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Death Dormant	By : verisimilitude Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 2940 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Death Dormant
- 2-To Be A Heir
- 1
- 2
Title: Death Dormant

Title: Death Dormant

Summary: Draco and Harry are haunted by what seems to be their former lives. Will these phantoms of the past gain control or can Harry and Draco stop them from truly manifesting and something horrible from happening?

Warning: There is graphic rape in this chapter.

Author�s Note: I received only two reviews from my prologue, and while this makes me very put-down I realize it was a prologue and made no mention of any Harry Potter characters. This chapter I hope with get more reviews, as I tend to get into action early on. Thank You�s are at the bottom.

Disclaimer: Voldemort made me do it.

Chapter One

To Be A Heir

A beautiful, ethereal boy of seventeen, though he had a look of agelessness around him, leaned lazily against the cold stone side of an arch. His lean, lithe body exuded a catlike agility and grace, befitting one of his social standings. His skin was pale and fair, glowing with seductive moonlight. White, wispy hair adorned his head like a silver crown, fluttering around his shoulders from the slight cool breeze of nightfall. His robe, plain black, was also stitched with real silver thread and other precious embroideries. One could tell even from a distance than his clothes were expensive and only fit for the excessively wealthy and old families. The boy was without a doubt and aristocrat, even though his face was bowed and his hair was flowing freely, obscuring his features. A palpable scent of fear and desperation wafted off the lonely boy.

Draco pressed his shoulder blades and lower back more firmly against the resisting stone, grinding his bones against the hard rock. The cold seeped into him, numbing his pain, inside and out. He was glaring with a mix of hatred and fear in his stormy gray eyes at his palm. In his hands was nestled the inanimate object of his loathing: a slightly tarnished silver ring. It was, Draco had known when he had opened the manila envelope brought to him this morning by owl and had fallen out with a clang, the Malfoy signet ring. Cold and heavy, the red stone underneath the Malfoy crest, a Sylvus [1], almost seemed to glow with a sinister, seductive beat. It was large, but Draco knew that once he slipped it on his left hand�s middle finger the ring would shrink down to fit him snugly. It would never, ever come off unless the bearer died or cast the secret spell that would separate the ring forever from his or her hand. The ring, after thus, could never be returned and would only fit and display its powers on the heir�s hand. When the heir put it on their finger, which sooner or later they always did, they would automatically become ruler of the Malfoy legacy and head of the Family.

It all made Draco sick to his stomach, and as he looked at the ring he thought of his father, who was either dead or had completely lost hope, because only then would a Malfoy ever pass on the ring.

Draco suddenly swore at the hand that Fate had dealt him. But Fate had already shown that she despised him. Damn his father for not living! Draco knew in his gut that his father was dead. Lucius had been too proud to lose his mind, no matter how awful the stories made Azkaban seem.

Draco did not want to put the ring on.

It wasn't that he didn't have loyalty or pride. No, he just knew what burdens would be placed upon him if he slipped that innocent looking piece of jewelry onto his finger, and more burdens were something he did not need. He saw clearly in his mind a memory of last year, only a month before the dreaded Ministry of Magic raid and the subsequent capture of his father, when he had been called home. He remembered feeling slightly queasy to the stomach and gnawing on his lips and nails so much they were bloody and raw. He remembered what his father had made him do.

Draco licked his lips in fearful anticipation as the family hawk owl, Madrid, a noble creature, flapped his large wings and flew away. The cream envelope in his slightly shaking hands was un-creased and decorated only in the fanciful lettering of a name: Dracaenas. Draco knew the handwriting; he saw it every time he read a letter from home. It was strong, yet perfect, and spoke of power and strength.

His father had written him.

Draco had been expecting a letter, but was not prepared for what he read when he carefully opened up the folded paper.

My Dear Dracaenas,

You will come home on Sunday for a brief visit with your mother and I. We have important family matters to discuss. I have already spoken to your Headmaster about it, and all the details have been set.

Your Father

Draco had an innate sense of foreboding. What were the family matters his father wrote of? Were they family matters or Family matters? -- There was a difference. Why had his father mentioned his mother? Father rarely ever mentioned mother in his letters. And speaking to the old coot? Why? Questions like these raced through Draco's head that day, and the next.

His nerves were frayed, which meant that he was acting strangely. Draco sometimes had no idea that instead of giving clumsy Gryffindors multiple detentions for being in his path, he just moved to the side, too occupied to reprimand them. And when fellow Slytherin littles pestered him to regale his tales of past mischief he had managed, he snapped at them and if they were too annoying, gave them the detentions. He was earning questioning looks from all Houses in the period of two days.

Even a pair of emerald eyes followed his movements, narrowed in thought.

By the time Sunday came he was sick with worry.

When he got to the manor, and went into his father's study, where the house elves had said he was, he hardly recognized his father.

