Chapter Text
“I know which names on my arms belong to which person,” a five-year-old Draco Malfoy informed his mother seriously.
His mother smiled down at him, the expression gentle and kind. “Is that so?” she asked, and gently poked at his covered left forearm. “And which is this one?”
The name under that bracer had to belong to the person in the world who would hurt him the most. “That’s my enemy,” he said. “He’s the person who’s going to hurt me the most someday.” He didn’t quite understand how it was that his greatest love was who it was, but he supposed it would make sense when he was older. At least, he thought it would.
He was still very little, and there were a lot of things that didn’t quite make sense.
“Mummy won’t ask whose name is there,” she said, and brushed a kiss over his forehead. “You know that you’re not supposed to tell anyone whose names are on your arms, right?”
Draco made a face and squirmed away, dropping off her lap. “I know, Mummy,” he said, and danced back a step when she grabbed for him, her fingers curled for tickling. “I know!”
“Well, as long as you know,” she said, and sat up straight in her chair just in time for Papa to join them.
He was tall, elegant, and Draco didn’t understand how his name could be on his wrist. Papas didn’t love their sons like that, right? But Papa wasn’t an enemy, either. He couldn’t possibly be the person who would hurt Draco the most, which meant that there was only one option. Maybe the love they spoke of wasn’t a romantic one?
Draco didn’t know, didn’t understand. He was just five years old. He would figure it out eventually, he supposed. But, until then, “Papa, up!” he demanded, and raised his arms. Papa scooped him up and hugged him close, burying his face in his hair.
Papa was his hero.
ooOOooOOoo
When he was ten, Father told Draco all about the war that had raged before Draco had been born. It was then that Draco first understood the significance of the other name on his wrist, the name that he knew belonged to his enemy.
“Harry Potter defeated the Dark Lord?” he echoed, a little confused. “But why should we have to worry about him now?”
What Draco was really asking, though Father couldn’t possibly understand, was Why is his name on my wrist? If the war was over, then why was Potter the one who was going to hurt him the most? It didn’t make any sense. Maybe the coming hurt had nothing to do with anything?
Draco didn’t know.
“Because the war isn’t over, Draco,” Father said, almost gently. He touched Draco’s cheek with a gentle finger. “The war is still coming, my darling one, and you’re going to play a large role in it.” He pressed a kiss to Draco’s forehead.
Draco, who was no longer five and understood that sometimes parents just had to be humored, didn’t sigh or fidget. “But the Dark Lord is dead,” he said, instead of trying to pull away. Besides, shouldn’t he accept this kind of attention from Father? That was what his name on Draco’s arm meant, right?
Draco was so confused, and there wasn’t even anyone he could talk to about it. Names were private, meant to be kept hidden until the time came to reveal them. And Draco knew that no one’s time for revealing came at ten years old.
“I’m going to tell you a secret,” Father whispered to Draco, pulling him close and settling him on his lap. “If you think you can be a good boy and keep it for me.”
Draco masked his revulsion with interest. “I can keep secrets,” he said, while fighting the urge to jerk away. He had to get used to being this close to Father. He just knew it.
“The Dark Lord isn’t dead,” Father breathed against Draco’s ear. “He’s not dead, and he’s coming back to finish what he began. We don’t know when, but we know it will happen soon. And when it does, Draco, my dearest son, you’re going to be so very important to him.” Father pressed a kiss to Draco’s cheek before pulling back. “So very important,” he murmured, and looked on Draco with pride.
Draco didn’t know why, but the expression made him more uncomfortable than he’d ever been in the past. “Why?” he asked, his voice small. He wanted to pull back, to get away, but… But Father would never hurt him. Father was the greatest love he would ever know.
“Because, Draco, when you turn sixteen, you’ll be fulfilling the contract we made with the Dark Lord on the day of your birth,” Father said, a strange light entering his eyes. “You’ll rule by his side, Draco, as his beloved consort.”
