Purged

Purged

“Farewell happy fields, where joy forever dwells, hail horrors, hail!”—John Milton, Paradise Lost, 249

The young man in the center of the circle was trembling slightly, evident in the strained muscles of his arms bent behind his back. His fair blond hair—almost as light as his father’s, but with streaks of gold inherited from his mother—obscured his face.

Not a single blemish marked his lily-white aristocratic skin. Soon there would be the Dark Mark, red and pulsing with agonizing pain etched on the smooth skin of his left forearm.

Voldemort remembered when it was Lucius, fair and prone before him, embraced by chains and fear and that terrible, sadistic excitement so prevalent in all his Death Eaters. He’d had that same soft hair falling over an untroubled brow—for what had Lucius Malfoy, scion of a wealthy house, prestige etched in every pore of his being, to worry over?

He liked marking their skin, these aristocrats who chose to serve him. He liked branding them, marking their flesh with fire and ill intent. Pampered and protected, they felt more pain in the sharp grasp of his hands around their arms than they had in their entire sheltered lives.

Voldemort circled Lucius’ son, hands crossed over his chest, remaining silent. His serpentine eyes sought out the elder Malfoy standing silently next to Bella in the circle, hands clasped in front of him with an arrogant look on his face. Voldemort almost laughed at the sight of it, wondering if Draco’s place before him on the stone floor was the younger man’s attempt to live up to all that was implied in Lucius’ haughty sneer.

He did not sneer when it was him before me, boy. He trembled as you do, and his tears delighted me as they fell, blood-tinged, on his pale and perfect face.

He hated them, when they were bound before him without his Mark. Before they were his, they were the hated rich, the elite he despised. He could not hate them when they belonged to him, body and soul, so the marking ceremony was—in addition to their subjugation—the purging of his hatred of them, of his ire.

His Mark on their skin encompassed more than just their physical bodies—it took all that they had, everything they could offer to him he used without compunction. It was their offering to him as their Dark Lord, and he took it. Lucius Malfoy was honored for his gifts of money and connections, and the man knew it well. He’d been freed from Azkaban prison after his failure with the Prophecy three years ago, and that had been his Lord’s reward for services rendered.

Voldemort had tortured him dreadfully, of course, but that was the price his followers paid for failure.

Lucius’ son was not his, not yet. His councilors had assured him Draco Malfoy had earned his right to take the Mark, but until such time as it was branded on that smooth paper-white skin, the only thing he bore was Voldemort’s hatred.

“Draco Malfoy.”

The young man made a noise somewhere between a sob and the word “yes,” and Voldemort continued circling him like a shark. “You are here to take my Mark, to become my faithful soldier. Are you prepared to do what I ask?”

“Y—yes,” Draco said, eyes still cast downward towards the floor.

Do you understand that I hate you, everything you are? “I have decreed that you shall be a Death Eater, Draco Malfoy. But before you bear my Mark, you must be cleansed.”

The young man looked up at that, his gaze going to his father. Lucius watched him with a stoic expression, icy grey eyes unreadable. Draco’s mind was easy to penetrate and Voldemort heard his thoughts as easily as if the young man had been shouting them to the sky.

Cleansing? Did my father have to suffer such? Vague impressions of being stripped naked flitted through his head, the indignity of standing naked in front of a circle of Death Eaters. The concern for his pride was evident in the horror attached to the image.

Voldemort laughed. The sound was high and frightening and caused the younger Malfoy’s body to tense and his head to drop again, staring at the floor once more. “You all have such pride, when you kneel on the floor before me,” he hissed. “Pride you have never earned, never deserved. When you kill for me, when you do what I command, then you will have reason to feel such pride in my presence. Not before, and certainly not now.”

He raised a hand. “You are all dismissed. I will summon you when it is time for the Marking.”

The others left in a silent processional of black robes, and Draco turned his head to watch them go—to watch his father leave the room without a backward glance. Lucius was adept at shielding his emotions—his years of service had taught him well—but Voldemort felt his anxiousness, his desire to both placate his son and demand he submit with pride as benefiting their House. Lucius knew, after all, what to expect.

Lucius did none of these things, merely filed out of the audience chamber with his head raised, staring straight ahead.

