Out of the Silent Planet

Title: Out of the Silent Planet (27/39)
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: MA/NC-17
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Plot driven smut, Darkfic, Romance, Drama, Angst...
Warnings: M/F, Bondage, slight non-con, voyeurism, oral, anal, Dom/sub issues, Dark!Draco, and HBP spoilers.
Summary: Post-Hogwarts - Hermione Granger fulfills Severus Snape's final wish, to journey to Japan to ‘retrieve' something of importance. Set eleven years after HBP.
Author's Notes: This is my first DM/HG ficlet, so please be kind to the newbie! The title of this fic is taken from C.S. Lewis' book, first in the Perelandra Chronicles.


Many thanks to kazfeist for improving this chapter!




Out of the Silent Planet
Chapter Twenty-Seven – Of tales and trials




Millie could still feel the cold from the kiss Draco had placed on her temple. The gesture of his friendly kiss was hauntingly reminiscent of a time long ago, but the coolness of his lips seemed to spread from her temple, down her face and right into her heart.

Dinner was served, the first course being a cream-based soup that Millie remembered Draco had been fond of while at Hogwarts. However, as Millie watched her old friend from across the table, Neville at the head and to Millie’s right, Draco seemed to eat automatically and expressionlessly.

Little was said as the meal continued; a few questions, which received brief answers. So far, all that Millie had learned was Draco had been travelling for about a year and half, setting up meetings with potential investors and buyers. Draco commented that within another year, he could finally return to Britain full time, and other than that, Millie knew nothing of what had become of Draco in his time away.

When dessert was served, Millie plucked up her courage, her hand resting on her swollen and uncomfortable belly, and finally asked the two questions that had been nagging her since she had seen him at the Ministry gala.

“What magic did you use to charm your eyes to be so damned frightening?” And then, “And what do you intend to do about Severus’ son?”

Neville choked on his chocolate mousse and Draco set his glass of wine down with an audible clink of crystal against crystal. Neville recovered enough to try to chide his wife, but Millie waved his words away as if shooing a fly.

“I suppose it is none of our business what you have obviously done to yourself, and I suppose that Severus’ son is none of your affair, but as your friend, a friend who has worried herself over your welfare, I would appreciate an answer,” Millie growled, her eyes flashing angrily and her hands shaking.

Neville was blushing, but Millie paid no mind to her, at times, excitable, husband. No, it was Draco Malfoy’s face she forced herself to study. His eyes were averted, the luminescent orbs fixed upon the halfeaten dish of chocolate mousse. The manner in which he sat at the dinner table, his chair, and the way in which his silver hair fell around his shoulders to caress his pale cheeks, reminded Millie of a time long ago when she and Draco were children. He was bent in on himself and his outward demeanour was like that of defending himself from some emotional hurt, but Millie knew better than to let Draco Malfoy’s newfound peculiarities be ignored.

There was so much about Draco that Millie did not know, although she suspected much. The recounting of what had occurred between Hermione and Draco while Hermione was mending after Blaise Zabini’s assault had merely sufficed, at the time. Even when Draco had met with Millie for tea, she had noticed something strange about him …a power that swirled around Draco that was not innately his own… Millie was sure it had something to do with the ‘Arm of Vulcan,’ which had only been mentioned once in conversation. Millie had almost forgotten about what Hermione had said about this new ‘attachment,’ but after seeing Draco at the Gala and his obvious change, Millie soon remembered. Millie never mentioned this bit of information to anyone, and in all honesty, it had slipped her mind completely. Draco had crippled himself in some manner, and soon remedied his condition with a prosthetic so innocuous and obviously designed not to be noticed that no one seemed to know of its existence. Hermione would say nothing more about Draco after he virtually dropped off the face of the earth, but as Millie gazed upon Draco Malfoy now, many of her suspicions were confirmed.

“I could tell you tales, Millie, but if I did, I doubt you would believe me. But to answer you simply, yes, I have changed, but it is no inane charm of vanity. I have overcome a trial, in a manner of speaking, the result of which is perhaps the ambient discomfort you feel now. I could tell you and your husband about it, but I would require an oath of absolute silence and secrecy,” Draco chuckled maliciously; his eyes flashing in the candlelight, making both husband and wife stiffen with an imperceptible fear. “As for Yuki…he will be dealt with in time. He is meddling with affairs that were never his to know or touch…”

Millie flinched when she felt Neville grasp her hand from under the table; so close he was that Millie wondered if she had not been alone in thinking that darkness seemed to fill the dining room as Draco spoke. And suddenly Millie wondered if Draco had been speaking offhandedly about Hermione when it came to ‘dealing’ with Yuki Matsumoto.

