Veiled Horror

June 21, 1993, 6:30 PM, Malfoy Manor

Draco Malfoy

Draco sat at his mahogany desk, the faint smell of polish still lingering in the air. The desk was immaculate, as always, with a neatly stacked pile of parchment on one side and a silver inkstand on the other.

The quill in his hand glided over the parchment, scratching out answers to the Potions essay that Professor Snape had assigned for the summer holidays. His handwriting was elegant, deliberate— trained from years of exacting tutors— but his mind was miles away.

The silence of his room was oppressive. Thick, velvet curtains were drawn tightly shut, allowing only the faintest hint of waning daylight to creep through their edges. The single lamp on his desk cast long shadows across the room, its flickering light reflecting off the polished surfaces of the dark wooden furniture. The air was heavy, and the faint hum of voices from somewhere deep within the manor served as a constant reminder of who else was in the house.

Draco paused mid-sentence, the quill hovering above the parchment. He stared at the words he’d written: “The benefits of billywig stings are many, but most important of which is their use in the Antidote to Uncommon Poisons, the Wideye Potion, and the Hair-raising Potion. Preparation of this ingredient involves drying the stings for a minimum of a week before they are viable for use in Potion-making. It is important to…”

The last sentence hung in the air, unfinished, as a wave of incredulity washed over him.

What was he doing?

His grip on the quill tightened slightly, and he let out a frustrated sigh. With everything that was happening— the Dark Lord himself residing under their roof, his father’s frequent and cryptic meetings, his mother’s worried glances— how could he be sitting here, writing about Potions, of all things?

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly, and ran a hand through his pale blond hair. His reflection in the mirror across the room caught his eye, and for a brief moment, he barely recognized the boy staring back at him. There was a tightness around his mouth, a tension in his brow that hadn’t been there a few weeks ago.

He wanted to stop, to throw the quill aside, crumple the parchment, and do… something. But what? He was powerless. He was just a boy in a world of adults, forced to tread carefully, to keep his head down and obey, lest he face the consequences of his treachery. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe deeply.

“No.” He muttered under his breath. “Just… finish the section. One step at a time.”

He bent back over the parchment, his quill scratching against the surface once more. Each word felt heavier than the last, but he pressed on. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could retreat into the only sanctuary left to him: his personal library, which he’d asked his mother to put together for him.

His mother had been proud that her son was asking to further delve into his study of magic, but Draco had mainly made this request to ensure that he wouldn’t be disturbed by anyone— his interest in the topics was certainly real, and it would lend credence to his excuse for alienating himself from everyone around him, but the reality was that he wished to be alone.

Draco leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The Potions essay was done— or at least the part he could stomach for now. He set his quill aside with an audible clink, the sound cutting through the stifling quiet of the room. His thoughts began to wander again, darting between fragments of conversations he wasn’t meant to overhear and the haunting silence that followed the Dark Lord’s commands.

Before he could spiral further, a faint pop echoed behind him. He tensed, his hand twitching toward his wand, before recognizing the sound.

“Master Draco.” Came the familiar, quivering voice.

Draco turned in his chair to find Dobby standing in the corner, wringing his long, bony hands. The elf’s wide green eyes darted around the room as though expecting someone to burst in at any moment.

“What is it, Dobby?” Draco asked, keeping his voice steady. The elf’s nervous energy was infectious, and Draco was determined not to let it show.

“Bad men, Master Draco.” Dobby whispered, stepping closer but still keeping his gaze firmly on the floor. “Dobby hears things. Bad things. They is talking about plans, about hurting people, Master. Dobby doesn’t like it.”

Draco frowned, his stomach twisting. “What kind of plans?”

The elf shook his head violently, his ears flapping with the motion. “Dobby does not know all, Master Draco! But… Dobby hears them speak of the Ministry. Of infiltrators. They is saying bad things about Mistress Narcissa, too—”

“Enough.” Draco snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. He stood abruptly, towering over the small elf. Dobby flinched, his large eyes glimmering with unshed tears.

For a moment, guilt flickered in Draco’s chest, but he pushed it aside. He couldn’t afford to be soft— not here, not now.

“Keep your voice down.” Draco hissed, glancing toward the door.

“If anyone hears you…” He trailed off, letting the warning hang in the air.

Dobby nodded frantically. “Yes, Master Draco. Dobby is careful. Dobby is always careful.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and took a slow, calming breath. “Good. Keep listening. Stay out of sight. And if you hear anything… with more detail, you come to me immediately. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master Draco.” Dobby said, bowing low enough that his long nose nearly touched the floor.

“Go.” Draco ordered, his voice softer this time.