Draco didn’t know what a consort was, but he was certain that being beloved was good. So he smiled, because Father was clearly expecting a positive response. “I would be honored,” he said.
Later, in the privacy of his own room, he looked up the word ‘consort’ in his dictionary, and didn’t think he would be honored at all. But he was still young, and knew that Father would never hurt him, so he figured maybe he was looking at the wrong definition for the word.
ooOOooOOoo
When Draco was eleven, he met a boy in a robe shop with bright green eyes and a tentative smile that vanished as Draco tried to impress him. And then, later, on the train to Hogwarts, he spoke to the boy once more and realized that the boy in question was Potter, who was the person who was going to hurt him the most.
He extended a hand in friendship, if only because it was expected, but he was secretly relieved when Potter didn’t accept it.
He didn’t want to give the other boy any chances to hurt him, even though he knew it was going to happen regardless of his best efforts. Names weren’t guesses, weren’t things that could be circumvented. They were definites.
Names were Fate, waiting to happen. At least, that’s what his mother always told him.
Still, that didn’t mean that Draco had to make it easy on Fate. After all, with the names She had given him, it wasn’t like She’d ever decided to make things easy on him, either. And Draco was eleven, and he was allowed to be petty.
ooOOooOOoo
Draco did his best not to cry, rubbing the tears from his eyes as he sat in the hospital wing. Potter may think that he was just playing up his injuries, but his arm was killing him, and Buckbeak deserved to be punished for what he’d done.
Creatures that couldn’t behave should be put down, that was what his father always said.
“I’m going to take care of this, Draco,” Lucius was murmuring. He was settled by Draco’s side, and his hand was gentle as he stroked his fingers through Draco’s hair. “Buckbeak won’t hurt you, or anyone else, ever again, I promise.”
“Thank you,” Draco said, his voice choked with the tears that stubbornly continued to fall. “I was so scared, father.”
“I know you were,” Lucius said. He patted Draco’s hair one last time, then stood. “But Draco, we do need to discuss this tendency of yours to come running to me with every problem you have.”
Draco froze. Wasn’t that what he was supposed to do? His father was supposed to be his greatest love. Wasn’t he supposed to take care of Draco? Wasn’t that part of what being in love meant? “What else should I do?” he asked, and flinched, because the words came out in a bit of a whine.
“Don’t whine!” his father snapped, and a small Stinging Hex hit his hand.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. And then he winced again. “I mean to say, I apologize, sir.”
“Your apology is accepted,” Lucius said, and didn’t hex him again. “And I’m afraid, Draco, that the time is coming when you’ll have to stand up for yourself. The Dark Lord’s Consort won’t be able to go running to his father any time something goes wrong. You’ll have to learn how to handle these things on your own.”
Draco swallowed. He was only thirteen. He was a child. He didn’t know if he could handle anything on his own. Still, if that was what Father told him he had to do, then… He sat up straight and dashed the last of his tears from his eyes. “I’ll do my best, sir,” he whispered. He would have wanted the words to come out louder, but unfortunately, his throat was still closed off.
Lucius smiled, the expression almost warm, almost approving. “Very good, Draco.”
When Lucius left, Draco allowed himself to start to relax a little bit. He didn’t want to be the Dark Lord’s Consort, but knew from previous attempts that saying so would do him no good. So he stayed silent, and hoped that Fate was right, and that his father loved him as much as he was supposed to. Because, surely, if he did love Draco, he would never let Voldemort touch him like that, right?
ooOOooOOoo
After the Triwizard Tournament, after Diggory’s death and the Dark Lord’s resurrection, after the end of the school year, Draco went hesitantly to his father. “Do you have a moment, sir?” he asked, after his father bade him enter his study.
Lucius did not look well. He looked tired, and stressed, and glared at Draco when he spoke. “What?” he bit out.
