Draco was finishing up in the shower room when his arm began to feel like it had just gone up in flames. Anguished, he rolled up his sleeve to peer at his flesh but found only unblemished skin—save for the black tattoo undulating along the length of his forearm. Draco had never seen it move like that before. But it was agitated now, and the snake’s eyes glowed menacingly.

Though he’d never felt like this before, he knew what it meant: a Summon. And Lord Voldemort’s Summons could only be answered in one suitable way: instant Apparition. He was in Hogwarts, however, and no one could Apparate from within the castle. Never mind that he didn’t really know how to Apparate on his own, either.

Depositing his comb on the porcelain counter, Draco rushed out of the Slytherin dorm as if his robes were on fire, not minding when he bumped into several students on his way out. Clutching at his arm to keep some of the pain at bay, he dashed into the Potions classroom—only to find it empty. Crossing through at a run, he barged into his godfather’s office without bothering to knock.

“Draco?” Severus asked, looking up from the papers he’d been grading. For once, surprise was evident on his face. The tip of his quill had been recently dipped in blood-red ink, and it dripped onto the white parchment below.

It was an ominous sight, and Draco’s stomach churned even as he said, “The mark—it burns.” Not his most loquacious moment, but it did the trick. Severus was out of his chair and reaching for his robes an instant later. He quickly grabbed Draco’s arm and dragged him out of the castle.

Severus didn’t let go when they reached the grounds; he kept pulling all the way to the gates. Draco said nothing, too focused on fighting off the pain, which had doubled in the last five minutes. He’d heard that the Dark Lord wasn’t a patient man, but Draco had yet to experience his displeasure. He had half a mind to complain about the rough treatment at Severus’ hands. But at the moment, his sole focus was on getting to wherever they were going as quickly as possible so that the pain would end.

When his godfather brusquely stopped in his tracks, Draco bumped into his shoulder.

“I haven’t passed my Apparation test yet,” he explained, stating the obvious once more.

He needn’t have worried; Severus hadn’t let go of his arm. “I’ll be going with you,” he replied. “Just focus on the Dark Mark and its connection to our Lord. I’ll read your mind and take us there.”

Draco nodded, ready to comply.

“Don’t speak unless spoken to, and keep your attitude in check at all times,” Severus advised.

Draco nodded again, eager to get going. It must not have been enough to pacify his godfather, who grabbed Draco’s chin, forcing him to meet his obsidian gaze. “Did you hear what I said, child? This isn’t a game. If he’s unhappy with you, it will hurt—a lot. And I will be unable to help you.”

Something in the man’s words and tone unleashed a fresh wave of fear within him. And he knew his gaze had turned desperate, but he couldn’t help it. “Severus…” he whispered in a panting breath, the word a feeble plea.

His godfather took a step closer, and his hand trailed upward to cup his cheek. The warmth was a soothing comfort—a clear contrast to the chilly February air that nipped at him from all sides. In his haste, he’d forgotten to take his coat.

“Occlude as best you can, and don’t give him lip,” Severus instructed, his own voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t fight back, no matter what happens. It’ll be quicker that way.”

There was concern in his obsidian eyes now; this was the man he’d known when he was a child. Seeing him again brought Draco the strength he needed to nod his head, steel himself, and prepare to face his fate.

He felt the tell-tale signs of Apparition take hold of him, and he closed his eyes, even as he held his breath.

The pain vanished the instant they arrived. Looking around, Draco tried locating himself, but it was a wide courtyard he’d never been to before. He’d expected Malfoy Manor, but this was something entirely different: an old cloister, maybe. Though he couldn’t see a cathedral or church in the distance, the covered walk Severus was dragging him to left little to interpretation. The colonnaded arches may have been worn-out and on the verge of collapsing in on themselves, but they remained part of a monastic foundation.

Severus must have been here before because he took the lead once more, stringing Draco along barren, dimly lit corridors until they reached a set of tall, wooden double doors. The wizard Draco knew as Wormtail stood guard next to it, shifting from one foot to the other in nervousness. His nose sniffed at the air around him like a mouse who’d caught a whiff of cheese.

“He isn’t expecting you,” he said to Severus.

“I had to help Draco out of Hogwarts, and he doesn’t know how to Apparate, anyway,” his godfather said by way of answer. Severus’ gaze was hard, his jaw locked tight. The shorter, plump wizard cowered a little before his imposing stature. Resigned, he pushed the doors open to let them both in.

The room was as dark and austere as the exteriors led you to expect. A lone, throne-like chair—that reminded Draco of Dumbledore’s chair at the High Table but with more black and less gold—stood in the middle of the empty space. Sitting comfortably in it was the Dark Lord himself.

Draco only had an instant to take in his features before Severus’ grasp tightened painfully around his arm, and he remembered to look down. Not that he’d wanted to look at that noseless, pale, greyish face and those red-slitted eyes any longer.

“Ah, Severus, my old friend,” the Dark Lord said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Draco felt rather than saw the Potions Master bow as they both came to a stop three feet away from the throne. “My Lord,” he said, his tone most amicable.

“How kind of you to have seen to it that Draco came,” the sibilant voice continued. “And practical that you should be able to get him home afterwards.”

Draco’s mind almost went into overdrive at the words. What did he mean by ‘practical’? Did he intend to hurt him to the point where he could not return home of his own volition? Remembering that he ought to be Occluding, Draco brought his shields up one after the other, and soon, large slates of Black Marquina marble stood, fortress tall, in front of him. The dark marble was polished to such a shine that it was as reflective as a mirror. The ivory-coloured veins crisscrossing over the surface seeming to come to life with their intensity. Draco felt better immediately as the fear was caught behind the walls, the same as everything else.

