- ᴀ ᴅʀᴀᴄᴏ ᴍᴀʟғᴏʏ ғᴀɴғɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ
Draco lifts his head up, shooting a glance towards his left to the witch staring shamelessly at him, his pale eyes settling on her, grunting irritably,
"Do you ever mind your own business?"
Oonagh pondered silently, tuc...
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𝕯raco had been so tangled up in the light, he'd forgotten how it was in the dark.
Lonely, bone-chilling, heartless. He was convinced, as he surveys around the extended, shady table, that nine out of ten where heartless. And that odd one out, that may do, it's shrivelled up, cold and three sizes too small. He wasn't one of those odd ones out, the Dark Lord, he wasn't even one of the nine, he was much beyond that. Beyond what words could describe. More than that of a Monster could be.
The unconscious body that floats above them, arched and unnaturally pale, had been one he'd seen around Hogwarts from time to time. Draco had never taken Muggle Studies, had never given a second thought about a world outside of magic, blood purity and superiority until months ago when chocolate hair and the bluest eyes of them all came into the picture. Now, his gut pinches with sickness every time a muffled, nightmarish wail spills from her parted lips.
His gut pinches with sickness as He pays no attention to her except for telling Wormtail — a trembling leaf of a man — to keep her silent. Something tells Draco that soon she'll be silenced forever. Especially from the hungry gleam and thirsty hisses sounding from the long, savage snake curled around His chair.
"Why do the Malfoys look so unhappy with their lot? Is my return, my rise to power, not the very thing they professed to desire for so many years?"
A shiver ghosted down Draco's spine, another chasing after it, hearing the cold, sinister tones of him lingering behind his claimed chair. Only then had he realised, that in his eerie dementorish hand, handle-less and commanding, his father's wand, leaving him defenceless and wandless.
To his right, his father, pale and sickly looking, wiped swear from his upper lip, stammering,
"Of course, my Lord, we did desire it—we do."
On his other side, his mother, of a similar complexion, light eyes casted forwards, gave a stiff nod in agreement. Draco's throat bobbed, swallowing roughly, as quiet as he possible could to hide the fear and repulsion crawling all over his skin. He briefly peeked over his shoulder, regretting it immediately at the blood red he makes eye contact with. Thriving off their uneasiness. Like it gives him life, a reason to be.
Draco hurriedly looks away, back to the Muggle Studies teacher, for the first time in his life, glad that his Aunt piped up from down the table, voice constricted with emotion,
"My Lord, it is an honour to have you here, in our family's house. There can be no higher pleasure."
On the other side of his mother, is where she was sat, ebony curls, unruly, wild and free. Her maroon lipstick is smudged half way down her mouth, giving that deranged, baleful name she's earned herself. Whilst they were all stony-faced, emotionless and blank, she was eager, keen and weirdly fascinated by Him. She leaned toward Voldemort, for mere words could not demonstrate her longer for closeness.