With another faint pop, Dobby vanished, leaving Draco alone once more.

He sank back into his chair, his heart pounding. The elf’s words echoed in his mind. The knot in his stomach tightened. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he forced his breathing to slow. He couldn’t afford to panic. Not now. Not ever.

But the thought of those ‘bad men’ speaking of his mother, plotting their vile schemes within these very walls, was enough to make his blood run cold. A knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts.

Draco froze, his breath catching in his throat. He stared at the door, willing himself to remain calm. “Who is it?”

“It’s me, darling.” Came his mother’s voice, soft and steady.

Draco let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Narcissa Malfoy stepped inside. Her blonde hair was perfectly styled, her robes pristine, but there was a tightness in her eyes that betrayed her composure.

“Your aunt will be arriving soon.” She said, her tone carefully neutral.

Draco felt his stomach drop, but he forced himself to nod. “Of course.”

Narcissa studied him for a moment, her gaze piercing. “She’s… better than she was that first night. You have nothing to worry about.”

The image of that first night came rushing back unbidden: the screams, the cackling laughter, the sound of something breaking— whether it was furniture or a person, he hadn’t been able to tell. He hadn’t seen Bellatrix then, not in person, but he hadn’t needed to. The noise had been enough.

“I… I understand.” Draco said, keeping his voice steady.

Narcissa’s expression softened, and she reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Freshen up before you come down. We’ll be in the dining room.”

Draco nodded again, his throat too tight to speak.

She lingered for a moment, her hand resting briefly on his shoulder, before turning and leaving the room.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Draco stared at his reflection in the mirror across the room.

“Get it together.” He whispered to himself.

He straightened his posture, smoothed his robes, and forced the knot in his stomach to loosen. Whatever was waiting for him downstairs, he would face it.

I’ve no bloody choice in the matter, after all. He thought.

Draco stepped out of his room, the sound of his polished shoes muffled by the thick carpet lining the hallways of Malfoy Manor. The air felt heavier than usual, oppressive in a way that seemed to seep into his very bones. He adjusted his robes, smoothing invisible creases as he made his way toward the dining room.

The journey felt longer than it should have, each step measured and slow. The flickering torches along the walls distorted the grandeur of the manor into something almost sinister. Draco’s fingers brushed the edge of the bannister as he descended the grand staircase, the cold marble beneath his touch grounding him.

He didn’t want to be here anymore.

When he reached the double doors leading to the dining room, he paused. The muffled sound of voices drifted through the heavy wood, sharp and discordant. He recognized his mother’s calm, measured tone, but the other voice— Bellatrix— was unmistakable. It was high-pitched and frenetic, with a lilting edge that turned every word into a mockery.

Draco took a deep breath, his hand hovering over the door handle. He could do this. He had to.

Pushing the door open, he stepped inside.

The dining room was immaculate, as always, its long table set with silverware that gleamed under the light of the chandelier. Lucius sat at the head of the table with Narcissa to his right and Bellatrix beside her. Narcissa’s back was straight, her expression serene but watchful. Bellatrix lounged in her seat, her wild black hair spilling over her shoulders and her dark eyes alight with manic glee.

“Ah, there he is!” Bellatrix exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “My favorite nephew!”

Draco forced a polite smile, inclining his head. “Aunt Bellatrix.”

“Come, come.” She said, gesturing to the chair opposite her. “Sit. Let me get a good look at you.”

He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before moving to his seat. As he sat down, he felt her eyes boring into him, sharp and unrelenting.

“You’ve grown.” She said, her voice almost sing-song. “Not a baby boy anymore, are you?”

Draco didn’t know how to respond to that, so he simply nodded.

Bellatrix leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table despite Narcissa’s subtle glance of disapproval. “You’ve got your father’s eyes, you know. That cold, calculating gaze. I hope you’ve inherited his ambition as well.”

Draco met her gaze, willing himself not to flinch. “I do my best.”

Bellatrix threw her head back and laughed, a sound that was more unsettling than joyful. “Good boy. We need clever minds in these times, don’t we, Cissy?”

Narcissa’s smile was thin and brittle. “Indeed.”

The first course was served, a delicate soup that Draco barely tasted. The conversation turned to inconsequential topics— updates on distant family members, the state of the Manor— but Draco knew it was only a matter of time before Bellatrix steered it toward darker waters.

“So.” She said, swirling her wine in its glass. “Have you given any thought to your future, Draco?”

Draco’s grip on his spoon tightened as everyone looked at him. “I have, Aunt Bellatrix.”

“And?”

“I intend to serve the family to the best of my ability, making Mother and Father proud.”