At a flicker of the Dark Lord’s wand, Draco’s knees buckled, and he knelt on the floor. He didn’t fight it, allowing a demure “My lord” to pass his lips.

“And what of you, my young servant?” Lord Voldemort asked. “And of your progress within Hogwarts? When can we expect to invade the lion’s den?”

Draco licked his lips as he sought a pleasing answer. “I’m still working on it, my Lord,” he said, keeping his tone in check. “But I’m close; I know it.”

The wand in Voldemort’s pale, grey fingers twitched, and Draco tensed in anticipation, but the pain didn’t come. It had been only a nervous twitch, not the beginning of a spell meant to hurt him. He let out a shaky breath.

“What do you think of that?” the Dark Lord asked, his sibilant voice rising in volume as if he were asking the room at large. As far as Draco knew, he and Severus were the only two guests at the moment. But he hadn’t really been paying attention when they’d entered.

He heard someone stepping closer and realised more people were present. At least two more, he thought, going by the sound their heels made on the dark stones. It was a man and a woman.

“If Draco says he’s near,” he heard his father say, “he must be near.”

“Draco wouldn’t lie, my Lord,” his mother added. “Not to you, my Lord.”

Draco gulped despite himself. He couldn’t understand why his parents were here. He hadn’t seen them since his return to Hogwarts. They hadn’t so much as sent an owl, and he’d assumed they were still at the Manor, playing perfect host to Voldemort’s entourage. Had they been summoned as he had? But then why the family reunion? Did the Dark Lord suspect he was lying and want his parents to confirm that he wasn’t? If so, that was a terrible plan; he’d gotten quite a lot past them in recent years.

“Is that so?” the Dark Lord asked, and a duet of “Yes, my Lord,” replied in unison.

The Malfoys had stopped a few feet behind him, which meant Draco couldn’t see them at all. But at the tone, he could guess at their stance—heads bowed like his was. Deep contrition on his father’s face that betrayed his need to please his master, to be a good Death Eater so that he’d be rewarded one way or another. And by his side, his mother, cold as ever—except for her eyes. There’d be a gleam in them, a definite sign that she was alive and not an ice sculpture. The proof that she burned for this moment, for the attention and the praise, as much as her husband did.

Chancing a look to his right, Draco glanced at the only face he could see, that of his godfather. He was a little awed to discover that it revealed nothing. Aunt Bellatrix hadn’t lied when she’d said Severus was the best Occlumen she’d ever met; his barrier was so complete that he gave absolutely nothing away.

When he felt the Dark Lord’s attention return to him, Draco quickly looked down at the floor again. It was an ugly shade of blueish-grey, and it could do with a bit of a polish.

“Look at me,” Voldemort ordered, and Draco complied, forcing himself to meet the blood-red gaze. “Now, tell me again how it is going.”

And Draco did. He told the man everything he could think of. And all the while, Draco felt the Dark Lord’s carmine gaze bore into him, dragging itself and bags of filth into the last confines of his soul. Searing pain surged through him as the Dark Lord tore through slate after slate of marble until he got to the truth behind them. A scream tore through Draco’s throat mid-sentence as the last barrier fell, and there was no need for words anymore. The Dark Lord could see the answers for himself—and a plethora of other things along the way. The young Slytherin was powerless to stop him as the dark wizard dredged up memory after memory, taking a perverse pleasure in lingering on a wild night where he’d shagged Pansy on the platform of the Astronomy Tower in their fifth year.

When the Dark Lord finally retreated from his mind, Draco felt as if his head had been torn open. He had a hard time remaining upright. Panting as if he’d just ran a marathon, it was hard to fight off the wave of nausea that threatened to overthrow him. And that was nothing compared to how violated he felt, knowing the dark wizard had seen so many of his private thoughts.

“You’d do well to redouble your efforts, young man,” the Dark Lord said in warning, and Draco fought to regain enough control to appear to pay attention to the words said to him. “You have until the end of the term to succeed. If you don’t—you won’t like what will happen to you then, I assure you.”

Draco nodded frantically, not trusting himself to speak without vomiting.

“You may go now,” he said, and Draco felt so much relief that it wouldn’t hurt more that he almost sagged to the floor. He had just started to rise when the Dark Lord said, “But first, a little incentive…”

If Draco thought he’d been Crucioed before, he was wrong. Whatever he had felt that day at Malfoy Manor had been nothing compared to the torment of proper punishment. His veins felt like they were filled with liquid fire as every nerve alighted. For long minutes that felt like a small eternity, he writhed in agony. At some point, he threw up, nearly choking to death in the process. Everything hurt everywhere, and there was no escaping the pain, even as his body contorted and spasmed, desperately seeking a way to relieve itself of the ache. Screams tore from his throat until he lost the strength to yell anymore. But his mouth didn’t get the memo, gaping open as his throat desperately tried to push enough air out of his inflamed lungs to produce a sound. The torture may only have lasted minutes, but it felt like hours.

Draco had hoped to pass out at some point. But the pain kept him rooted to the moment, forcing him to withstand each excruciating second until finally—finally, the Dark Lord put an end to the torture session. By that point, Draco was a most undignified pool of tears and snot on the floor, unable to tell which way was up anymore. His parents had been there, hadn’t they? He tried to remember if that was true or if he’d imagined it. He must have imagined it, he realised, for they wouldn’t have let him be tortured for so long otherwise, surely.

Someone else was there, though; a large pair of hands moved over him, cradling his head and shoulders to ease him up into a sitting position. But Draco had lost control of his limbs at the same time he’d lost control of his bodily functions; he could only moan. He leaned into whoever was at his side with all his weight. His cheek came to rest against coarse wool, and an aromatic scent, woody and mildly herbaceous, made it through his nose. Though he couldn’t place it anymore, the smell felt comforting in its familiarity.