But before Millie could ask any further question of her old friend, it was her husband who spoke in her stead.

“I believe part of the reason Millie invited you, Malfoy, was to know more about the time in which you were away. Millie…not just Millie,” Neville sighed, “Many people, myself included, have been concerned, Malfoy. I know we have never gotten on well, but Millie’s concerns are my concerns as well. Something has happened to you, and in turn has affected others, others that I care for…so, please…indulge us with your ‘tale.’”

Millie was speechless. There had been a handful of times during her marriage to the man who held her hand in which he had utterly surprised her with his strength, tact, and courage. Neville Longbottom had been a Gryffindor as a child, but as a man, he was so much more…

Draco also seemed surprised by Neville’s words for he surveyed the tawny-haired man with a softer eye and demeanour. Neville sat very still, his eye trained on Draco’s face, his chin pointed out in a posture of confidence.

“I was not making a joke about an oath…” Draco began, his voice very even and very serious. “A verbal oath will do. I would not want anyone outside of those who are ‘concerned’ for my welfare to particularly know what you want me to tell you…it could be damaging in some fashion, and I am sure with this information some fool would try to besmirch my reputation, my business, or to slander my character in some cheap tabloid,” he said with a sardonic smirk on his pale lips.

“You have our word, Draco, that whatever is said in confidence will not be repeated. We understand very well the position you hold; scandal is not something we condone or orchestrate for our personal gain. You are a business rival as well as a colleague, but beyond that, I consider you a friend. But if you would have me swear, I will swear on the life of my unborn child that whatever is said will remain between us,” Millie uttered, her eyes bright, but her body trembling.

“Millie…” Neville breathed, squeezing his wife’s hand a bit tighter. “I swear as well, Malfoy…my wife has spoken my mind. But shall we retire to the study where we can be more comfortable?” Neville asked, glancing at his wife and her flushed face.

“Of course, Longbottom, I feel that a brandy might make it a bit easier for me to recount the last two years of my horrid little life with as much brevity as to not bore you both,” Draco drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm.


* * *


Neville watched Draco Malfoy pace before the fire while downing the contents of a second glass of brandy. Millie had ordered Simsky to bring tea, cakes, and other snacking foods to the study. While his wife sat sipping on weak tea, he set several protective wards and silencing charms about the room as a sign of continued confidence in his promise to Malfoy to keep the words about to be spoken aloud a secret.

Finally, Draco placed the glass on the mantle and turned to look at the Longbottom couple that sat on a large couch near the fire. Millie sat with her swollen ankles upon a transfigured ottoman, and Neville sat at her side, his eyes shifting about the room. Millie rested her teacup and saucer on her belly and smiled.

“I am sure you both knew about the blood oath I had with Her-Granger?” Draco asked, slowly moving to sit in the leather library chair closest to the fire. When both husband and wife nodded their answer, Draco continued.

“I finalized the oath so that I could fulfill the conditions of another oath of sorts… What Granger surely did not tell you was how I came to be ‘lost’ in Japan, that Snape had placed me there for my own protection and that at his death he tricked Granger into ‘retrieving’ me.

Granger is well known for her discretion, so I suppose I will fill in a few of the gaps in your knowledge of what it is for me to appear before you tonight and in this state…”

Draco moved his eyes to the fire, and with a soft sigh, began in earnest.

“I did not kill Albus Dumbledore; Severus did the job for me rather much to his pain and duty... That night, after the school was attacked, we ran. To make a long story short, I lost my mind from the pain of the Mark on my arm. At some point, in some distant land, my madness consumed me…and I cut the arm off…”

Millie gasped and Neville winced, but Draco took no notice.