Lucius Malfoy was a very well groomed man, and took pride in his appearance. Hardly a day went by when he wasn't impeccable. Yet, this man sitting at his father's desk, in his father's clothes yet not his father's clothes resembled his father just a bit, but no more.

This man's hair was tussled, like it hadn't been combed or maybe just perfunctionally. He was old, at least older than Draco's father, and his faced was lined with wrinkles. He had a worn, world-weary look about him, and his shoulders slumped as if he carried a great weight. His clothes were wrinkled but not too noticeably, and he had his head in his hands, a sign of weakness.

The man sighed and croaked, "Hello, Dracaenas."

That was when Draco realized this man was his father and not an imposter.

He was shocked. How had this happened? What was wrong? What?

"Father, what's wrong?" Draco cried, stumbling to the desk.

His father leveled him with a glare, and Draco straightened.

"I think it is time you receive the Dark Lord's blessing," his father said, his voice strange. Draco heard it like a curse. He hadn't really thought about receiving the Mark. He knew he would have to some day, but it had always been some day to him, not that day, and it had seemed almost like a faraway dream. Now that time had come and Draco didn't know what to feel. Except fear. Fear like a coursing poison running through his veins, pumping in his heart, filling him with like an unknown drug that made his nerves tingle and his mind fog over.

"Father?" Draco ventured, his voice squeaking like a young boy', but he didn't care. It couldn't be true, it just couldn't. His father would not do this to him. He was only 15!

How wrong he was.

His father made him, in the end.

He begged and pleaded, when Lucius had opened the door to his room. Draco had been drawing, something that he loved to do, because one could create a feeling that came out of them simply by creating a few lines. And, when other people saw this creation, they, too, could feel that same emotion. The first time Draco had seen a painting, he had thought it was a miracle. Afterwards, he begged his mother to buy his something, anything, so that he could make what that artist had.

That day, he was drawing death. A charcoal blackness of terror unknown. Draco was contemplating the dark red, to slash the darkness with bloody colour, when the door had opened. Not forcefully, or slowly, just � opened. Like any other ordinary day, and his father walked in, took one look at him, and told him to clean up, today was the day.

Draco, of course, tried to find a way out, but no use. He screamed and cried and hit, but his father dragged him downstairs and whispered forcefully into Draco�s ear that he would go, even if Lucius had to hex him to get it done.

Thus a disheveled Draco arrived at the living space of one Dark Lord, charcoal smudges on his hands and fire in his eyes.

The Dark Lord chuckled and said he liked them with spirit.

Draco inwardly recoiled, his heart beating a rhythm, a fast one, one that he was sure his father and the Dark Lord could hear.

The scaly creature in front of his reached out to Draco, and Draco tried to not pull back and only marginally succeeded, flinching when cold hands touched his left arm and pulled back his sleeve.

"Leave, Luciusss," the silky voice commanded forcefully, but the speaker�s attention was solely focused on the young, beautiful boy�s pure skin in front of him.

His father bowed and left the room, and Draco was suddenly acutely aware that he was alone with a creature, for it was surely not human anymore?, that was staring with a strange fascination at his left forearm.

The Dark Lord�s fingers caressed his inner arm, and Draco shuddered.

Suddenly, as if a spell had been broken, the Dark Lord whipped out his wand and savagely pierced Draco�s arm with it, pushing the wood deep into his skin. Blood welled up, dark and ran down the white skin of Draco�s arm.

A snake-like tongue whipped down and licked it, then hissed the curse to brand him forever.

"Inscribia Morsmordre!"

It consumed, like fire, and raced up his arm. It felt like his body had been taken over and a foreign substance had been forced into his veins, and his body was trying to fight it. Draco screamed out and arched against the caster, who pulled the boy into his arms and forced his tongue into his mouth as Draco broke off into a silent scream. Draco whimpered against the wet mouth and hot tears ran down his cheeks and they itched.

He felt like his soul was blackened, when the pain ebbed to a dull ache, one that Draco knew would always be there. And he also felt desecrated, used, as the tongue in his mouth forced itself deeper, causing him to choke. Long, bony fingers roamed his body, groping here and there. He felt his clothes being ripped off, felt his body crumpling to the ground and a solid weight covering him. His mind was so blank, so dull, from the pain and the shock that he didn�t understand fully what was happening to him, until fingers gave a sharp twist to his nipples and he gasped.

"No!" Draco pushed up against the creature trapping him to the ground. Where was his father? Why was this happening to him � did his father know? No! He couldn�t have! Could he?

Draco was gasping and whimpering and shouting and pleading, but the fingers moved relentlessly onward, down his body. But then they stopped.

"I find it increasingly hard to enjoy your body with you blubbering on beneath me. I suppose I shall have to rectify that," the Dark Lord spoke against Draco�s mouth, then whispered a silencing spell. Draco tried and tried to make a sound, but nothing came out. He thrashed against the body above him again and again, but was only pinned more forcefully. A knee shoved his legs apart and a body slammed itself in between his splayed legs.

