Bottom Harry One Shots

Seasons Change, And So Do We

Summary: The Malfoy boy is sixteen when he burns the Mark into him. It's almost more than he can bear; marking something his that isn't quite.

Ship: VoldemortxDracoMalfoy

All credit goes to calrissian18 on Ao3

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He's beautiful when Voldemort first lays eyes on him, but young. Too young to be spoilt by knowledgeable hands, too young for him to damage with his desires. He locks it behind a mask and if his eyes flicker to the boy more than they ought then his gaze is still violent enough that no one dares acknowledge it.

He waits.

The Malfoy boy is sixteen when he burns the Mark into him. It's almost more than he can bear; marking something his that isn't quite. Something that beckons to him like every temptation made form. Only a select few witness the hollow victory. The boy's mother, his father, Bellatrix, Severus. His mother's eyes hold so much behind them, but all that's visible is a stark portrait of strength. He's seen the same in the boy's eyes in darker times. It stirs something in him, something much deeper than arousal. Bellatrix is gleeful and he wants to physically slap the expression from her pale features. This is not her moment. She owns no part of it. His fingers tighten on his wand.

Lucius is a hollow shell of himself, swallowing convulsively, looped in fear and disbelief until it's over. Severus' thoughts are a mystery to all but himself and Voldemort fights the urge to sneer at him. Everything burned out of him for an unrequited love. He can't think of a man more pathetic than this. Knowing what has driven him through his lonely years, he cannot understand the sense of kinship he sometimes feels to him. They are nothing alike and yet there's something in him that says being broken is enough. He cannot deny it is a quality they both have in spades.

The boy doesn't cry, he doesn't sob through his pain. Nor does he endure quietly. He screams. And screams. And screams until it's done. He hasn't realized he's touching him with something beyond his wand until his knee hits the wood. He cradles the boy's face in his hand while the other keeps grip on his wand. He touches him gently with one and digs with the other. Draco's screams don't lessen in the slightest. He doesn't even notice Voldemort's feather-light kneading, his weak attempt at comfort.

Severus does.

Severus bides his time. Information is power and Severus has always treated it as such, respected and feared it in his own right. He's stealthy enough that Voldemort doesn't realize the conversation is coming until he's embroiled in it. Severus has expertly steered it from the most recent raids to individual followers to Draco. He takes a sip of his whisky, his eyes alight. "The boy might be susceptible to a deal." The words are throwaways, careless, or so Severus would have him believe.

His wariness of the man – of a mind so effortlessly treacherous – increases. He hitches in his robes to show he's heard even if he doesn't intend to respond.

Severus leans forward and there's no act of disinterest now. "He stays to keep his family safe. You let them go and he would do whatever you asked of him."

The idea of Draco bending to his will with no sign of the strings controlling him stutters the breath in his chest. He twists in his seat and, though he knows the hope is buried deep rather than showing on his face, he still worries that Severus can see it. His lip curls slightly. "Bellatrix couldn't be dragged away by wild dogs." It's a stall. He knows Severus means the boy's parents but he needs the time to consider his response to such a... compelling proposition.

Severus' distaste is almost unnoticeable. "His nuclear family, My Lord."

Voldemort watches as his fingers play along the fabric over his knee. "And what do you gain from telling me this?"