𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃 - 𝐝.𝐦.

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞

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ALMOST

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Draco Malfoy stepped past the threshold and into his own manor as a guest.

The half-blood servant that had opened the door for him stepped out of the way, head ducked. He peered at the young boy from over the bridge of the nose, surmising from the way his knees trembled beneath the standard grey robes that he was new. Even if he wasn't, however, he doubted he would ever recognize his face.

Another servant walked behind him, one that he brought from his home. She was quiet, shoes hardly making a whisper against the floor.

He pulled his Death Eater mask off his face as he walked down the familiar foyer, grimacing at the rush of magic as the metal unbound from his skin. It dissolved, waiting to be recalled whenever he wanted it back on. Another servant stood waiting down the hall, dressed in the same grey robes as the girl. He was older though, at least by thirty years, and his eyes were wide in terror. When he came to a stop before a pair of grand, decorative doors, his servant — wearing the same drab garb — stepped forward to open them and reveal to him the throne room.

It had once been Lucius Malfoy's exorbitant study. Draco didn't spare either servant a single glance as he walked in. The doors shut behind him with a resounding thud, and he came to a stop just a couple feet in front of it. His father had once decorated the wide office with royal purples, blues, and greens, and walls with silver frames and mantelpieces.

Now, the room was dark, refurbished to fit the Dark Lord's tastes. His throne — made of black metal and embedded with jewels — was at the top of a short set of stairs, but he didn't sit in it.

First, he looked at the smears of blood on the floor, fresh from the look of it. Draco didn't react, instead glancing across the room to see the Dark Lord standing still in front of the flickering fireplace, a hand held out to soak in the heat. Even from here, he could see how translucent the Dark wizard's hand was, the light making his veins appear dark in contrast.

"My Lord," he greeted, his hands clasped behind his back and his wand in his pocket.

His voice seemed to stir the other man. The Dark Lord tilted his head, peering down at his own hand. "Ah, Draco," he responded, voice thin like ice, "always so punctual."

"I wouldn't want to keep you waiting."

The Dark Lord all but hummed at this. He remained at the fire for a few seconds longer, and then he turned around to look Draco in the eye. His skin was pale, hair limp and sparse, and his dark eyes were dead. It was still jarring for Draco to see his master wearing Amycus Carrow's face, but he kept his own stoic and neutral.

It had been a month since the Dark Lord had rejected his last body and assumed a new corporeal state — Carrow's, to be specific — but Draco still only ever imagined that original veiny skin, those beady red eyes, and those cruelly thin lips whenever the Dark Lord's name came to mind. As the Dark Lord accumulated more power over the years, both politically and magically speaking, it had become clear no mortal body could contain him for long. They all decayed eventually.

"I was beautiful too, once," the Dark Lord mused suddenly, and Draco's jaw tightened.

He watched as the other stepped away from the fire and walked lazily down to the center of the room, Draco's father's walking stick in hand. It tapped against the floor every other second.

"I had dark hair, and my skin was like yours. Sometimes, however, we must give up beauty for power. The perverse." The Dark Lord stopped in front of a mirror, stroking his splotchy face and eyeing himself. His eyes then snapped to Draco's reflection, and the Death Eater straightened. "I would have liked to choose a better face, but this was a fitting punishment for Carrow, don't you think? Now he can never be a coward again. Do you disagree?"