That hatred he had always felt for those who were exalted without reason, handed everything to them by virtue of their name and their money, swept through him. Moving towards his would-be disciple, Voldemort said “stand up and face me, boy.”

He made it a point to always address his followers by their first name. When he branded them, he gave them their own identity in the ranks which he controlled. Until Draco bore the serpent and skull mark on his arm, he was not worthy of such an address.

Draco stood, his eyes wary and wide as he looked anywhere but at the figure swathed in black, standing before him with menacing eyes and a serpent’s twisted smile. Voldemort could feel his fear; the young Malfoy knew he was going to get the Mark at this moment, knew something horrid was going to happen to him...his young mind was conjuring up visions of himself screaming on the cold stone floor, limbs wracked with wave after wave of the Cruciatus while Voldemort laughed to see him writhe on the floor like some Muggle…

Right now, you are worth less to me than a Muggle, Draco Malfoy. You will be worthy of my Cruciatus when you leave this room with my Mark upon you, but until then, you are nothing.

“You have such pride as you stand before me, boy. You lower your eyes and gaze at the floor, but I can still feel it in your blood. A thousand years of privilege and hubris in your lineage and I can smell it on you.” He chuckled, fingering the soft black fabric of Draco’s cloak.

“Your father came here, his hair long, like yours.” Voldemort reached forward and twined his long, spider-like white fingers in Draco’s hair. It just brushed his angular chin, and he felt the boy recoil from him in horror.

“And I humbled him. So I am certain I can manage with you, boy, as you are not half the man your father is.” Voldemort smiled cruelly. He knew what to say to make the young man before him infuriated, though Draco was respectful enough to say nothing.

His thoughts, on the other hand, burned like a brand through his mind. I’ll show him. I’ll be like Father. I’ll prove I’m worthy.

“Oh yes,” Voldemort said softly. “You will do that, indeed.”

Stepping back, he felt the young man’s relief and smiled. Waving his wand lazily, he vanished the proper young Malfoy heir’s clothing until he stood naked in the cold of the dungeon room.

“My lord-!”

Voldemort paid no attention to Draco’s words, the young man’s hands grasped over his body and his gaze wide with fright. “I am not going to torture you, boy,” Voldemort said in a soft voice. “But I am going to hurt you.”

He stepped up and wrapped his hand in Draco’s hair again. The younger man’s chest was rising and falling with frantic, rapid breaths. Voldemort ran one hand down Draco’s smooth, almost hairless chest, leaning down to whisper in his ear.

“I’m going to make you scream, Malfoy. You will earn my Mark on your arm before you leave this room, or you will not leave this room.” He licked Draco’s neck, pulling his body back against his.

Draco shivered and moaned, and the Dark Lord smiled. He bit Draco’s neck, increasing the pressure while the younger man twitched and the blood spilled, hot and coppery-sweet, into his mouth. “So this is how the blood of the nobility tastes,” Voldemort said softly. “Remarkably similar to that of a Mudblood. Does that make you mad, Malfoy? To hear your blood
tastes…common?”

Draco made a sobbing noise, his body shaking so hard that if it had not been for Voldemort’s hands holding him up, he would have collapsed on the floor into a beautifully pale puddle. “My lord,” he gasped, “what do you wish of me?”

Voldemort stroked his hand down Draco’s stomach, sharp nails digging into soft skin. He was impressed by Draco’s courtly attitude even in the midst of his terror. Lucius has taught you well.

“I want you to break, Draco Malfoy. So that you are worthy of serving me.”

Draco nodded once, hair falling over his brow. “How…” he fell quiet, either too afraid to speak or too smart to ask.

Voldemort’s cold laugh was aimed to frighten, to caress Draco’s skin like ice. He pulled his wand from his robes and trailed the length of wood down Draco’s stomach, after charming it with a spell that caused crystal droplets of ice to form on the trembling young man’s skin.

“Ice burns, doesn’t it, boy? Just like fire. You will feel the kiss of my fire on your flesh if you deserve it, but first…”

Hands as cold as the ice burning Draco’s skin reached down to wrap around the young man’s flaccid cock. Draco bucked and struggled briefly, and Voldemort tightened his grip. “I wouldn’t do that,” he breathed in his ear, and Draco stilled.