His father gave him a nod before going back to his food, and his mother smiled. Draco supposed that was a good enough answer.

Bellatrix, on the other hand, didn’t think so; her lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Good answer. But serving the family means serving the Dark Lord. You understand that, don’t you?”

Narcissa’s fork clinked against her plate, and she quickly set it down, folding her hands in her lap.

Draco met Bellatrix’s gaze again, his heart pounding. “I understand, Aunt Bellatrix.”

“Do you?” Bellatrix’s tone was deceptively light, but her eyes were alight with a dangerous gleam. “Do you really? Serving the Dark Lord isn’t just about obedience, Draco. It’s about devotion. It’s about proving yourself worthy. Are you ready for that?”

Before Draco could respond, Narcissa interjected, her voice calm but firm. “Draco is still young, Bella. There’s plenty of time for him to find his path.”

Bellatrix’s gaze flicked to her sister, and for a moment, the tension in the room was palpable. Then she laughed, leaning back in her chair. “Of course, of course. I’m only teasing.”

However, the look she gave Draco told him it was anything but a joke.

The rest of the meal passed in strained silence, Bellatrix occasionally making offhand comments that felt like tests. Draco answered carefully, his mind racing to stay ahead of her.

She was about to ask her next question when she froze, her wild eyes darting to her left arm, where the proudly displayed Dark Mark pulsed violently. Draco imagined it was not a pleasant feeling. The sight of his father’s tense shoulders seemed to corroborate his instinct on the matter.

His aunt laughed, the sound echoing through the dining room. In contrast to his father, the summons seemed to light a fire in the woman. She stood and spun on her heel, her dark hair whipping around her face, and fixed Lucius and Narcissa with a predatory grin.

“Do you feel it, Lucius? Do you feel him calling us?” She crooned, her voice trembling with excitement. “It’s been far too long.”

Lucius’s lips pressed into a thin line, his pale face betraying none of the unease lurking beneath his composed exterior.

“Yes.” He said simply, standing up as well and retrieving his cane. His fingers tightened around the silver serpent on top. “He waits for us.”

“Draco, are you coming?” Bellatrix turned her attention towards the young man. “A little taste of the great work which awaits you.”

Narcissa, still seated at the table, frowned deeply. “Draco doesn’t need to be involved in this, yet. He has homework to finish— responsibilities.”

Her voice was firm, but there was a trace of uncertainty in her tone as her gaze flicked toward her son.

Bellatrix let out a peal of laughter, throwing her arms wide as if presenting the boy like a trophy. “Oh, but he must, Cissy. It’s time the boy learned who he truly serves. The Dark Lord has great plans, and I should hope you would want him to know.”

Draco, sitting rigidly at the table, felt his stomach churn at his aunt’s words. He’d heard whispers, of course, but never had he been brought so directly into the fold.

“Plans, Aunt Bellatrix?” He asked, his voice a mix of curiosity and unease. “What sort?”

Lucius’ icy stare fell on his son. “The kind of plans you’re not yet prepared to understand, my son.”

Bellatrix waved a dismissive hand.

“Nonsense, Lucius! He’s a son of Malfoy and Black. Our blood is meant for greatness, and the Dark Lord will see it done.” She leaned closer, her wild eyes locking with Draco’s. “Don’t you want to see him, dear nephew? To stand in his presence and witness true power?”

Draco’s throat went dry. He glanced at his mother, searching for her usual unwavering resolve, but Narcissa’s face was tight with worry.

“Bellatrix.” Narcissa said, her tone warning. “This isn’t the time—”

“It’s exactly the time.” Bellatrix interrupted sharply, her voice like a lash. “The boy needs to understand who we are and what we fight for. Better he learns now than stumbles in ignorance when the time comes.”

She straightened, turning to Lucius. “You see the truth of this, don’t you, brother-in-law?”

Lucius hesitated, his fingers drumming against his cane. He glanced at Narcissa, whose lips pressed into a thin line, then at Draco.

“He is our son.” He said finally, his voice measured. “And the Dark Lord will expect it.”

Narcissa’s hands curled into fists at her sides, but she said nothing, her silence a reluctant acquiescence. Draco felt the fear creeping up his spine, but he suppressed the reaction to the best of his ability.

Don’t show weakness. Do not show weakness.

Bellatrix’s grin widened, likely interpreting his reaction as hiding excitement rather than fear.

“Excellent. Come, Draco.” She extended a hand toward him, her excitement palpable. “You’ll thank me for this one day.”

Draco stood slowly, his legs stiff as though weighted. His heart pounded in his chest, and a thousand questions swirled in his mind. But he couldn’t ignore the expectation in his father’s eyes or the insistence in his aunt’s voice.

