfoy.
Lord Voldemort's hollow voice still echoes in my ears, his words sharp and laden with meaning. That is what he told me just before he inflicted the Dark Mark upon me, and amidst the misty remembrance of that occasion, these words are still vividly etched in my mind.
Tearful screams fill my ears as I stand in the same room once again, partially obscured by my father. I stare forward with unseeing eyes as Lord Voldemort tortures Wormtail with the Cruciatus curse. Wormtail cries for mercy as he writhes stricken on the ground, his body wracked with helpless agony.
My breathing quickens imperceptibly as Wormtail's shrieks resound in my ears, making them tingle. The shrill echo spirals through my mind, dredging up the distant remembrance of my own anguished screams on that day when everything changed.
I swallow hard, forcing my gaze to remain level and unblinking. I have seen the Cruciatus curse demonstrated on a spider during a Defence Against the Dark Arts class once before, but it was nothing like the grotesque scene enacted before my eyes at this moment. The one now being tortured is a human specimen, and my insides lurch as I watch Wormtail's body jerk in spasms of pain.
Lord Voldemort finally raises his wand, halting the curse. Wormtail lies twitching on the floor, sobbing brokenly, his breathless gasps filling the volumes of silence within the room. The small circle of Death Eaters stand rigidly around Wormtail's fallen figure, and they make no move to help their comrade. I steal a sidelong glance at them, and I see the veiled fear on each of their faces, including my father's.
I watch as Wormtail drags himself toward Lord Voldemort's feet, crawling on his knees. He clutches desperately at the hem of his master's robes, begging for mercy, pleading for another chance to prove his undying loyalty.
"Forgive me, master, I swear I will not fail you again," he weeps. "I am your faithful servant!"
I watch, but I will never learn.
I will never learn how to relinquish my dignity and sink to such depths, the way Wormtail is allowing himself to be humiliated now. A streak of reckless defiance flares within me, and I draw a sharp breath as I close my eyes. I will never surrender myself completely to the mercy of another. I may serve, but I will not be owned.
"I do not forgive." Lord Voldemort's voice is dangerously soft, and my eyes snap open again. Inexplicably, he turns away from the wretched Wormtail and looks directly at me. It is as though he has heard my thoughts, as if he is speaking the ominous reminder to my mind. I cringe slightly, and the familiar fear washes through me once again.
"Watch and learn, Draco," he says deliberately, for the second time. His eyes are evenly fixed on mine. Watch and see what becomes of anyone who defies me, his eyes calmly taunt me, and learn never to let your obedience waver. His chilling tone instantly shreds my feeble bravery, leaving me weak and vulnerable as I mutely nod and shamefully look away.
Lord Voldemort smiles in pitiless satisfaction and waves his hand dismissively. As my father takes me by the shoulders and steers me away, a different fear arrests me. I cast a parting glance at Wormtail, who is lying in a trembling heap on the floor, and it suddenly dawns on me.
There is a reason why I am permitted to witness Wormtail's punishment. The torture, the cruelty, the pain... it is an initiation into my new life of vicious brutality. It is meant to impress upon me the sheer power I wield in my young hands, as well as to warn me of the dire consequences disobedience brings.
* * *
"Concentrate, Draco." My father's voice is stern, edged with agitation. "Concentrate."
I hold out my wand, my hand quivering, gripping it so tightly my fingernails cut into my palm. I stare intently at the beetle on the table, focusing my entire consciousness on it.
"Imperio!" I croak hoarsely, and a weak silvery glow bursts from the tip of my wand.
Dance, I command silently, almost imploringly. Tapdance, tango, perform a somersault, just do something.
In response, the beetle twitches slightly. I hold my breath in anticipation, waiting for it to obey. However, the next moment it takes flight with a buzz of whirring wings and disappears, completely unaffected by my spell.
My father lets out a grunt of frustration. He sounds genuinely irritated. "You just aren't trying hard enough."
The disappointment in his voice knifes through me. My father is right, and I drop my gaze to the floor in silent acknowledgment. Something vague and inscrutable is missing from my mind, preventing me from concentrating, but I can't figure out what it is. The flickering ember of my former self, perhaps, which has been extinguished as my soul is consumed by another fire, the unrelenting flame of Voldemort's dominion.
The moment the heated tip of his wand touched my bare skin, I knew a chance inside me was lost forever.
"I'm sorry," I say simply, truthfully. I look up at my father. He isn't the man I used to know — his face is worn and haggard, with dark circles framing his usually clear grey eyes. Now they mist over with a sober expression as he continues to eye me disapprovingly. He has had me spend the last three weeks studying every book in our library about the Dark Arts, and he is clearly dissatisfied with my poor show.
"Draco, if you can't even manage the Imperius curse, how are you going to master Cruciatus or Avada Kedavra?" His voice is laced with tension, and he abruptly leans forward, taking my face in his hands. A quiet desperation burns in his eyes, and he speaks in a low, intense voice. "This is very serious, Draco, listen to me. Things are very different from what they were. You have pledged your life to the Dark Lord, and now you must fulfil your oath."
No, you have pledged my life to the Dark Lord, I want to scream. Instead, I swallow my aching words and simply bow my head submissively. My eyes fall on my left arm, where the skull and the serpent stare back at me, proudly mocking, another sterling reminder of what is demanded of me.
"Yes, Father," I whisper softly.