“I’ll tell you when you may struggle,” Voldemort said, amused. His fingers worked over Draco’s cock, pulling harshly. His other hand curled over his shoulder, pulling him back. “Look at me, Draco,” he said lazily, eyes gleaming red.

Draco’s eyes were wide, frightened, his mouth parted as his breaths came in quick, panting bursts. His pupils were dilated so widely that his eyes almost looked black with a single ring of silver on the outside. “Your father’s eyes looked just like that, when I took him,” Voldemort said, holding Draco’s gaze, his hands working the flesh between Draco’s legs.

“My father would not—” the words escaped that trembling mouth before Draco could stop himself, and the young man flinched, turning his head as if waiting for a blow.

The Dark Lord merely laughed. “They all submit to me, young Malfoy. Every one of them that bears my Mark has stood just as you are, naked and terrified with me at their backs. Yes, even your Aunt Bellatrix and your Uncle Rodolphus, and most assuredly, your proud, noble father.”

Some of the tension left Draco’s shoulders at the knowledge that he would be one of many, that it was not just him who had to suffer such indignity of the Dark Lord’s coldly calculating caresses.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. “Some of them liked it, and some of them didn’t. Now, do not speak unless I ask you a question.” His fingers wrapped in Draco’s hair and he pulled his head back, roughly, staring into his eyes.

“If you disobey me in this room I will eviscerate you,” Voldemort hissed in his serpentine voice, “and you will pray for death before I am finished with you.” He bit Draco’s neck again, blood rising in a crimson rush. Voldemort licked the blood, hissing his breath onto Draco’s skin and watching the gooseflesh rise.

Stepping back, Voldemort ran his nails down Draco’s back, scoring his fair skin. The young man was silent, head bowed, and Voldemort drew his wand and cast “Diffindo”, cutting the skin slowly, patiently.

A low moan spilled from Draco’s throat. The Dark Lord continued his work in silence, wielding his wand-turned-knife with agonizing slowness. He cut two diagonal lines, meeting at the bottom with the tip resting on the base of Draco’s spine, forming the letter V in scarlet the color of his eyes.

Voldemort conjured up a grey stone table and moved behind Draco, urging him forward. He embraced Draco and slid his hands down his arms, capturing Draco’s fine-boned wrists in his grasp and moving his hands to rest palm down on the table, bending him at the waist.

Draco’s head fell forward and his spine curved, back bloody and raw. “You look defeated,” Voldemort said, vanishing his robes and dropping his wand on the floor. Nagini moved smoothly in from the shadows to curl around his wand, protective of her master.

I can smell his fear, his serpent said, tongue flicking.

So can I, Voldemort answered back in Parseltongue, and that hissing language pulled a small sob from Draco’s throat, but the younger man remained quiet, bent over, submissive to his Lord’s will.

Voldemort’s body was thin but whipcord strong, muscles clearly defined under his skin so white it made Draco’s look sun-kissed. He folded himself over Draco and the younger man shrieked in surprise. His mind was whirling and Voldemort took a moment to close his eyes, sipping at Malfoy’s fear, tasting the sweetness of it like a fine port on his tongue.

Oh god, what is he doing, what have I done, what is happening…!

Voldemort’s hands moved down to find that limp, flaccid flesh between Malfoy’s legs, and he began to stroke it with sure movements. He did not bother caressing his own flesh or having Draco do it—that was an honor he had only ever bestowed once, to Bellatrix Black, his beautiful and devoted Bella.

What he needed to break Draco Malfoy was rage, and hate, and all the things that Dark Magic fed upon, cultivated, sharpened within him. So he let himself bite the flesh beneath him, and he murmured, “now you may struggle, Draco Malfoy.”

Draco did as he was bidden to do, but his thrashing attempts at escape were half-hearted at best. Voldemort laughed silkily and bit his neck again. “Do I need to remind you of my earlier promise? Do not disobey me, Malfoy. Struggle. Or do you think yourself so special that you will be able to dislodge me, and thus you fear making me angry in your success?”

Draco whimpered, shaking his head, still not speaking. He began to struggle in earnest, and Voldemort whispered, “Better. I want you to think of all the reasons this should not be happening to you. Show me why you think you do not deserve what you are being forced to endure.”