"Much better," was the whisper Draco heard as he dimly felt the hands continue their trek, then found their prize. Draco bucked as silken scaly hands grasped his cock and pulled on it, jerking up and down until wanting to find better sport. They traveled underneath, rolling his balls in their digits.

Draco wanted somewhere where he couldn�t feel the finger that was now pushing its way into his anal channel, someplace where he couldn�t feel the second and third fingers, the pleased laugh of his rapist, the large object now being placed at his entrance.

When the Dark Lord pushed into him, his head was thrown back; his eyes wide and his mouth open in a silent scream of agony. Sharp teeth bit on his abused nipple, and the member inside him hurtburnedinvaded like never before, and he could hear the walls of his anus ripping at the foreign object, and his blood ran down his legs onto the oriental carpet beneath him.

And inside Draco�s mind, everything clicked. He found himself in a white place, one where nothing was happening to him. There was no pain, no suffering. He saw the snowflakes falling down, into his hair, and he laughed in relief and spun around, opening his mouth to catch snowflakes on his tongue.

It was cold there, but a soothing cold, one that numbed everything. A cool tundra that offered whatever he wished, and he found himself clean and pristine and so was everything else.

Dimly, he saw his body jerking from being pounded into, in and out, in and out, his eyes glazing over. But it really didn�t seem important here, like what he saw was just a picture of torment, something that wasn�t happening to him.

But then he was forced back into his body, like a slap in the face, or a fall off a building. He was hurting again, the friction inside of him slicker from his blood, the passage made easier, and he heard the slap of balls against his bottom, the squish of wetness. The body above him gave a grunt and pushed even harder, faster, deeper, where Draco thought his insides were pulp, and he was lifted up for a final impalement, nails digging into his thighs, and a shout was heard above him, of triumph. Draco felt hotness fill him, and he knew that everything would soon be over, and it was.

For a while.

When the Dark Lord left, Draco felt light, like he could float away. He lay there for a while, then slowly reached over for his robe when the door opened again, and then Draco wished for the cold place, because it was a Death Eater, one with a severe face.

He laughed. "Seems the Dark Lord had his fun with you. Well, it�s our turn now." He called out the door for several others, and when the came in, Draco�s eyes flickered from one to the other in understanding.

He was here to be used.

They wrestled him down, and didn�t have a hard time of it, as Draco was exhausted from fighting already and lightheaded from loss of blood.

When they took their turns it didn�t hurt as much, for he was already stretched. But when they tried out their perverted fantasies on him, and forced him to take their blood and semen coated cocks in his mouth he gagged and choked, and his vision misted away to the cold place again.

Then they looked around the room for sport, finding objects that got larger and larger as the night went on. Draco was in the winter land, playing like a child with his mother, and the snow thawed and they ran in the grass and flew in the sky, then it snowed again and they built snowmen and made snow angels. While his body lay limp as the receptacle for sharp statues and hilts of jeweled swords and long wands that the men laughed about when they compared the sizes, impaled ruthlessly on one thing after another, he numbed himself.

Sometime, they left.

Draco wasn�t sure when, exactly, all he knew was that when he came out of his world, he was tucked in his own bed, at home, and it was warm, and there was no one at all by his side.

He went back to Hogwarts the next week, black under his eyes and sadness permeating his being, no one asked questions, but the emerald eyes followed him still, but this time they had pity and understanding filling them.

Draco never again saw that worn, world-weary interior that his father so carefully painted over, and he wished that he could find the paints his father used.

Before, when Draco remembered that last year, he would feel a burning sensation fill his throat, and his teeth would ache, but this time nothing happened. He just stared numbly at the ground and his expensive leather shoes, and called the cold into him. His eyes flicked to the ring in his palm, and thought differently about his earlier conviction. He owed it to his father to put on the ring. After all, his father had just given him the means to conquer everyone in his path. And perhaps, just perhaps, he wouldn�t be used anymore, and his arm wouldn't burn at least once a month, and he wouldn't have to make up anymore unconvincing excuses, and everyone would just leave him alone to be in that wonderful, cool place of his.

He slid the silver band onto his finger and it tightened and it hurt, so much more than his marking. Where was his cold place? It had been there just a moment ago. But now there was a blackness eating at the sides of his vision, and his glimpsed the cold stone floor and his body collapsed and it was empty, but for a whispering voice.

Ahhhh. I'm free.

1-Sylvus: A winged serpent, cousin of the modern dragon. Looks greatly like a snake with wings, only the Sylvus is longer than two dragons from head to tail, and wider than two regular houses. The Sylvus can also be found in Norse mythology, where one was mistaken for the World Serpent, a serpent that is coiled around the world and will rise when the world ends.

Thanks You�s:

Ash of Mine: Yes! � Harry will be possessed by �Death�. Theo? Cruel? Ah � you haven�t seen what I have in plan for him. XD

Peter James: When I first read your review, I was blown away at your grammar. Are you really that young?
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Death Dormant