Lord Voldemort is a well-known alpha, famous because of his lust for power. Draco Malfoy, the son of one of the Dark Lord's followers: Lucius, is an omega. The Malfoy Lord, ashamed of a Omega son, has done everything in his power to keep his son's s...
Previously on When The Devil Falls - "Draco, is it?" said the dark lord, his words slicing through the air with an undeniable authority that sent shivers down Draco's spine; pausing afterwards to take a look at the Malfoy heir who merely nodded in answer to the question, before continuing. "Pull up your sleeve," he commanded.
The Dark Lord's grip on Draco's arm tightened, and the tip of his wand touched the delicate skin on the inside of Draco's forearm. Suddenly, an unexpected realization flashed across the Dark Lord's eyes, causing his grip to loosen. He tilted his head upward, locking his gaze with Draco's, searching for an emotion that remained elusive on the young man's face. A silent exchange of understanding and uncertainty passed between them before the Dark Lord turned his gaze towards Lucius.
"I am sure, Lucius, that you know about your son being an omega, yet you still want him to join," the Dark Lord declared, his voice a controlled veneer masking the turmoil brewing within him.
Lucius, shamelessly nodding in agreement, seemed oblivious to the storm he had ignited within the Dark Lord. The creature inside, a dormant demon, threatened to flare up in anger at the blatant mistreatment of a submissive. Omegas, in the eyes of Salazar Slytherin himself, were meant to be cherished, protected, and loved. The words from Salazar's personal diary, discovered by the Dark Lord during his sixth year at Hogwarts, resonated in his mind.
He couldn't love. The Dark Lord had accepted this reality long ago. Imperioing omegas was futile; he had tried that. Confessions of love, uttered by enchanted lips, devoid of life and sincerity, brought him no satisfaction. The pain etched on tear-streaked faces filled with fear only served to fuel his anger and despair.
Lucius's actions, whatever their motive, scratched at an old wound. Anger, desperation, and jealousy surged through the Dark Lord's eyes. With one last scathing look at Lucius, he recited the incantation, pressing the tip of his wand harshly into Draco's skin. The Dark Lord marked Draco, an indelible symbol of ownership that carried a weight beyond the physical. The ritual completed, a tense silence settled in the room, the consequences of this act reverberating in the air.
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Directing his attention back to Draco, the Dark Lord observed the boy mercilessly torturing his lower lip between his teeth. Surprised by this peculiar reaction, he raised his hand to Draco's face and tugged on the boy's lower lip with his thumb. Draco, catching on to the unspoken command, ceased the self-inflicted torment, and the Dark Lord lowered his hand back to his side, satisfied.
"Draco," purred the Dark Lord, his tone a curious mixture of amusement and inquiry, "Did it not hurt?"
Caught between the truth and the desire to please, Draco chose honesty, recalling from past experiences that it was the safest route. "It did hurt, my Lord."