“During the school year, sir, there was a boy from Durmstrang, and he—” Draco took a deep breath to steady himself. “He attacked me, sir. Hurt me, badly. And I didn’t know what to do, so I just…” He trailed off. He hadn’t done anything. He’d been too frightened, too ashamed, too hurt.
He hadn’t even gone to see Madame Pomfrey.
Lucius was staring at him, horror dawning in his eyes, and Draco felt something in him ease. His father did care, thank Merlin. But then Lucius said, “I’m going to have to tell the Dark Lord that you’re no longer pure, Draco. How could you be so stupid?”
Draco flinched. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said quickly. “I didn’t ask to be assaulted!”
His father shook his head. “You’re well trained enough that you should never have let yourself get into that position. Our family is already on the edge of falling out of favor with the Dark Lord, and now you tell me this? You could ruin our contract with him! It specifies that you’re pure!”
“Well, I don’t want to fulfil the contract anyway!” Draco snapped. He looked down, tears forming in his eyes that he refused to show his father. He was so confused, so hurt, and was honestly starting to wonder if maybe he was wrong. If maybe his father wasn’t the person who would be his greatest love.
“You will forget any ideas you may have about voiding out the contract,” Lucius was hissing, venom in his voice that made Draco shiver with fear. “You will be the Dark Lord’s Consort, and trust me when I tell you that we will be doing nothing to draw any attention to the shame you’ve brought on your family line.”
Draco turned his back on his father and hoped that his shoulders weren’t shaking with the force of the tears he was trying to hold in. “I understand,” he said quietly. All his father cared about was the contract, and the family’s status.
Had he been wrong? Should he have been working to befriend Harry Potter for all these years?
It didn’t matter. It was too late now for any of that. He and Potter were firmly on opposite sides of an ever-widening chasm. Names might be Fate waiting to happen, but Draco didn’t think that his Fate was ever going to happen.
Maybe once he was dead.
ooOOooOOoo
Things got better during Draco’s fifth year. It was easier, being one of Madame Umbridge’s pet students. Sure, she was a bit touchier with him than she was with other students, and the feeling of her hand on his hair made him want to vomit, but it wasn’t as bad as all that.
At least she protected him when other students were cruel to him. It was more than his father had done lately, and what did that say about the names on his wrist? Draco wasn’t stupid. He just… he couldn’t believe that his father would be the one…
No, it had to be Potter. Potter, who looked exhausted, whose eyes were dark with shadows, who kept his hand bandaged. Everyone knew that Umbridge had a Blood Quill, and everyone knew that if they didn’t want to catch hell from her, they should just keep their heads down.
Why couldn’t Potter be smart and keep his head down?
“Draco?” Pansy asked, her hand slipping into his.
Draco jumped, then offered her a slightly sickly smile. “Pansy,” he acknowledged. He didn’t pull away from her. He didn’t mind it when she touched him. She was one of the few people who didn’t seem to want anything from him, not really, and holding hands was nice.
“You were staring at Potter again,” she said, her voice soft. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Draco just shook his head. “Can’t,” he said, honestly. It was a thing. A wizard wasn’t allowed to tell anyone who was on their wrists, not unless they were the ones on the wrist. And even though Draco wanted nothing more than to talk to one of his best friends about the fact that he was more and more sure that he’d had things wrong, that Potter was not the one who would hurt him the most, he didn’t dare.
He couldn’t imagine what his father would do if he found out that Draco had Potter’s name on his wrist, but he couldn’t imagine that it would be pretty.
Then again, looking at Potter these days, Draco couldn’t really imagine how anything could be worse for him. He already seemed utterly miserable.
“Madame Umbridge was looking for you,” Pansy said into the quiet between them. “I think she wants to know if you’ve made any progress in figuring out that rogue club that Potter’s leading.”
Like there weren’t more important things to worry about. Like Potter wasn’t right. Like the Dark Lord wasn’t back, and Fudge and Umbridge weren’t just… it didn’t matter. None of it did, not in the long run.
