DISCLAIMER! I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER AND/OR ITS CHARACTERS AND CONON STORYLINE BUT EVERYTHING ELSE INCLUDING ORIGINAL CHARACTERS, LOCATIONS, AND ORIGINAL EVENTS BELONG TO ME. DO NOT REPOST OR TRANSLATE THIS STORY WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.
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"STAND TALL, DRACO," THE BOY's father hissed quietly. "You must be respectful in the presence of the Dark Lord."
Draco shivered. Bloody hell, he thought, his fear growing rapidly as his mind generously provided him with gruesome stories about Voldemort and what could happen to him. Lucius didn't notice his son's shaking, but he did slap him on the back harshly when he slouched again, forgetting to abide by his father's command.
Soon the pair came to a large pair of silver doors, and engraved in them was a large copy of the Malfoy family crest. They had arrived at the ballroom—now the Dark Lord's Throne Room. Merlin I'm going to die. I'm gonna die. He's gonna kill me.
Draco's teeth chattered traitorously and his knees wobbled, and he forces himself to stand tall with his head high and avoid thinking about the millions of gruesome ways he could die in the next five minutes.
He's screwed.
—
Later that night, Draco awoke from his bed abruptly—it was dark outside. He cast a quick Tempus and found out it was 9:34 PM—why was he asleep so late?
And then he remembered.
Walking into the ballroom, his father's vice grip on his right arm, dragging him forward. His mother's sad and tired eyes saying I'm so sorry, love.
Voldemort's cold and demeaning ruby red eyes.
The unbearable, searing pain of the Dark Mark forming on his arm, causing him to black out.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
—
a/n
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