Wicked

Dear readers, voters and reviewers, let me just say thanks and I love you!

In this chapter you´ll finally get to know what has happened to Draco, it´s told from his perspective.
Warnings for violence, rape and torture!


Impenetrable darkness and a bone-chilling cold were adding to Draco´s panic. He had woken up in what appeared to be a dungeon, lying on damp, foul-smelling straw.

The first thing he had noticed had been a bad headache, followed by the realization that his hands were bound behind his back by what felt like iron manacles.

He had tried to move but found he couldn´t, since his body didn´t seem to function properly. He desperately tried to recall what had happened, but his mind was too blank and fraught with terror.

When a drawn- out creaking told him that the door to his cell was being opened, his stomach jolted with fear.

Two hooded figures came in, and for one wild moment he thought he was in Azkaban and those were Dementors, but when they hauled him to his feet and he saw their masks, he realized they were Death Eaters.

And suddenly it all came back to him: his father yelling at him furiously because Draco would not agree to act on his orders, orders Lucius had gotten from the Dark Lord.

He had never seen his father so beside himself with rage; his pale face had been dark red and contorted with wrath.
For the first time ever had Draco realized how serving the Dark Lord seemed to slowly drain a person´s humanity, for in front of him stood a beast, not his father.

It was then when Draco had, also for the first time, felt real fear.

The same fear was consuming him now as the Death Eaters silently pulled him along. He stumbled several times as his legs were so stiff and unresponding, and in addition to this his ankles were shackled and connected by a chain.
Anger about being treated like this welled up inside him, but when they had reached their destination, it quickly turned into horror: they had entered a large room which resembled a dungeon as well.

It had high, arched ceilings and was illuminated by torches, but Draco´s attention was on the dozen of Death Eathers assembled within.
They parted when the other two dragged their prisoner forward; chains were hanging low from the ceiling, to which Draco´s manacles were now being attached, leaving him in an awkwardly bent forward position.

He was unable to straighten up due to the spell which had largely immobilized him, but he could see that the Death Eaters had formed a circle around him, leaving him vulnerably and defenceless in their midst.

No one was talking or making a sound; an air of excited anticipation was palpable nevertheless, it seemed they were waiting for something.

A shiver ran down Draco´s spine as he realized that his father must have betrayed him; obviously he was about being marked as a traitor and going to pay.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to brace himself: he would not give them the satisfaction to cry.

The eerie silence in the room was finally penetrated by slowly approaching footsteps which seemed to come to a halt in front of Draco.

With an effort, he raised his head and met a pair of bright red eyes.

Voldemort.

Draco did his best not to flinch, especially when the horrid face came nearer as the Dark Lord leaned forward: “Young Draco Malfoy,” he murmured in what sounded like an almost dreamy voice, “fancy meeting you here and under such ... regrettable circumstances!”
He straightened up to address the crowd around them: “You see, young Malfoy has refused to serve me in a most outrageous way.”

A whisper filled the room, but was quickly silenced again when Voldemort continued: “I had instructed his father to acquire the boy´s help- he is, after all, attending Hogwarts,together with Harry Potter.”

He hissed the name with an air of disgust, eliciting another round of whispers, but ignoring it: “No one else would have had the opportunity to get near the boy without seeming suspicious. I dare say it would have been easy for Draco to bring me Potter, but he chose to refuse!”

This time, the voices rose above a mere whisper.

Draco felt his blood pounding in his head. Voldemort leaned forward once more, whispering close to his ear: “Which made me wonder, of course... wether it was plain cowardice or wether your family was not truly loyal to me any more, despite your father´s assurances?
He has run from the Dark Mark before, after all. You have to understand that I can´t allow my followers to waver- they do not choose twice. And they do not impede my plans!
Thus I demanded your father to prove his faithfulness-and he did, by offering to bring you here, to my newly found residence.”

He fell silent, his words still hanging in the cold air like smoke.

“What do you want with me?” Draco ground out; his throat was so dry that his voice was raspy.

Voldemort laughed, a high-pitched, unpleasant sound: “I want you to reconsider,” he then hissed. “You can choose to either comply or die, it´s as simple as that. You are here so we can assist you in your choice- surely you will see reason after I have shown you the alternative.”

He raised his wand: “Crucio.”