The images came in a torrential downpour spilling from Draco\'s’ mind; he was a Malfoy, and they did not suffer such attentions. He was wealthy, and pampered, and his mother sent him sweets. All of this made Voldemort’s breath quicken, and his hate sparked in the smallest of doses. “Yes, that’s it, why is this so wrong, tell me, show me…” He leaned down and lied smoothly to the young man struggling beneath him, giving him the caveat that offered hope that would never come to pass. “Perhaps if you convince me, I shall let you go.”

Because I am wealthy and my father is powerful. My father should rescue me, you’re lying, he doesn’t know this is what you are doing because he would never allow it…

Voldemort siphoned through Draco’s fear and rage, pulling it into himself to fuel his own. His cock stirred, and yet it was not good enough. Until he found that rage within himself, it would not matter—he would remain cold and aloof, and this would go nowhere, and Draco Malfoy would die in a symphony of blood and death and tortured, painful screaming.

Draco’s thoughts were a continual mesh of wealthy and privileged, and Malfoy until finally, finally, there was the spark for which Voldemort searched.

Because I am a pureblood. I am a Malfoy. And I have heard it whispered that you are not…

Voldemort felt Draco’s horror the moment the anger rose up within him, sharp and hot, the moment the blood stirred in his cock and caused him to growl low in his throat, and hiss, and press his hardened cock against Draco’s body.

“You are nothing, Draco Malfoy,” he whispered, the power and the anger dancing on his body and crackling in the air, haloing him with evil intent and masochistic delight. His body was warmer now, no longer cold, flushed with his darkness and his wrath. The warmth of his hands pulsed around Draco’s cock, and he laughed as he felt the flesh stir beneath his hands. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Draco gasped, horror and shame heavy in his voice as his cock grew hard beneath Voldemort’s manipulations. “Yes.”

“Good,” the Dark Lord hissed. “Spread your legs for me, Draco Malfoy. Show me how worthless you are,” he said in his dark voice, but his lips kissed flesh where once they had bitten, his hands gentle where once they had been bruising. He traced the bloody V with his lips, tongue lapping lazily at the blood congealing on Draco’s skin.

I envy your taste of him, Master, Nagini hissed and Voldemort turned to smile at his serpent.

Just wait, Nagini.

Draco\'s trembling legs spread beneath Voldemort and, giving no warning, the Dark Lord shoved his cock inside the younger man\'s body with a vicious, harsh push and a serpentine hiss of a laugh.

The sound echoed in the chamber, but it was Nagini answering from the shadows.

“You will take this from me, Draco, as your father took it before you,” Voldemort hissed, the magic rising and swirling and his eyes burning red. Draco was digging his fingers now into the rough stone; Voldemort could see blood seeping from the scratches on the perfection of his aristocratic skin.

One of Voldemort’s hands was wrapped around Draco’s neck as he fucked him, hissing in Parseltongue, and the other was fisting the younger man’s cock with brutal surety. He was hard and moaning, and the Dark Lord lapped at his fear and shameful desire with a sinister smile.

“You are nothing but worthless flesh for me to mold,” Voldemort whispered in Draco’s ear, his hips pushing forward relentlessly. “Tell me how worthless you are.”

“I am worthless,” Draco moaned, head thrown back. His whimpers were not entirely of fear, his flesh still swelling in the warm hand that grasped him.

Voldemort licked Draco’s neck, bending him over, fisting him hard. “You are,” he agreed. “Your blood is worthless. Your come is worthless. You are nothing, Draco Malfoy. Nothing. Now come and spill yourself on the floor, show me that you understand how your precious blood and your precious lineage mean nothing, and tell me what you are!”

Draco nodded, eyes shut, tears leaking down his cheeks. “I am nothing!” Draco wailed, releasing in a long, slow pulse, shuddering in his climax. “I am nothing,” Draco whispered, bowing his head in utter subjugation, leaning back into the Dark Lord’s brutal embrace.

He raised his head, turned his head back, and pressed his mouth to Voldemort’s. “I am yours.”