I will try my best, I resolve inwardly. I will make my father proud. I continue to stare blankly at the snake protruding from the skull as it rears its scaly head and bares its fangs. It is the mark of my destiny, burnt into my flesh, part of my soul. I shut my eyes, feeling the sting of tears threaten under my closed lids.
"Try again," my father firmly instructs. He takes another beetle from a jar, places it on the table and Stuns it so I can properly aim the spell. "Try Avada Kedavra this time." His tone leaves no room for bargaining.
I dread the words, although my fingers reflexively tighten around the wand. Avada Kedavra requires strong Dark magic, but my father probably thinks my intensive study of the Dark Arts for the past weeks have sufficiently equipped me for this spell. I take a few moments to compose myself before venturing an attempt.
Meanwhile, my father continues talking briskly. "These three curses are your chief arsenal, the core of every Death Eater. Imperius affords you total control, although it can be fought by trained wizards. Cruciatus — you saw what happened to Wormtail just now."
An involuntary shudder courses through me. I remember all too well, and I almost hear the screaming start again inside my head.
"That is the power of Cruciatus. The most unbearable form of torture, held at your fingertips." My father's voice is crisp, empty of feeling. "And finally, there is Avada Kedavra." He pauses briefly for effect. "There is no counter-curse, making it the most lethal spell you can ever cast. No one has been known to survive it, except for that unfortunate incident with Harry Potter." My father spits his name almost hatefully, but I am not listening.
Harry Potter.
It seems like almost a lifetime ago. It's strange how you never cast a second thought to something until it's too late to get it back.
He drove me insane with his Muggle-loving nature — he spent all his time with the filthy mudblood Granger and that waif Ron Weasley, who's too poor to afford a new set of robes on his back. He stuck up for pathetic clowns like Longbottom, simply because he felt it was the right thing to do.
I wonder what Potter is doing now, back with his Muggle folks. Now I see the irony — there he is safe from the clutches of Voldemort, while here I am completely under the Dark Lord's control.
I snap out of my reverie as I realise that my father is watching me critically.
"What's the matter, Draco?" he demands.
"I'm just trying to concentrate," I say. I keep my eyes riveted to my wand as I wave it in the air. "You were saying about Harry Potter?"
A frown returns to my father's face. "Yes, Harry Potter," he says brusquely. "I don't want you thinking he's invincible just because of what happened fifteen years ago, because I assure you, he is by no means immune any longer."
I look up; my father gives me a thin, sneering smile, and continues, "I saw with my own eyes as the Dark Lord humbled him and exacted revenge for that fateful night. It confirmed that he is no less prone than a common Muggle." There is a dark look of satisfaction on his face and his eyes gleam with pride. "The Dark Lord struck him with the Cruciatus curse, and Potter couldn't ward off the spell."
"What?" I stare at my father, too shocked for pretence. "The Dark Lord cast the Cruciatus curse on Potter?" My mind flashes back to Wormtail, but instead I see Potter on the ground, writhing in pain, his body jerking, helplessly possessed —
"Yes." My father stops short, noticing the consternation on my face. "What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing," I say quickly, although I know my tone is far from convincing.
However, my father is not one to be fooled. He senses my hesitation; he advances toward me with broad, swift strides, and then bends closer, forcing me to look at him.
"You're not feeling sympathy for Harry Potter, are you?" His voice cracks like a whip through the tense silence, and his eyes frost over with anger.
"N-No." I feel a rush of defiance, and I glare insolently back at him. My voice is equally cold and distant, and it trembles slightly with suppressed emotion. "Why should I feel sorry for Potter?"
My father stares at me, a strange distortion of rage and desperation on his face.
"I will not be spoken to in that tone of voice." His voice is dangerously soft, and for a moment I think he is going to slap me. However he abruptly straightens and turns away. "Cast the spell," he orders impassively, his back still facing me. "Now."
Avada Kedavra. The words are whispered in my mind, but I don't want to say them, the same way I don't want to be here or bear this scar on my arm. A resentful disbelief rises within me again as I recall what they did to Potter. No human being deserves to be tortured like that. I remain sullenly silent, staring at my father in muted defiance.
"Draco..." my father begins warningly, whirling around to face me. His tone of voice deadly serious, and my impulsive rebelliousness wilts under the intensity of his glare.
Avada Kedavra. I grip my wand tightly, but my throat constricts and no words emerge.
"NOW, Draco!" my father roars angrily, stalking toward me. "Do it NOW!"
"All right!" I finally explode, my whole body shaking uncontrollably, my eyes almost blurred beyond sight by tears of frustration. I point my wand at the immobilised beetle and yell, "Avada Kedavra!"
A blinding flash of jade green erupts from my wand and connects with the insect like a bolt of lightning. On contact, the beetle instantly shrivels and flips over on its back.
I stare at it in disbelief. My eyes are stung by the sudden, intense glare, but I cannot tear them away from the smoking remains of the small insect lying dead on the table. A choked gasp escapes my lips, and I stumble a couple of steps backwards, my hand clamped over my mouth, numbed beyond words.
"Well done, Draco." My father watches me for a moment before he turns away. His voice is soft, devoid of emotion. "You will make me proud."
My whole body is trembling, and my father's hollow words echo eerily through my consciousness. My breathing is shallow and ragged as I continue to stare at the dead beetle, my wand still held limply in my hand.
I finally understand the Darkest form of magic there is — Anger. Revenge. Hate.
At this moment, I finally realise what I have become.
With a final stab of horror, I discover how far acceptance is from reality.
- fin -