“By the time Severus managed to get me safely ensconced in Japan, I was certifiably insane. And, I possibly still am not truly considered sane by most…but I had crippled myself. My wand was destroyed for my own protection, and wards were placed upon me…again for my own protection. I was no longer Draco Malfoy; I was Matsumoto Ryu, a lowly servant, a member of the branch family of a noble house…

I mastered wandless magic in lieu of missing a wand. I lived my life, aged, grew more embittered, learned of my father’s death, and violated Pansy Parkinson…”

Millie turned her eyes away from Draco, remembering all too well the last conversation they had had about Pansy. Many days after that meeting, Millie told Neville what had been said, so it came as no surprise when Neville did not react to Draco’s words. Draco continued, paying no mind to the fleeting expressions crossing the faces of his audience.

“And then Granger came, but I will not elaborate on that part of the tale for it is nothing of note, and will serve little to explain what you both want to know,” Draco drawled, his face twisted with a horrible smile which made Neville narrow his eyes in speculation.

“We went to Italy, much to Granger’s chagrin, and there, I received a suitable replacement for the arm I had viciously hacked from my body. Here is where this short tale truly begins.

“Many years ago, while on the run, Severus had brought us to the house of an Italian wizard, who will remain anonymous for the time being... This wizard was Severus’ colleague, a crude man who had many resources and a tendency to favour the ‘darker’ things in life. I remembered him well, even in my madness, and later, while perpetuating my madness in the Matsumoto house, I found mention of an artefact in an ancient and obviously imported document. You see, even the Matsumoto family tended to lean a bit toward the darker arts and used them only when it suited their goals.

This artefact was called in English, the ‘Arm of Vulcan,’ an artefact that predated the Roman Empire, and was supposedly fashioned by the god himself. An Italian Pureblood family protected this item, the only remaining member being the wizard I mentioned before. The artefact, from what little was written about it, seemed to be what I was lacking…an arm and a conduit to perform magic. I knew that if I could find a way to procure this it for myself, I would never have to live with the memory of the madness I plunged myself into as a boy…or so I naively thought I wanted power, I wanted freedom, and it did not matter how it came about, as I thought I had nothing to lose…

So I contacted the wizard, who offered me a price, which was far less than I had first imagined…then Granger and I went to collect my purchase. Granger hit it off with the wizard, and thus became inexorably involved…more so than ever before. I donned the arm, knowing the risks, and I still wear it…”

Draco had begun pulling off his gloves as he spoke, and with his last word, Millie saw the platinum metal of Draco Malfoy’s false left hand. As he pulled up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal more of the arm, Millie noted the runes in the surface of the metal and the manner in which they swirled and moved as if suspended in some liquid medium just inside the arm itself. It was hideous in a way that both Millie and Neville could never have described in words, and it was obvious that it was something more than just a prosthesis. However, Millie felt a bit more at ease than when Draco had come to Rowena’s Respite two years before. She knew then about the arm, and she remembered the general sense of unease she felt radiating from Draco then…it was different now, somehow.

“Granger had an inkling about the artefact, and the implications of my wearing it. At the time, I honestly did not care if the arm consumed me or if my body rejected the foreign object…I wanted power.”

“What were the implications, Draco?” Millie asked softly, her voice quavering with continuing horror.

“It is a sentient object, much like the Dark Lord’s shoddily-made Horcruxes, and it functions was a parasitic entity that enhances and amplifies magical energy. The artefact feeds off my innate magical energy to function, but it does not drain me, in fact, just the opposite: the arm is like a Muggle battery, storing energy and expending it when need calls for it. The arm was originally intended as a weapon, and replaces the need for a traditional wand. The properties of the arm include a higher level of personal protective magic, increased healing capabilities, as well as the ease of use, for the arm was made by a master craftsman; it is better than the flesh by far.

However, because it is sentient, the wearer of the arm is plagued by the being that inhabits the very metal…the ‘spirit’ of Vulcan. The arm requires that the wearer be of extraordinary strength, power, and…charisma. And in your mind, you are haunted with Vulcan’s will, Vulcan’s voice, and Vulcan’s desires…

In the end, to bear the arm, you must submit to the trials…trials to survive the darkness that makes the arm what it is…an object of power. So, I submitted to the trials, and won.”

Millie frowned. It was possibly the most vague; most truncated recounting she had ever heard. Glancing at her husband, it was clear that he was just as confused and possibly irritated as she was…

“I don’t understand, Malfoy, what do you mean by trials? And what was to be won from these trials?” Neville asked gently, noticing that Draco’s eyes, flickering in the firelight, were miles away from the present.