Draco sighed. “I’ll go speak with her,” he said, and wondered if he looked as tired as Potter did. Probably not.
He didn’t think it was possible.
ooOOooOOoo
Father was home from Azkaban, and Draco didn’t want to be home for Christmas. He wanted nothing more than to have stayed at Hogwarts, where he was at least relatively safe. Where he wasn’t…
A soft, cool hand touched his cheek, the touch almost delicate. “You are quite beautiful, my Draco,” the sibilant voice hissed.
Draco’s lips trembled as he raised a wineglass to them. “Thank you, my lord,” he said, his voice as neutral as he could make it.
How could Lucius have done this to him? How could he just… just barter his own freedom with Draco’s life? Draco had been warned that it was coming, right from the start, but he’d always hoped… He’d thought that his father wouldn’t…
No. Draco couldn’t think of him as his father anymore. Lucius wasn’t. No father would do this to their son. Would give their son away like this, to this…
The hand was in his hair, tugging gently, and Draco fought back tears as his lips were taken. “Such soft lips,” the Dark Lord purred. “You’re my perfect Consort, aren’t you?”
Draco shuddered, and tried to turn his expression into something pleased. “I try, my lord,” he whispered. He ducked his head and hoped that the Dark Lord didn’t see the hatred in his eyes, or hear it in his voice. Or that he didn’t hear the fear, because there was plenty of that as well.
“Aren’t you pleased to be with me?” the Dark Lord asked, his voice a sickening croon.
“Of course, my lord,” Draco whispered. He took another desperate swallow of wine. Maybe if he drank enough, if he passed out…
“This is going to be our first time, my Draco,” the Dark Lord was whispering. “I know it isn’t your first time, whore that you are, but I won’t hold it against you. You’re young, and young things do stupid things all the time. But you won’t be stupid with yourself anymore, will you, my Draco?”
Draco shivered. Young and stupid. That summed up his life well enough. How stupid had he been, to think that his father actually loved him? Lucius didn’t love him at all. Lucius had been all too willing to trade Draco’s body for the Dark Lord’s favor.
“Of course not, my lord,” he said. He smiled, the expression as genuine as he could make it. It wasn’t hard. Why shouldn’t he laugh at his own stupidity? Really, he deserved everything he got at this point. He’d made the person who would love him the most miserable for years at Hogwarts.
This was probably the best he could ever hope for.
And when the Dark Lord took him to bed that night, and it hurt more than anything ever had in his life, Draco just continued to smile. His body betrayed him, and Draco laughed through it all. Everything was terrible, and he would probably be killed soon enough by the Dark Lord, because he couldn’t see himself keeping the Dark Lord’s favor any longer than anyone else.
This was his life now, he supposed. At least until he went back to Hogwarts, assuming the Dark Lord let him.
And who knew? Maybe when he got there, he could beg Dumbledore for some kind of sanctuary, if it wasn’t too late. How stupid he’d been to come home, to trust that his father wouldn’t hurt him, to…
Well.
How stupid he’d been.
ooOOooOOoo
Draco wrapped his robe more tightly around himself, hoping to ward off the chill, hoping it would help him feel less naked. It wasn’t really a physical chill, so his hopes were in vain. All it did was remind him of how very flimsy the thing he wore was, and how much he hated the monster who had given it to him to wear.
Potter had been in the Manor. Draco hadn’t had any idea how that would play out, but he couldn’t… he couldn’t have been the one to make Potter suffer the way that he’d been suffering. So when told to identify him, Draco did what he’d been doing for what felt like an eternity: he lied.
It was no wonder that Voldemort was furious with him. The Dark Lord might be a monster, but he was a brilliant one. He’d fucked Draco raw that night, the night that Potter and his allies escaped, and Draco had been powerless to do anything other than what the Dark Lord commanded.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been cursed with the Imperius Curse for the Dark Lord’s amusement, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. It was the first time he’d been forced to struggle, to beg the Dark Lord to stop, though, and it had hurt more than Draco could imagine.