Agony shot through Draco´s body like he had never experienced it before. It was beyond pain, it felt like being torn apart and burned at the same time; he was not aware that he was screaming, did not hear Voldemort´s laughter; pain was all that was there, eating him alive.



When it finally stopped, he slumped, his body deprived of all energy and aching fiercely; adding to this was the fact that he was being suspended by his wrists, which were still bound behind his back.

His shoulders felt like they were on fire as his weight was pulling on them, and he tried to get his feet underneath him to support himself.

Through the haze of pain in his mind did he hear the Dark Lord´s voice once more: “You could spare yourself all this if you decided to rethink, Draco. What´s the Potter boy to you anyway?”

Draco was panting: “I- am not- going to- bring him- to you.“ “Crucio.”

White hot pain once more, devouring his insides and leaving nothing of him but the wish that it would end.

His screaming abated when his voice gave out, but the pain was still there and he had no vent for it, so he screamed silently, his face a mask of terror.

When it ended this time, his knees buckled. His shoulders screamed in protest, but he couldn´t even try to scramble back to his feet, he just hung limply in his bonds, shaking and trying to breathe the pain away.

The Dark Lord was not willing to grant him a break, however.

At one point, Draco had lost consciousness. A bliss, but not to his tormentor´s liking, thus Draco was being woken up with an enervating spell.
He found himself in a different position though: he was still hanging from the ceiling by his manacles, but they had been fastened above his head this time, stretching his arms and leaving his body to dangle by his wrists, as his toes barely grazed the ground.

And his robes and shirt had gone, he was merely wearing his pants.

As soon as Draco was coherent did the pain come back to him: his whole body was aching, but his wrists and shoulders were worst.
He was also freezing; cold sweat was covering his skin, making him shiver.

The Dark Lord now stepped up to him: “What is your answer now, young Malfoy?” he hissed. “Are you still being unwilling? Am I in the end to suspect that the Malfoy family has indeed forgotten where their loyalties lie?”

Draco did not know how he managed to find his voice, but he knew that his own life was forfeit anyway: “It´s- only about me-“ he croaked, barely audible.

It hurt to speak since he had screamed himself hoarse.

Voldemort laughed again, cruelly: “And why should I believe a traitor like you?” he asked, sounding almost amused, raising his wand once more.

Draco braced himself for another Cruciatus curse, but instead, his throat suddenly constricted. He gasped for air, but couldn´t inhale.
Struggling against his bonds, he realized that the dark wizard was strangling him.


Draco had already begun to black out when he was finally being released. He gasped for air once more, desperate to fill his starving lungs.

“Choking on your own presumptuousness?” Voldemort´s teasing voice penetrated the fog in his brain: “It will help you sort your priorities. But I still haven´t gotten an answer to my question. I need to know how far a true supporter is willing to go, and I need to know wether your father still is a true supporter. Lucius!”

One of the masked figures stepped forward. “Master?” “You have heard your son. Do you think there are any measures you could think of which might help... persuading him to see reason?”

The cold voice of his father did neither tremble nor hesitate when he answered: “I do indeed, Master.” “Well then, go ahead.”

Draco couldn´t stop himself from shaking. His father was raising his wand now...

Seconds later, a sharp pain lanced across his back, as if he had been whipped. He gasped audibly; the pain that was evident in this exclamation seemed to please Voldemort, for his horrid snake-like face broke into a smile while he was attentively watching the boy.
As Lucius repeated the spell, Draco could feel something warm trickling down his back and with a sickening feeling realized that it was his own blood.


The pain increased with every single lash. Draco bit his lip; he couldn´t scream anymore, but he didn´t want to make any other sounds either.
It didn´t work though; he was too exhausted and in too much agony to be able to contain himself.

Pained wimpers escaped his lips with every new gash his father´s wand caused him, but in the end he didn´t care anymore. No one else did either.


The same routine was repeated for days, even though the methods varied. The Dark Lord and his henchmen tortured Draco with a vengeance, but he wouldn´t budge no matter how painful it was.

Afterwards, they threw him back into his cell, healing those of his injuries which were easily curable, such as broken bones, so that they would be able to start over the next time.

He didn´t get any food or water; the cell however was so damp that there was enough moisture pooling in dents of the stone walls, and he managed to at least revive his dry tongue with it, even though it was nearly too much for him to scramble to his feet and move.