“One is haunted by Vulcan, forced, moved and haunted…it would be enough to drive a normal man insane, but considering I have been mad for so long, I did not want to share my soul or my…”

Draco’s face contorted strangely as he let his last sentence fade into the air, unfinished, and slowly he sighed. With a flick of a silver finger, he summoned his glass from the mantle and then the brandy decanter from the sideboard. Refilling his glass, Draco set the decanter on the spindly-legged table to his left, eyeing the amber contents of the bottle with a satisfied smirk.

“I fought Vulcan to keep from being consumed by him, and I fought to keep my identity. How I fought is of no consequence, and I will not speak of it. But I will ‘state that I fought for my soul for over seven months, closeted away in the Manor, with only a house-elf to keep my body alive.

And when it was over, Draco Malfoy remained, and Vulcan was absorbed, in a manner of speaking. And so here I am, after a bit of a re-emergence into the world, after a bit of scheming, building, buying and selling, here I am, above and beyond the damage my progenitor inflicted on my family name.”

Silence fell heavy and final. Draco had said all there was to say for the time being, but Millie knew that there was so much more…

Draco finally set his snifter down by the half-empty bottle. Turning his eyes to the couple on the couch, he smiled, his eyes no longer flaming with odd colour nor his demeanour one of sarcastic jest.

“That is all I will ever tell, my friends, now…does that satisfy your curiosity?”

Neville began blinking rapidly, his mouth falling open. Millie reacted with a smirk and then a sigh.

“If anything it only served to make us dizzy, Draco,” Millie commented, rubbing her belly gently. It was unsettling to look at the man, in truth, and whether or not he was telling the truth meant nothing to her. She was more concerned about whether or not Draco had returned with any intentions of seeing Hermione, or even publicly acknowledging that he had been involved with her in any way.

“But it was an amusing tale, was it not?” Draco asked, pouring one more snifter full of brandy and rising to his booted feet. “It was entertaining, to a degree.”

Millie narrowed her eyes as she watched Draco move closer to the fire. It was a tale, that much was for certain, and considering what she had known before her friend’s mediocre explanation, there was no reason to doubt it. However, it did not answer the question that had truly been at the forefront of her mind. As she sat on the couch, her feet finally starting to feel less swollen and tense, she said nothing as conversation changed to Draco speaking about the rumours concerning the Firedrake Group and Longbottom Apothecaries, and after a matter of minutes, Neville and Draco were laughing and cavorting like old friends.

It was odd; at least, that was what she thought as she was soon wishing Draco a good evening and a safe trip home. It was odd that Hermione had only been mentioned a handful of times, and in a past tense. Millie finally snapped out of herself just as Draco was passing through the door of Rowena’s Respite.

“Draco…have you spoken to Hermione?”

Neville had begun to retreat back into the house, ready to give Simsky the order to prepare everything for bed, but at his wife’s question, he froze in mid-step, and with trepidation, turned back to the front door where Draco had also seemed to freeze while raising the cowl of his cloak. Slowly, as if time had been loosened from the grip of Millie’s words, Draco raised his cloak and turned his eyes to Millie’s.

“No. And I have no intention of doing so,” he said clearly, his eyes welling up with colour from deep inside a soul that Millie knew now she would never truly know.

“W-why?” Millie whispered as Draco took another step out the door. The wind was icy as it passed Draco Malfoy’s form, billowing his cloak and making him appear even more like a Dementor than when he had entered the house.

“What would I have to say to ‘Miss’ Granger? And if you are concerned about the presence of Yuki Matsumoto, you have my word that he will be dealt with, and promptly returned to whence he came…as it should be. In my absence, it seems that I have been lax in securing my interests and investments…” he trailed, his eyes slowly mellowing as he fixed his gloves and secured the clasp of his cloak.

“Now, excuse me for the lateness of evening, and thank you for your hospitality… Good night, Millie…Neville…” Draco said, nodding to his hosts, and then took down the steps and down the snow laced walk to the gate like a black clad spectre.

Millie stared at the open door for what seemed like an eternity until Neville moved past her to close out the cold early winter air.

Being left with that horrid feeling that you have been suddenly enlightened, but cannot begin to understand that you are now an enlightened being, was not a feeling that Millie enjoyed. Draco had left more questions in his wake, as well as a general aftertaste of false modesty, feigned courtesy, and forced civility…it was not like the Draco Malfoy Millie remembered.