Narcissa stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on Draco’s shoulder.

“Be strong, my son.” She said quietly, her voice trembling ever so slightly before she let him go.

He left the room, not looking back at her as he left her behind. He could not— would not— show such weakness.

The family moved through the halls of Malfoy Manor in silence, their footsteps muffled against the rich carpets. The air grew colder as they descended, the shadows lengthening with every step.

At last, they reached the entrance to one of the meeting halls. The double doors loomed before them, carved with intricate serpentine designs that seemed to writhe in the flickering torchlight.

Bellatrix pushed the doors open with a dramatic flourish, revealing the room beyond.

The moment Draco crossed the threshold of the meeting hall, his breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t known what to expect— stories of the Dark Lord had painted him as a terrifying specter, a shadowy figure who loomed over everyone and everything.

But the man standing at the head of the room was something else entirely.

Tall, composed, and unreasonably handsome, the Dark Lord exuded a charisma that both captivated and chilled. His features were sharp and symmetrical, his hair dark and perfectly groomed, and his eyes— while an unsettling crimson— radiated a hypnotic intensity.

Draco’s hands twitched at his sides, his carefully constructed composure threatening to crack. He stared a moment too long, only snapping out of it when Voldemort’s gaze flicked toward him briefly, an acknowledgment so fleeting it might as well have been a dismissal.

The room buzzed with quiet tension. Lucius and Narcissa were already in their places, their faces carefully blank. Draco did his best to follow their example, his back straight and his expression schooled into something resembling calm. Still, his pulse hammered in his ears, and he was certain everyone in the room could see the faint tremor in his hands.

If they noticed, no one said anything.

A series of soft cracks echoed as more masked witches and wizards Apparated into the hall, taking their places along the perimeter. The Dark Lord stepped forward, commanding the room without a word.

“The state of the Ministry.” Voldemort began, his voice smooth and low, yet it carried effortlessly through the chamber. “Our progress.”

One by one, Death Eaters stepped forward to report.

“The Department of Magical Transportation.” A masked wizard said, his voice reverent. “Key personnel have been compromised. Several are working under Imperius and have begun altering records to facilitate… movement.”

Voldemort inclined his head in approval, and the wizard stepped back into the shadows.

“The Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” Another began. “Their focus is split. The chaos at Hogsmeade and the attacks in several key locations have stretched their resources thin. Our infiltrators are gradually gaining their trust, as planned.”

“Good.” The Dark Lord murmured, a hint of satisfaction curling at the edge of his lips.

Draco stood silently by his father’s side, listening as each Death Eater detailed the slow but deliberate erosion of the Ministry’s defenses. They spoke of charmed documents and whispered threats, of alliances formed in darkness and key figures nudged into complacency.

This was far more than Dobby could have ever told him.

Every word tightened the knot in Draco’s stomach. This wasn’t the theoretical rebellion he’d imagined; it was calculated and methodical, a web tightening around the Wizarding World with the Dark Lord at its center.

Everyone in the room seemed thrilled to be a part of it, and Draco couldn’t even blame them for it; to them— us— it meant the swift rise of their families to even greater heights. They would ensure their legacy for the rest of time.

Why would they argue against a situation that benefited them in every conceivable way? What had the impure ever done beside foul everything they touched?

Once again, Draco questioned why he was even so conflicted. 

Voldemort raised a pale hand, silencing the reports.

“There is another matter.” He said, his eyes sweeping over the assembly. “A much anticipated return.”

The tension in the room sharpened. Every gaze turned to Bellatrix, who knelt immediately, her head bowed.

“My Lord.” She breathed, her voice trembling with equal parts reverence and anticipation.

Voldemort descended the dais, his movements graceful, deliberate. He stopped before Bellatrix, gazing down at her as if weighing her very existence.

“You have returned to us.” He said softly, though there was no warmth in his tone.

Bellatrix lifted her head slightly, enough for her voice to carry. “Always. I am healed, my Lord. The damage those wretched Dementors did to me is no more. I am whole again, ready to serve you as I did before.”

Voldemort’s expression did not change, but the room felt colder. He reached out, brushing his fingers against her cheek with the lightest of touches. Bellatrix shivered under his hand, her entire being focused on his approval.

“I have heard these words before.” He said, almost conversationally. “Loyalty, of course, is proven through action, not sentiment— and you have proven yourself to me by holding fast to our ideals.”

“Of course.” Bellatrix lowered her head again, her voice breaking with raw conviction. “Command me, my Lord. I will prove myself again— a thousand times over, if I must.”

Voldemort stepped back, his hand falling to his side.