He hardly slept either, for his body was aching from the abuse nevertheless, and he usually was too unnerved and exhausted to find rest.
He simply couldn´t stop his mind from reeling. Countless hours passed in which he asked himself how his father could have done this to him.

He half-hoped that Lucius was acting under an Imperius curse, but in his heart he knew that he didn´t.

Voldemort´s question echoed in Draco´s head: What´s the Potter boy to you anyway?

He hadn´t known that himself until the Triwizard Tournament. He had seen Harry after he had come back from the graveyard, being in a terrible state but still holding on to Cedric´s dead body with fierce determination.

Draco, though he wouldn´t have expected it, had felt a first tinge of respect then. It had increased during the following days; he knew of course what had happened, and Potter´s strained face told him that it had been terrible.
Yet the boy who lived had still held his head high, facing what was to come and what Dumbledore confirmed in his speech at the Leaving Feast: Voldemort had come back.

After all the Dark Lord had put him through already did Potter still not seem intimidated by him. Draco had been impressed, as he found he had already been throughout the year.
Harry had managed to cope with so many things, Rita Skeeter´s articles to begin with. Of course he himself had tried to give Harry a hard time as often as possible, and had not even refrained from collaborating with the journalist, something he was not actually proud of.

But now that Voldemort had come back to power indeed, Harry suddenly appeared in a different angle. He had always had a good reason to fight the Dark Lord, had he not?

He had always followed his determination to destroy the one who had tried to destroy him and taken his parents´ life.

Draco couldn´t but wonder about him. And he had begun to question his father´s actions; the more power Voldemort was gaining, the more obnoxious did Lucius seem.
He was sucking up to the evil wizard, Draco suddenly realized, and he had indeed behaved cowardly at the Quidditch World Cup.
He couldn´t take his father very serious anymore, it was as if a veil had been lifted from Draco´s eyes: if being a Death Eater meant behaving like that, bootlicking, he didn´t want to become one.


If he had thought the first few days had been bad, he had been wrong. One night they didn´t take him back to his cell but threw him into one of the far corners, where he lay battered and bloodied, on the verge of passing out from the pain.
Through the dizziness in his head he heard Voldemort´s voice speaking up: “Yes... maybe there are other methods indeed... have your ways with him then. But don´t kill him yet.”

Soon afterwards, Draco was being pulled to his feet again; he cried out weakly, but couldn´t struggle as they bent him over a coarse stone table and pulled down his pants.

A new surge of panic flooded through his weary mind as he realized what they were doing, and he writhed to escape their grips; they had taken off the manacles and were holding his outstretched arms down.

He felt cold hands groping his body ungently, and someone behind him was panting; a moment later, he felt someone move between his legs, and then something fleshy was being driven into him. He screamed for the pain was so excruciating, it felt like being split apart.

“Scream all you want,” the man hissed, “this is what you get for refusing our Master the loyalty he deserves!”

And it didn´t stop; the man seemed to be huge and he was pushing forward gruntingly. It seemed to take ages until he was fully seated.
Draco felt nausea welling up in him as the man started to thrust, tearing his tender skin; it hurt badly, and his already injured body couldn´t take it anymore. He fainted momentarily, but came to his senses when the man tightly grabbed his hips and started to thrust viciously.


Draco had trouble breathing by the time the man came into him, for everything hurt.

After the first Death Eater had pulled out of him, another one replaced him.

He was heavy and grunting, and Draco´s legs gave out under him from the agony the forceful pounding inflicted on him; apart from that, his bare skin was being ground against the stone table.

The boy pulled back to a place inside him so that he didn´t have to witness how many people were actually “having their ways with him”.
At one point his dazed mind registered that it had stopped, and that blood and semen were trickling down his legs.
When they let go of him, he collapsed.


He awoke in his cell hours later, lying on his side though not being manacled for once. He tried to raise his head but couldn´t.
Even the tiniest movement ached fiercely, making it impossible to reach the wall on which he could smell the water. Draco closed his eyes, unaware that he was whimpering.


He had drifted off again when the door to his cell was being opened. Someone came in and knelt down next to him, lifting his head and holding his wand to the boy´s mouth, magically spilling water into it.

Draco coughed and swallowed out of reflex, waking up from it. He flinched when he realized that he was not alone, but the man hushed him and shed his hood: it was his father.