No, Draco Malfoy she knew was a mad, spoiled, egocentric prat who had never been polite to anyone in his whole life…not even to friends or family… “Polite” was associated with “weak” in the Malfoy family; everyone who had anything to do with the Malfoys’ knew this. Therefore, Millie had a nagging suspicion that part of what Draco had told them of his almost ridiculous story was, in fact, a lie. His odd character was the strongest bit of evidence for this lie, but it was obvious to Millie that she would learn no more from Draco…his intentions, motives, or desires.

She had reason to worry. If the allusions in Draco’s tale or the comments made at dinner were any indication of what to expect…Millie expected that Draco would surely be someone to be wary of in the future. And as she followed her husband upstairs to retire for the night, Millie thanked whatever deity there was that she, and her family, seemed to be, for now, on Draco Malfoy’s good side.

* * *


When the door to the bedroom slammed forcefully shut, the elves that had been moving about in the shadows and unseen to the magical eye, shuddered. Hobbin, who had been trailing slowly behind his master since the young sire had arrived home, had consciously kept his distance. Anger roiled and swirled about the Malfoy heir like a maelstrom of black and red fire. Once the door had shut to the private chambers, Hobbin could follow no further. The house had been set against any elf that dared enter the sanctuary of the Master unless specifically called by name. Alas, Hobbin could only lean against his knobby cane just at the door, his old, but keen ears only hearing the deep timbre of his master’s voice through the oaken doors and thick stone walls.

Hobbin slowly took his leave when he could longer hear the movement of furniture and the sound of metal plated boot heels upon marble floor. All the while, inside the walls in which the elves could not enter, Draco Malfoy sat naked upon the marble dais that surrounded a sunken tub large enough to entertain a host of guests. The candles that floated over the filling tub bobbed and swayed in the air, casting strange rays of warm light across the white marble and into the mirror into which the master of the house stared coldly.

His swirling eyes scanned his pale face, hair, then his pale chest, and the scars upon the surface. Further down to his taut belly and slender hips…to the semi-erect penis amongst almost transparent curls…down to his muscular legs. All was in place, all the scars, all the muscles, and slowly he let the horrid smirk fade from his lips. With a twist, he slid into the warm bath, diving slightly unto the water and pulling himself through to surface in the middle of the tub amongst fragrant bubbles of blue and green.

He had been far too out of character, and he knew it. It was evident by the glances and expressions on the Longbottoms’ faces. He had been far too polite and obliging, and far too civil in his speech and mannerisms. This attitude had to change…he knew he had not fooled his old friend Millie into believing that he had changed into something better and more pleasing…

Floating on his back among the bubbles, he stared up at the enchanted ceiling and the cloud passing over a yellow gibbous moon. That evening had been a test of sorts…including an appearance to the Ministry Gala and meeting with Cormac McLaggen in London. Those were the only times he had went outside of his Manor since his return from New Zealand…the only times when he had tested himself since that day…

That day…

It was hard for him to accept that he had won, although it had been his only desire for so long. It was also difficult for him to except the changes that had taken place while he had been gone. Granted, after leaving that night…the night he had released ‘her’ from the oath, he had spent over half a year in Britain, unbeknownst to everyone anyone but the elves that had been in his ancestral home since before he had been born. When he awoke, he immediately left Britain, and began building…

Two years had passed since the night he had laid his life on the line…his heart, his soul, and everything in between. He could reminisce about it now without pain, and the dinner and subsequent tale at the Longbottom’s only brought his old suffering back to the forefront of his mind, only just fresher than memories.

Draco knew that he if were to think about it for any length of time, he would possibly drown himself in his own bath. He moved through the ritual of washing, scrubbing his skin and hair and rinsing it clean. The bathing ritual seemed somehow false in his own bathroom, with no heated spring water, no scent of flowers and earth, no raw stone underfoot and no soft yukata to wrap about his replenished body. However, the silk of a black lounging kimono would do, and soon he settled himself near the fire in his private sitting room, the door open to his Spartan-esque bedroom and the darkness within.