“We shall see.” He said, his gaze sweeping the room again. “The days ahead will test us all. Those who falter will fall. But those who remain…”

His lips curled into a faint, chilling smile. “…They will share in the spoils of victory.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the Death Eaters, low and reverent.

Draco remained silent, his heart pounding in his chest. The Dark Lord had barely acknowledged him, but that fleeting glance had been enough. He couldn’t stop the question swirling in his mind. What have I been brought into?

As the meeting continued, Draco did his best to stay still, to stay unnoticed, even as the weight of the room pressed down on him. For all his bluster and bravado, he had never felt smaller.

Draco’s eyes widened as the shimmering air in front of him solidified into a human form. A man hung upside down, suspended in midair by an unseen force, his body limp and bloodied. Crimson streaks dripped from the tears in his clothes, pooling beneath him.

Draco felt the bile rise in his throat.

Bellatrix froze, her wild demeanor subdued for the briefest moment. Her dark eyes locked onto the figure, and an unreadable expression flickered across her face.

The Dark Lord’s soft chuckle broke the tense silence.

“You recognize him.” Voldemort said, his voice as smooth and cold as silk.

Bellatrix’s voice was almost a whisper, but the venom in her tone was unmistakable. “How…?”

“I have my ways.” Voldemort replied casually, as though discussing the weather. His crimson eyes gleamed with dark amusement.

“You spoke of him once, in your delirious state as you healed. A fleeting detail, yet one I found intriguing. This man, who believed himself untouchable in Azkaban, has been brought to you. Now, my dear Bellatrix…” He gestured with a pale hand toward the hanging figure. “… You have the chance to truly heal.”

Draco stared at him for a second. The man had… done things to his aunt? It didn’t take long for him to understand what was being left unsaid. And when Bellatrix’s lips curled into a slow, wicked grin, her hands trembling with anticipation, he knew what was coming.

Draco’s stomach churned. Every instinct screamed for him to look away, to leave, to be anywhere but here. He didn’t want to see this— however horrible the man before him was, however much he deserved retribution, Draco did not want to see this. He turned his head slightly, seeking his father’s support, but Lucius caught his gaze and fixed him with a hard, unyielding stare.

The message was clear: You will stay. You will endure. You will not falter.

Draco gulped and forced his gaze forward, though his legs felt weak beneath him.

“Wakey wakey, Matty…”

Bellatrix stepped forward, her wand in hand, and the man— barely conscious— let out a low, pained groan. She tilted her head, studying him as though deciding where to begin.

“I said, wake up! Crucio!”

The first scream tore through the room.

Draco clenched his jaw, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep his composure. His mind threatened to spiral, but he shoved the panic down, building a wall around his thoughts. He focused on his breathing, the rhythmic pounding of his heart, anything to drown out the sound.

She ended the spell abruptly, staring into the hanging man’s wide, terrified eyes. “Aw, did that hurt? Well you’re awake now, aren’t you?”

“You—” He didn’t get the chance to say more when a Severing Charm struck his cheek, sending blood splatter in all directions. Draco forced himself to stay still, even as the droplets struck his face, trickling down his chin.

The screams continued, each one sharper than the last. Bellatrix moved with unnerving precision, her laughter mingling with the man’s cries. She seemed to draw energy from his suffering, her posture straightening, her eyes gleaming with a deranged kind of satisfaction.

Draco’s hands trembled at his sides, his knuckles white from the effort of holding it together. He could feel the weight of his father’s gaze, a silent command to remain composed.

He wanted to run, to disappear, to pretend this was all some horrible nightmare. But there was no escape.

The Dark Lord watched impassively, his expression one of mild interest, as if this were no more than an entertaining diversion.

Draco’s world narrowed to the screams, the blood, and the oppressive sense of dread that seemed to suffocate him.

This wasn’t what he wanted— even if he felt that his aunt was personally justified in exacting her revenge against her tormentor. This wasn’t what he’d imagined when he thought of power and loyalty. There was no room for hesitation, no space for doubt. He pushed it all down— his fear, his revulsion, his humanity— and let his face fall into an empty, impassive mask.

The screams eventually faded into silence, but the ringing in Draco’s ears persisted. Bellatrix stepped back, her chest heaving, her wand lowered, and her expression one of twisted satisfaction.

The Dark Lord gave a slow, approving nod. “Well done, Bellatrix. I trust you feel… whole again.”

Bellatrix smiled, her voice breathless. “Thank you, my Lord.”

Draco dared not move, dared not speak. His father’s presence beside him was a silent warning, a reminder of the stakes.

And so, Draco stood still, his heart heavy, and his mind a storm of thoughts he could not allow himself to think.