Closing his eyes, Voldemort pulled out of Draco and pushed him to his knees, his hands grasping Draco’s head and tangling in the young Malfoy’s soft platinum hair. Voldemort did nothing but pull him closer, and Draco opened his mouth and took the Dark Lord’s hard cock inside, sucking eagerly, his hands resting on Voldemort’s thighs. “You have been purged,” Voldemort said, a hitch in his breathing the only evidence of his arousal. He came in a scalding rush, fingers tightening in Draco’s hair. He let go of all that dark magic, of the rage, and when he finished he pulled out of Draco’s mouth, stepping back. The young man was silent, swaying on his knees, his tongue running over lips stained with the Dark Lord’s come.

Voldemort dressed, pulling his hood over his head and touched his wand to his forearm to summon the rest of his Death Eaters. Nagini was gliding around Draco body, as he remained kneeling, hands on his knees, a beatific look on his face. Voldemort smiled, his hand resting briefly on Malfoy’s bent head. Draco did not even move.

“Draco,” he said softly, “You are now my Death Eater. Serve me well.”

At the use of his first name, the trembling young man raised his head, his eyes peaceful. “I swear,” he whispered reverently. “I will.”

The Death Eaters filed in, quiet, robed and masked. None of them were surprised to see the sight of Draco on his knees, naked, in a pool of blood and come. They had all been reborn in his service, and similarly purged of their unworthiness and the Dark Lord’s fierce hatred.

“Lucius, come forward,” Voldemort intoned and one of the robed figures stepped out of the circle. “Your son has proven himself worthy. You will stand behind him as he takes the Mark of service?”

The figure’s head raised a notch; Voldemort saw pride gleaming in Malfoy’s cold grey eyes before he nodded. “I shall,” he said in his clipped tone, moving behind Draco and putting his hands on the boy’s shoulders. Voldemort watched as Lucius squeezed imperceptibly, a small mark of comfort, and he remembered how Rodolphus Lestrange had done the same when he stood behind his wife.

Nodding, Voldemort stepped forward and pressed the tip of the wand against Draco’s skin, murmuring the words that burned the Mark into his skin. The smell of burning flesh filled the room, but Draco did not make a sound other than a swiftly indrawn breath, and then it was over.

“You may thank me,” Voldemort said, and watched as Draco moved forward on his knees to kiss the hem of his robes. There was nothing in his mind but peace, acceptance, and devotion as he did so.

“Rise, Draco,” Voldemort commanded, and Draco moved unsteadily to his feet. Lucius moved forward to help him stand. “Bella,” he said to the circle, and she stepped forward holding something in her arms.

She walked with her usual predatory grace to Draco, bowing to the Dark Lord, and then she reached out and handed him the bundle she had been carrying.

It was a black robe and a mask.

Bella nodded to her nephew, then went to rejoin the ranks. Draco turned to his father, a question on his face.

“We robe ourselves, son,” Lucius said quietly, and Draco nodded, pulling the black cloak over himself. He affixed his mask, and drew the hood over his head.

“My lord,” Lucius said, head bowed. “Thank you for this honor.”

Voldemort nodded, his crimson eyes alight with pleasure. “He has earned it, Lucius,” he said. To Draco, he said simply, “take your place in the circle.”

They did so, fading into the shadows, and Voldemort dismissed them knowing the celebrations that would follow for Draco. He did not partake in such revelry, though he understood why his followers did. He would take a bath, and relax in his chambers with Nagini, a glass of rich port, and a book on curses he was particularly interested in reading.

You are pleased, Master, to have the silver-haired one’s son as your acolyte?

Voldemort smiled at his familiar. Nagini had an elegance about her that went unappreciated by those who could not speak her language.

I am, Nagini.

You liked breaking him, I could tell, the serpent teased him, slithering closer, flowing up his body to wind around him. But you are tired.

Voldemort reached out and trailed his fingers down the smooth body of his serpent. It requires much effort, to break them. But the rewards are worth it.

Nagini hissed in the way she did when she wanted to laugh and the Dark Lord smiled in genuine affection as he heard the noise. The fleeting pleasure you found in his body? His serpent queried, settling her weight around him.

Voldemort shook his head, and his laughter, when it came, was in Parseltongue. His soul, Nagini. My reward is his soul.

My reward is always their soul.

~Finis