It was rather late, and by the Louis XIV clock on the mantle, it was nearly two in the morning, but it did not matter. Draco knew he would not be stirring much as he leaned back into the throw pillows that adorned the Persian rug before the fire. He laid his head back onto the velvet material and rested his hands upon his chest, his body twisted slightly so that his eyes could watch the progressive burn of the fire charring the fragrant logs.

That day…he had ordered that the elves remove everything from his bedroom, charm the walls bare as well as the floors. With a flick of his wrist, he Transfigured his old four-poster behemoth bed to a small cot with a metal frame and sparse bedding. Bars grew across the large window overlooking one section of his mother’s gardens, and the drapes of fine napped velvet vanished. The door was converted to lock from the outside, and reinforced with spells to keep it shut. The only possible way of entering the room was by the mysterious magicks the elves possessed, a magic ancient and unspoken. But also, Draco made it so that no man could Apparate in or out. He was building his own prison…and inside this prison, he would set himself free.

The voices in his head were laughing at him, taunting him to hurry. Regrets were pushed to the side, and by morning, he laid down upon his bed, waiting for something to happen.

Vulcan had been incredibly quiet, and Draco wondered if perhaps he had simply imagined being possessed. As he lay on the lumpy cot, his arms at his sides, stripped down to his bare skin, he waited…and waited…the sunlight streaming through the window moving across the bare floor. Slowly, he shut his eyes--exhaustion, stress, and mild fear overtaking him…and that was when it began.

* * *


Vulcan was a stout man, and he sat cross-legged upon a tatami mat, his clothing that of a medieval samurai, a saucer of sake between his stubbed and blackened fingers. The black hair that adorned the large skull was as black as pitch, pulled up in a topknot, traditional for Japanese men in the medieval period. Fiery red eyes gazed across the room, and suddenly Draco realized that he too was in this room, the texture of the tatami real against his socked feet and legs. Glancing down at himself, he found himself to be dressed in the fashion that he had grown accustomed to while living in the Matsumoto house.

‘I thought a familiar place would be a good place to start,’ a voice said roughly, the timbre gravely, the sound echoing through the empty room, bouncing off the panels painted with moving scenes of oni and phoenixes.

It took too long for Draco to realize that the voice had come from the man sitting across the room. The man finally moved, lifting the sake to his pliable lips and downing the contents of the saucer. Setting the saucer down on the tray to his right, Vulcan levelled his fiery gaze to Draco.

‘The poison will begin taking effect, Draco.’
Draco felt himself blink, comprehension slowly dawning in his mind. He was aware of his own body, although he knew that the traditional Japanese room in which he sat was a dream. In fact, the more he focused inward, Draco realized that his body was in that room, the sunset warming his bare skin while his mind, and possibly his soul sat casually inside the room of Vulcan’s creation.

‘You have a very visual memory, Draco, thus this room. It was the formal receiving room I take it… The style and setting is reminiscent of the palace at Knossos in so many ways. But it seems that this culture was a bit more war-faring than that at Knossos. Interesting…’

Draco let his eyes settle upon Vulcan’s figure again, watching him refill the sake saucer and slowly take another drink. It was when Vulcan set the saucer aside again that Draco felt the pain. The pain began in his lower belly, almost in his loins, a sharp pain that made Draco think of a stiletto burrowing into his gut. The pain then moved outward from the initial point, through his body…and to the left arm, which in Draco’s dream was still his own flesh arm, sans the curse mark.

‘It is this pain that you must overcome, Draco. And I do hope you overcome it…’ Vulcan’s voice echoed.

Paralysis seemed to overtake him, and slowly his vision shifted as he fell to his left side, his body instinctively curling in on itself. His dream-vision dimmed slightly, like a cloud passing over the sun, and the room was immediately filled with ominous shadows.

‘Your nervous system will begin to shut down, shock will set in and one after another, your organs will fail. What will you do, Draco?’

Pain and anger… ‘were all that registered in his mind. The pain, which was all encompassing, pulsed through every fibre of his being…his vision hazy, his mouth dry and open…he could feel his body begin to convulse slightly and froth gather around his obscenely open mouth. The dream was fading slowly, only the vision of Vulcan sipping sake in red armour clear in his mind. Vulcan was watching him closely, waiting.

Anger pulsed through Draco like a tidal wave of water and electricity, and suddenly the convulsing ceased.

