September 2000
My father stands above me, wild and alight with energy. He's always towered like that, as long as I can remember, and always been able to ignite this intense fear in me too.
"Now, Draco," he seethes throughout my memories, his face always so much higher above mine, his eyes so much meaner.
"Yes, Father," I always whisper, desperate to please him, desperate to stop him hurting me.
And, "Yes, Father," I whisper now as he takes my jaw in his hard, unfeeling fingers.
He's squeezing a bit and his nails dig in which is probably on purpose, but I know I can't react, I'm not allowed. If I show pain, he'll hurt me more - "You want to see real pain?!" he likes to yell, before painting my whole world red.
And I don't, I never want to see real pain again. I've had enough to last me a lifetime.
I don't know what he's doing now, but he's forcing me to look into his eyes, and they seem angry. Is it something I've done? I wrack my brains; no, nothing I can think of.
He laughs, but there's no humour in it.
"Do you want to be great, Draco?" he asks.
It feels like a trick question, but I say "Yes, Father," because I feel like that's what he wants to hear.
He laughs again, and lets me go so he can stride about the confines of the room. It's not the Manor, of course it's not - we've not been back to the site since it was burnt down four years ago. That's how desperate people are to find us, I suppose. Most wanted Death Eater family in the world. The Manor was the perfect symbol for the Aurors to destroy when trying to get to us.
But we were one step ahead, we always were. That's one of the actually good pieces of advice my Father ever told me. "Stay one step ahead, Draco," he'd say, "And don't let the bastards know that step."
My Father's steps have lead me and my Mother for miles, to the point where I don't even know where we are now. We're hidden, I know that. He's called in this favour, that favour, wielded his power wherever possible, and kept us safe in the process. Part of me respects him for that.
"The world is going to fear the Malfoy name, Draco," Father's musing now. He's looking at the wall like it's a window, though we haven't seen natural light in weeks. It feels starkly more like we should be fearing the world than like the world should fear us, but I'm only nineteen and I'm scared, so I nod.
"We'll found a dynasty," he mutters, his head pressed to the wall. "Find you a fellow member of the Cause, some pretty young Pureblood thing, and you can raise an army of your own to equal mine. And we'll stay one step ahead, finish what He couldn't-"
There's a movement, a noise at the door. Before I can work out who it is, the room has erupted with green light from my Father's wand, blinding me from the sight of the fresh corpse in the corner of the room as it falls.
Then he turns to me, a vial in one hand and his wand in the other. "It's your turn to help me, now, Draco," he smiles.
I squint through the temporary damage to my retinas, desperate to work out what he's doing. I've seen my father kill before, so that's not shaken me much, but what does he mean about my turn?
"What are you doing?" I ask, and my voice sounds childlike even to my own ears. There are tremors in it and strains, and my Father looks at me with something like pity.
"It won't hurt," he promises, and then my world goes black.