Not physically. The physical pain was almost negligible at this point. But… emotionally… being forced to beg the way he’d wanted to beg since all of this started…
Draco shuddered and wrapped his arms more tightly around himself. The thin, filmy robe did him no good, and holding himself did even less. Especially when he felt something slithering around his ankles.
The snake. The damned snake, that was always around him now, guarding the Dark Lord’s ‘greatest treasure,’ or whatever the monster was calling Draco these days. Draco didn’t know. Honestly, he tried his best to ignore the way that the Dark Lord petted him in front of his followers, the way that he’d…
No.
No, Draco wasn’t going there. He didn’t need to think about how his parents had seen him splayed open for… no.
“What’s the matter, my dragon?” the Dark Lord crooned behind him, his voice sickeningly sweet. Cold, strong arms wound around his waist, and Draco didn’t bother to fight back. “Have you decided that you would rather not defy me any longer?”
“I couldn’t be sure, my lord,” Draco said through stiff lips. He was holding to that story, even though they both knew it was a lie.
“Of course you couldn’t,” the Dark Lord said, and forced his lips apart in a brutal kiss.
Draco didn’t bother to struggle. Instead, he stared out the window, and wondered if it was high enough. If a fall from it would kill him.
But they were only on the second story, and Draco couldn’t be sure.
“We’re going to take Hogwarts soon,” the Dark Lord murmured against his lips. “And then you’ll see me kill the boy. And then you’ll know that I am your greatest love.” The Dark Lord stroked his cold fingers along Draco’s bare wrist, and Draco shuddered at the violation, which was somehow worse than all the others.
“Please,” he said, the word pried from his lips entirely against his will.
“No, my darling,” the monster crooned, his eyes dancing with pleasure. “You’ll see Potter die, and then you won’t have to worry about what his name on your wrist means, because you’ll be only mine for the rest of your life.”
If Potter lost to the Dark Lord, Draco decided in that moment, the rest of his life wasn’t going to be that long, because he couldn’t do this forever. “Yes, my lord,” he agreed, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he was being perfectly honest.
ooOOooOOoo
“We’d rather you didn’t go back to Hogwarts,” Narcissa said, her words stiff.
“It’s just that things might not be safe for you there,” Lucius agreed.
Draco laughed, he couldn’t help it. “Since when have you two ever cared about my safety?” he asked. He shook his head and picked up his trunk. “I’m going back to finish, and that’s final.”
It was over. The Dark Lord was dead, and his father had somehow, miraculously, escaped punishment once more. His mother, he knew, had been a small hero during a crucial moment of the war, and had earned her pardon that way. His father… who knew what he’d done to end up free again.
Draco wished they’d both gone to Azkaban. But then, if they’d both gone, chances were that he would be there as well, and he knew he wouldn’t last long there. Not that he had many happy memories for the Dementors to take from him.
“Draco,” Lucius started, only to stop when Draco fingered his wand.
“I have your name on my wrist,” he quietly confessed, touching the wrist in question. It felt so good to have his bracers back on, to know that no one could make him take them off now if he didn’t want to. He’d spent a pretty penny on them, and it was absolutely worth it.
Lucius’ eyes widened and he took a single step back. “Draco,” he started again.
Narcissa didn’t say anything.
“When I was younger, I didn’t understand. How could you be my greatest love? Surely you would never be the one to hurt me the most.” Draco swallowed. He smiled, the expression bitter. “How foolish I was. The damage that you and Narcissa allowed to be done to me, Lucius, is something that I can never forgive. You stand before me and presume to have power over me, but the only reason that you’re still here is because you bought your safety with my body.”
He took a deep breath and picked up his trunk. Just before he Apparated away, he said into the silence, “You have no more power over me. We’re through.”
And then he was gone.