‘Get angry, Draco…emotion fuels mortals, emotions propel you to overcome. Pain, too, is relative, but necessary. Pain tells you that you are in danger of dying…pain tells you that you must fight internally to heal. And how do you heal yourself, Draco?’

Rigidity forced Draco to stay very still. He could feel his body begin to expel excrement, sweat, tears…and the smell was poignant…and vomit passed his lips.

‘Force the poison out, and you will have passed this trial…but hurry.’

His vision blackened and all he could see were the lights of synapses firing behind his eyes. In all likelihood, he was dying, the pain wafting over and through him in waves. He wondered if he should die, perhaps it would make the pain stop…what did he have to live for anyway? There were so many things to do, so many things to reverse and change, so many people to overcome.

‘Do not dally, boy…’ Vulcan growled, his voice distant yet near…

Teeth were gnashing, and Draco began convulsing again, and as he moved, it seemed as if his skin was burning and sloughing off the muscle and sinew. The pain was far worse than the pain he remembered from the curse mark that had been pressed into his left arm all those years ago. His thoughts began to transcend the pain, his body clearly in shock, and Draco began to wonder if Hermione Granger had felt pain like this…

Like a billow cloud, he could suddenly see Hermione Granger behind his eyelids, and he could see her disapproving countenance, which had become so familiar…and so comforting even in his suffering.

“How does one counter poison, Draco? Have you forgotten everything you’ve learned?” she asked, her voice a mere whisper through his addled brain.

I don’t know, you stupid little Mudblood…

Her face contorted into expressing her extreme distaste. Another familiar expression…and slowly the vision of the woman changed and reformed into the vision of his mother the last time he remembered seeing her…

Her patrician face was clouded with doubt, her pale eyes unable to meet his…it was the memory he had of her when the task of killing Dumbledore had been laid upon him. She had been crying, and her voice was that of a defeated woman, thin and cracking.

“Healing spells, my dear one…all those spells I taught you…do you remember nothing?” she whispered, her lips thin and bloodless.

I don’t know, Mother…

And the visage of Narcissa Malfoy faded away, and Draco was alone…

Somewhere, in some functioning and logical part of his mind, Draco knew that it was fitting he was alone. He would die alone…because that was all due him in this life. But somewhere else, in a shard of his soul, past the ache and throbbing of his blood, there was a voice, his voice, whispering to him all that he needed to do, all he needed to know…and suddenly it seemed all the questions of the universe had been answered, and for once and for possibly the only time in his miserable life, Draco Malfoy was enlightened.

That was when he opened his eyes to find Vulcan leaning over his nude body like a ghost in the early morning light. Draco paid no mind to the apparition floating at his side, but instead took a quick assessment of himself. He was in his bedroom, the bars still on the windows, and the cot in the middle of the room. The smell of filth and waste assaulted Draco’s nose, but he did not have the strength to move and escape the odour. It felt as if he had sand in his eyes, and as he lifted a hand to his face, it was the silver hand, smooth and clean.

“H-how l-long…” Draco rasped, addressing the dark vision that floated at his side, far too exhausted to contemplate the fact Vulcan had now become a somewhat corporeal presence.

‘Two weeks.’

Draco coughed his body convulsing as he did so, and as he arched his body, his eyes caught sight of the floors about the cot. Vomit seemed to coat the floors, as well as dried blood, and something black and still wet upon the stone, which he quickly assumed, was the literal poison. He did not want to think of what method had pushed the poison out of his body, but somehow…it had been done.

‘Innate magical ability,’ Vulcan answered, ‘expelled through your skin like sweat, in part. You induced the fever and sweated it out through the two weeks you lay in your own filth. The only reason you did not die was due to the constitution that makes you who you are…and it is the reason why I want to consume your soul.’

Draco said nothing, wishing he could move, wishing he could have something to drink for his throat was dry and his tongue like rawhide leather in his mouth. He was sure that his muscles had atrophied and that he had pressure sores from the weight of his body upon the bed. But somehow, he was alive.

He stared up at the high ceiling of his room, and the ornate carving in the plaster. The sun was reflecting off the stone floor, casting strange shadows upon the off white plaster, and Draco wondered and waited for what was to come next.

‘I congratulate you, Draco; now prepare yourself for the true trial…’

With the echo of Vulcan’s words, Draco closed his eyes, steeling himself for whatever horror was to come next. He spared no thought to anything else but saving himself, and surviving.