The boy looked at him, craving for a friendly face, for someone to embrace him and tell him it was over and everything would be fine, desperately hoping his father was here to help him, but when Lucius spoke, his voice was cold: “You have embarrassed me greatly, Draco.
I was hoping you might review your decision, but it seems I was wrong in expecting you to consider your family and your name first. And what grieves me most is that your mother has taken to defend you. I couldn´t let her get away with that, of course.”

Cold fear ran through Draco´s aching body: “What have you done to her?” he wanted to yell, but all that came out was a mere whisper, hoarse and feeble.

“That is not of your concern anymore,” Lucius answered curtly. “I just wanted to inform you that I do not regard you as a son any longer. You have betrayed me, and I have waited too long to join forces with the Dark Lord once more to let you get in my way.”
Draco, though it was painful, ignored his words: “What have you done to Mother? Tell me!” he managed to croak.

But Lucius let go of him now and got to his feet: “I will not violate you with my flesh,” he said before he turned to go. “May that be of consolence for you.”


Violate Draco he did nevertheless; by betraying him, by handing him over to Voldemort, by torturing him, and in the end by using a chain on him when he was unable to rape his own son but participating in brutalizing him nevertheless.
Up until then Draco had thought it was impossible to feel and endure more pain and humiliation than he was already in, but when his father pushed the corroded, thick chain into him, tearing his abused insides open and muttering something about subordination, something inside of him broke.

He passed out a while later, when the next Death Eater was taking him, pressing the many particles of rust the chain had left deeper into his torn flesh.


He awoke back in his cell, grateful for being alone; they had not bothered to heal him this time, and he could feel blood running out of him as soon as she shifted.

He did not care, though, did not even think about reaching the water; he just lay there, naked, broken and bleeding.
He did not feel the cold as his body was in shock and his mind was numb.


When he heard the door opening slowly, he closed his eyes; he did not think he was going to survive this night if they came to get him anew.

He was not hauled up again however, but someone knelt down next to him and began fiddling with the manacles, which soon fell away; same with the ones on his ankles.

Then whoever it was spelled a robe onto him; it was his own, torn in places but welcome nevertheless.

“What-“ Draco started, his voice barely above a faint whisper, when the unknown figure, still hooded and masked, helped him to sit up and gave him a cup of water. He drank greedily, choking on it several times.

“Do not ask me questions,” a voice said tonelessly. “I cannot watch this any longer, you´re just a boy...” The man held up his hand: “Take my wand. It will get you out of here. Just use it to turn something into a portkey! Then fly, hide the portkey and yourself, be safe!”

Draco gasped: “He... will kill you,” he murmured. “Aren´t you going- to come?”

“No.” The voice was suddenly soft.

Draco hesitated to take the wand- what if this was a trap?

“I c-can´t-“ he stammered, but the voice urged him on: “Come on, boy, just get away from this dreadful place. It will ease my mind and help me find peace.”

Draco, shaking, reached for a loose stone and aimed the wand at it, hesitating once more: where should he go?

His initial idea was Malfoy Manor, to look for his mother, but he knew they would search there for him first.

Hogwarts? It would probably be deserted over the summer and he very likely wouldn´t even get in. His feverish mind was reeling helplessly, but then he knew.
With trembling fingers he reinforced the grip on the wand:“Thank you," he muttered, concentrating hard on the destination: "Portus!”

The stone glowed blue-ish for a few seconds. Draco dropped the wand.

Just before he felt the familiar sensation of the invisible hook behind his navel did the hooded figure take up his wand and directed it at his own forehead.

When Draco felt being jerked forwards as he was being pulled to the new location, he faintly heard the words “Avada Kedavra” before the cell was suddenly cast in a green light.

A moment later, he landed hard on his feet in broad daylight, his legs giving out under him at once. He crumpled to the ground, panting and still trying to come th grips what had just happened.

When he looked around, he found himself in the driveway of a plain Muggle house. He shoved the portkey into a pocket of his robes and tried to get up.

It was too much, his legs wouldn´t support him. He crawled towards the house and collapsed onto the threshold.

There was a doorbell, and the sign right underneath it said “Dursley”. He didn´t know if these were Harry Potter´s relatives, but he reached up and rang the bell nevertheless.

Only no one answered.


To Be Continued