The Moon Girl | Druna

Chapter Ten

Hello all! First and foremost, I'd like to apologize for the long hiatus I took unintentionally. My school work has kept me incredibly busy, along with personal issues. I appreciate every review and every message of support. You all are amazing. Thank you so much. Unfortunately, not much happens in this chapter, which is a little disappointing considering the long wait you've endured, but just know, midterms are over, and I will have more free time to write! I've already started on Chapter Eleven! Please let me know what you think! --Lillie

Chapter Ten

Being on the receiving end of a wand was never an enjoyable experience. Draco stared at the wooden tip merely inches from his face; it was of a dark color, smooth and glistening under the light of the reassembled chandelier. It was a wand Draco knew well. He knew that the silver snakehead handle had been custom made to fit his father's hand; the emerald eyes were Malfoy family heirlooms. The wand was a familiar sight from his childhood; he had often admired his father's wand for its simple elegance. However, much to Draco's chagrin, the ashen, spiderlike fingers grasping the wand did not belong to his father. Draco's hands were shaking, yet his face remained stoic as he stared impassively at the person holding him at wand point. With seething scarlet orbs, the Dark Lord glared at his youngest Death Eater as waves of fury slithered across his skin at the sight of the young man before him. Though his demeanor was cool, Lord Voldemort could sense the fear emitting from the sallow schoolboy. Bearing his teeth in a wicked grin, a curse echoed throughout the room before Draco dropped to the ground screaming in pain, writhing in agony. The Dark Lord gripped the wand more firmly pressing the curse deeper into Draco's veins.

What was less than a minute seem to last forever to Draco. Though Bellatrix had used the Cruciatus on him many times, all of her curses combined would never reach Lord Voldemort's caliber. Where Bellatrix's curses were excruciating, the Dark Lord's were all consuming, mind numbing, burning, pulsing agony; death was preferable than receiving the Dark Lord's fury. Through his melting mind, Draco considered begging for death; he thought of screaming for mercy, yet his body was not his own. He could feel nothing other than the ripping of his skin, the peeling of his arteries cell by cell; forming words was not an option. Draco hardly registered when it stopped; the Cruciatus curse did not cause the recipient any physical, visible pain, but Draco had pulled at his skin and crumbled into a remaining pile of shattered glass from the prisoner break. Draco felt his body being hauled up by strong, forceful hands; through dulled senses he smelt filth and dried blood with a hit of Firewhiskey: Fenrir Greyback.

Opening his eyes, Draco's vision was blurred; the figure before him with nothing but a blob of black robes with a white oval at the top. With a few lazy blinks, Draco realized he was staring at the Dark Lord once more; his stomach filled with dread at the thought of enduring such pain again. Unable to control his body fully, Draco's head lolled to the side, blood from his pierced skin dripped onto the floor. Voldemort looked at him with such disgust and fury, the youngest Malfoy thought surely he was going to be killed. However, the Dark Lord turned away and gestured to the doors of the drawing room. With the flick of his wrist, the doors slammed shut; Draco flinched at the sound. The Dark Lord turned his attention back to the bloodied Malfoy before him; with a look of disdain, he shook his head slowly.

"Draco, Draco," the Dark Lord said in an eerily calm, high voice. "I had such high expectations for you. How severely you disappoint me. I thought maybe you could keep a few prisoners from escaping, but as before, such a task evades you."

"My Lord," Draco rasped out; his throat felt as if it were filled with dust. "I did everything in my power to—"

"It was not enough," Lord Voldemort interrupted. "Once again, you have disgraced your family's once highly esteemed name; how pathetic your pure blood has turned. I fear I have no use for you any longer. The mere sight of you repulses me."